Archive of Our Own

Strike Eureka had just killed its tenth Kaiju, KC-24.

Herc glanced at his son. Chuck’s chest heaved, and beneath his helmet, sweat glistened from the blue monitors inside Striker Eureka’s Conn-Pod. He frowned. The sweat wasn’t fretting. It was his son’s silence. Usually, Chuck would be restless from adrenaline, thrilled to return to the Sydney Shatterdome and gloat before the press with his dimpled smirk.

“Good job.”

Chuck nodded. A pause. Then, “I’m resting when we return. Don’t want to entertain the damn reporters this time.”

Chuck’s voice was hoarse and quiet. Another addition to the unusual demeanor. But the drift hadn’t possessed anything concerning. Maybe he was simply tired. It’d been one of their longer battles, and they had just dropped nine days prior, killing Rachnid, a new PPDC record for the shortest time between drops.

“Whatever.”

It was best not to ask or argue with Charles.

Angela had been a beautiful woman: long blonde hair, delicate features, never a hint of malice in her hazel eyes. Soft-spoken, too, but knew how to carry conversations like they were porcelain. The perfect Omega. His late friends at the Royal Australian Air Force had teased him relentlessly about her. Damn, lucky cunt, one had called him; another dared and asked if he could have her if their relationship failed. To that, he said, what the fuck, mate.

He’d been in the delivery room when Angela gave birth, almost passed out despite his background, and when the nurse handed their boy, and he cradled him to his chest, skin-to-skin, he noticed that their son hadn’t inherited a damn thing from Angela, just him—blue-ish eyes, wisps of ginger hair. He told Angela his disappointment, but she’d smiled and refuted. I think our son looks fucking lovely. Other physical similarities between him and his son had shown with time. As for his personality—it was something. Not good. Not awful. Thank god not sleazy like his brother, Scott. Nothing like Angela, either. But that was to be expected. Scissure 2014. She’d died before Chuck reached those wretched teenage years.

However, Chuck would inherit one thing from Angela: her secondary gender. An Omega.

It was often hard to believe. If she'd been around, maybe Charles would’ve turned out more like the notions about Omegas.

But she wasn’t, and Charles had grown into an arrogant bastard, the greatest Ranger to grace the PPDC.

Striker Eureka killed its twelfth Kaiju with Crimson Typhoon, Kojiyama, 30 days after Fiend and 57 days after KC-24.

Herc looked at his son. He was fine. The same as last time and that time before? Must’ve been some sort of odd off-day. They had never discussed his exhaustion after KC-24. Not that Chuck would ever share his medical situations with him, only straggling bits and pieces in the drift. He never pressed. Chuck saw his secondary gender as embarrassing—thought his damn Alpha old man wouldn’t understand.

Wasn’t true. He’d seen Angela’s heats before they’d bonded and the nests she’d build, filled with his shirts, when angsty. But Chuck hadn’t experienced a heat since his initial presentation at 13. Pentecost had mandated all Omegas in the PPDC take bi-yearly implants to suppress their heats. Raleigh Becket had set the precedent, and only a handful needed the rule in the PPDC, no other Rangers except his son.

“What’re you fucking staring at, old man?”

“I told you not to call me fucking old.“

“Well, you are.” Then Chuck began a tirade about how he'd slowed him down during today’s drop, told him not to fall asleep when the press came because he must be so spent, and that, honestly, a cunt like you should be taking a nap in a hammock somewhere. Instead, you got all these damn psychologists harping at you every goddamn week. Even they get it.

He sighed afterward.

The day after Kojiyama, Chuck went to the medical treatment facility.

His shitty implant needed changing. It’d raise hell across the PPDC if he couldn’t step into his Jaeger because he’d gone into heat. He didn’t come to the facility often, barring mandated check-ups after drops, so it was all very punctual when he did. The worker at the front desk glanced up from their thick paperback book and said he could go back, Doctor Jones would be with him shortly.

He scrunched his nose at the sharp scent of antiseptic. Hospitals were for the injured and dead: unlucky blokes. On the telly, reporters would show overworked hospital staff and rooms engulfed by cacophonies: beeping monitors, shouts, and groans of patients—sometimes those infected with Kaiju Blue, other times, people caught between the warfare of the Jaegers and Kaiju on land, in cities. Especially nowadays. He’d seen them even show a young girl, no older than eight, who’d lost her leg under building debris during Insurrector’s attack. That one hurt. Because Insurrector was Striker’s fight, and they had arrived late. But he’d remind himself the news was just a means for the UN to push the Jaeger program’s ineffectiveness. Else no one would support their paper fucking wall.

Five minutes after he seated himself in the usual room, Doctor Jones arrived, checked his vitals, and took his blood, a mandatory procedure, for better or worse. Then they waited.

Doc Jones always made small talk during the wait. Asked about yesterday this time. He didn’t mind rambling about the fight with Kojiyama. She had a slight smile. Perhaps to the middle-aged woman, it was like listening to a son talk about defeating a boss in a video game or making the winning point of a high school rugby match. It wasn’t hard to imagine she thought of him more as a child than an adult. She’d been with him since his initial assignment to Striker Eureka.

When she got the results, she looked them over before saying, “I’ll be back.” He nodded, expression steady. Usually, she’d say, looks good. Then they’d get on with it.

He’d had a certain ordeal that began before Rachnid. Didn’t get it checked. Some damn debilitating nausea and exhaustion. He’d been well enough during the Rachnid fight. Shoddy during KC-24. He’d thought it was fried nerves.

Everyone was dying. The PPDC had lost more than twenty Jaegers since Knifehead.

Thankfully, his ordeal stopped before Fiend and hadn’t returned. So he decided that it was just a nasty stomach bug.

Doc Jones took a second blood test. She scanned the new sheet with an indiscernible look that made his gut twist. After tossing it on the desk and leaving again, she brought someone in.

The woman outstretched her hand. He shook it, and she said, “Ranger Hansen, it’s a pleasure. I’m with the facility’s department of gynecology.” Gynecology? She continued before he could ask about that. “Your blood tests indicate that you’re gestating. The tests are usually accurate, so we’d like to do an ultrasound to check what’s going on.”

He remained silent too long, probably had some odd expression. Gestating? As in pregnant. Then, with an unsteady voice, said, “Yeah, mate. . . sure, whatever. We can do that.”

The nurse thanked him for being cooperative. She must’ve known his reputation.

He trailed after her into another room, and Doc Jones followed. She then had him sit on the examination table and asked him to pull up his shirt. He took it off instead, tossing it aside. He’d trained shirtless countless times, and it’d be less annoying than keeping it pulled up.

As the nurse gathered her tools, she said, “I don’t want to assume, but if we find the results to be true, would you want an abortion? I’d guess,” she looked at his abdomen, “you aren’t too far along. We’d be able to do it as soon as possible. Probably tomorrow.”

“If it means I’m not out of my Jaeger.”

Doc Jones spoke up. “That would probably be best.”

The situation was far from ideal, but if they eliminated the cause, he could shove it under the rug. He turned to the Doc. “Please don’t tell my old man or Pentecost.”

“Your medical history will remain confidential unless warranted otherwise.”

“Thank fuck. Didn’t really expect this shit when I shot my shots with some bloody Ranger-fly cunts, y’know? Just wanted the experience.”

The nurse’s gloves smacked on, and she warned the gel would be cold. “Wouldn’t be the first time I heard that. Taking a shot, I mean. ‘Suppose many peoples’ first time was in the back of a truck or ‘sum like that. People also really liked to do it after their school formals.” The nurse turned to the Doc and asked if she knew anyone who’d done as she’d said. Doc Jones said a few Omegas in her class before floating the question, “I wonder if they still have school formals.”

“Probably. Don’t see why not? The world might be ending, but I’d still want to have some bloody fun.” He had an idea of what a high school formal entailed. Was past the chance to go to one. But he didn’t think about it for long because the Doc placed the wand against his stomach.

He glanced at the ultrasound's grainy image and then the nurse. Her mouth had gone ajar, and when she finally spoke, it was a long drawn out, “Well. . . that’s. . .” followed by a short, punctuated, “damn.”

“What?” he asked.

Doc Jones moved toward the monitor. She looked at it a second, then at him. “You haven’t been sick at all?”

“A bad stomach bug some weeks ago.” His mouth was dry. The words tasted like chalk.

“I don’t believe you had the stomach bug. Really, I’m not sure if I should say you’re lucky or unlucky. This is—I mean, I heard about cryptic pregnancies,” the nurse said.

“It’s like that TV show they had back in the day,” Doc Jones added. “Maybe not as crazy.”

“I’m not so sure, mate. I’d say this is pretty crazy.” Then the nurse’s thoughts slipped out her mouth, the faintest mutter, “Piloting a Jaeger while pregnant. . .”

Silence. Seconds passed before the nurse composed herself, a sanitized expression and steady voice similar to how Pentecost spoke about matters of war—life and death. “So you’re too far for an abortion. I believe a little over six months. Our best course would be to wait a month, if possible, and do a C-section when the baby has a better chance of survival. Your height and strong abdominal muscles probably helped conceal the pregnancy, or she’s just lodged in there. Probably a combination of both.”

She.

He gave a good, hard look at the monitor. All relief vanished. The thing was thrashing, its fingers and toes wiggling. It had eyelids, eyebrows, and nails, too. He shouldn’t have lost his virginity. Not for the sickening sex he received.

But he hadn’t thought. . .

Clearly, he had, though. This wasn’t good.

He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be like that other Omega Ranger, a coward who ran. The worst fucking disgrace to the almost hundred Rangers, both dead and alive. Being forbidden from piloting would be no different than running.

He’d rather die an unceremonious death in combat. Or have his every limb lit aflame within Striker Eureka as a Kaiju toyed with the Jaeger.

“I can’t wait.”

He must’ve had a particularly sour face. The two women extended him pleading faces, turned to each other, but said nothing before the nurse said, “I understand, but it’d be unethical to remove the baby now, regardless of the circumstances. I don’t believe you should pilot, but I’ll leave that choice to you. The most I can do is keep this information confidential.”

“You better not tell a single bloody fucking cunt.”

After he left the treatment facility, he covered his knuckles in hand wrap and beat his favorite punching bag for nearly an hour. His old man had then interrupted and found him shirtless, sweaty, and out of breath—said he’d been looking for him.

Striker Eureka killed its thirteenth Kaiju, Mutavore, 31 days after Kojiyama.

Mutavore had burst through the anti-kaiju wall in less than an hour. Vulcan Specter and Echo Saber intersected it on land. Pentecost couldn’t allow the possibility of Striker Eureka's destruction with his new plan. They were to remain on stand-by. That didn’t happen, however. Instead, the Kaiju destroyed two more Jaegers, and they’d fought Mutavore over scrap metal. He imagined the bodies of the fallen Rangers laid somewhere in the metal and, even if in pieces, had gazed up at the fight. Most people didn’t die with their eyes closed, certainly not Rangers.

When Pentecost came to the Sydney Shatterdome the week prior, stood before them, and presented his new plan, he said, “Congratulations, fine men.” There’d been no mirth despite his choice of diction. “I’ve known our psychologists have been fretful about the ability and continued future of this team,” Stacker had glanced at his old man before his gaze returned between the two of them, “but we are approaching the end of the world, and the UN has decommissioned the Jaeger program. The remaining Shatterdomes will also be closed with the exception of Hong Kong. You will be relocated there for one final mission I’ve prepared with the remaining Jaegers, including the Mark III the PPDC has worked to restore. Operation Pitfall. You two may think of yourselves as the executors of humanity’s noblest mission. Know that there is no room for failure. You will bomb the breach in the coming weeks, destroying it once and for all. We will discuss the fine details later.”

“If I may speak,” Pentecost allowed his old man to continue, “I don’t wish to question, but we’ve bombed the breach before, and it’s never worked.”

“It will work this time, Ranger Hansen. It must.”

His old man hadn’t questioned again, and though he didn’t often, he remained quiet, too.

Outside the chopper’s window, Chuck stared down at the Pacific. He and his old man were on their way to Hong Kong, and Striker Eureka was being hauled behind them. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever gone to a beach and played in the Pacific in his youth. Australia’s coral reefs and turquoise waters had supposedly been famed, an assemblage of unique marine life and kaleidoscopic plant formations that saw millions of visitors a year. Kaiju Blue now infected them, and the ocean had become a harbinger of the end, the gate for the monsters destroying humanity. It was grotesquely sublime.

The helicopter jostled his stomach, and he felt a little sick but unsure of the cause—his thinking ’bout the ocean, the shaky ride, the baby still hiding in him, or the dead pilots, Rangers he blamed. His old man hadn’t liked what he’d said to the cameras. He’d had that look, the same one he had when he was sixteen, cursing Raleigh Becket’s name. Despite the bravado he’d held behind his pitch, he wasn’t sure about the statement now either. At least, not towards the Rangers who died because there’d certainly been weak Rangers seeking nothing more than faux fame. But Vulcan Specter’s pilots, Joshua Griffin and Tyler Zachery, fought till the bitter end. He’d celebrated victories with them. Mourned, too. They’d encouraged him before his first drop, and Griff had a habit of clapping his back before each of Striker Eureka’s drops. At least they weren't returning to the Sydney Shatterdome, and he wouldn’t have to see Vulcan Specter’s empty bay.

He turned to his old man. “When the war ends, what’re you gonna do?”

“What the hell did you just say?”

“Clean out your fucking ears, old man. I said, what’re you gonna do when the war ends?”

Herc said nothing at first, but the chopper’s whipping and whirling blades ensured no silence. Then, finally, “Whatta’bout you?”

He clicked his tongue. “How the hell should I know?” For the last decade, his life had been quashed into a PPDC-regulated box: the musty smell of barracks, scratchy comforters and flat pillows dressing bunk beds, communal bathrooms, lukewarm bland food from mess halls; birthdays and achievements, short congratulations; gifts, few; he never gossiped, dated, kissed, drank, played video games with friends, drove a car, went to a dance, and talks about war, Kaiju, and Jaegers permeated his every waking moment like it was oxygen. He was trying to be agreeable, so he didn’t mention it. Not that he’d need to.

His old man continued when he didn’t. “You should go to one of those fancy American universities. Ivy leagues, the blokes call them.”

“I haven’t done any academics in years.”

“So you think you can’t do it?”

“That’s not what I fucking said, cunt.”

His old man snorted. “I’m sure you’d be great in robotics or engineering. Think about it, at least. Maybe you could find a nice mate, too.”

“Fuck no!”

Later that night, when he had laid in his bed with Max curled on his chest, he bounced his old man’s proposition in his head. All of the PPDC’s J-tech staff had graduated from someplace or another, and several in the Sydney Shatterdome had graduated from renowned universities in America. He’d never asked about their experiences. Had no reason to. Would it be possible while raising a child? Maybe. He’d best tell his old man about that. Not yet. But sooner rather than later. After the final mission would be preferable. Maybe he’d buy a house and settle a little before trying academics. Though God knows, the PPDC would hold a year's worth of celebrations and tours. He’d also need to lay chrysanthemums on his mum’s grave, even if it was just some fancy headstone. Regardless, he imagined the end of the war would taste sweet. Not sure like what. Just sickeningly sweet. Like some of his old man’s long-past memories. Something he might not be able to handle.

Herc had known for a few odd months, even before Stacker spoke of his plan and the war’s possible end, what he’d do if he survived and stepped out of a Jaeger for good. By then, Stacker had become well-informed of his deteriorating response time and neural handshake strength. God forbid, he was no longer a spry fucking thirty-five. At the time, Pentecost had met him—as a friend, not the Marshal—and taken him to one of the rooftop lounges not far from the Sydney Shatterdome.

The lounge’s view had been the in-progress Anti-Kaiju Wall and the dilapidated exclusion zones caused by Scissure stretching far in the distance. Would’ve been a neon-lit skyline just over a decade ago, but he resisted picturing that. Throughout the night, he’d ordered several lagers while Stacker forewent drinking.

When their conversation had reached a lull, Stacker admitted he wouldn’t make it another year. He had hummed at the reveal before sipping his fourth drink, a bitter full-strength lager. Cancer had taken out Sevier the year prior, and Stacker, an Alpha, likely only his secondary gender to thank for keeping him around longer after taking Metharocin for so long. He and Scott had taken Metharocin, too. He’d sung his fucking hallelujahs when he no longer needed the damn pills after his assignment to Striker Eureka.

“I want you to become the PPDC’s Marshal once I’m gone.”

He and his son arrived safely at the Hong Kong Shatterdome. Later, he went out with Stacker again, another rooftop lounge—this time, overlooking Hong Kong’s lights, city still intact. Stacker first asked about Mutavore, but he didn’t have much to say, and midway through the small talk, he ordered a bottle of whiskey. After two shots, he began to feel flush, though not quite drunk.

“Operation Pitfall,” He mumbled, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, looking down at his third shot. Then he spoke up, but his gaze remained on the liquor. “I’ve thought about it sum’.”

“What about it?” Stacker said.

“Even with defense from Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon, it’s a goddamn suicide mission. Charlie thinks otherwise. But just look’ what happened today. I don’t want my son to die.” He rested his head on the back of his hands, still clutching his shot glass. “He’s already lost his entire childhood.”

“Do you really believe Charles will sit idly as the PPDC carries out this mission? You’d need to sedate your son before he’d willfully give up his seat in Striker Eureka. That’s his Jaeger.” Stacker paused. “Or, at any rate, that’s what he’s been barking for years.”

“Angie would have killed me a hundred times over.”

Stacker did not respond to the comment. It was silent agreement. Stacker was a father, too, and he’d adamantly refused to let his own adopted daughter in a Conn-Pod. But Mako respected Stacker. It wasn’t so simple with Charles and him.

“You know best that sometimes we must take our chances. I believe it is this mission or humanity’s extinction. It’s not much, but, as I said, you’ll also have support from Gipsy Danger.”

He finally looked at Stacker. “Who the hell will you even get to pilot Gipsy? There’s not enough time to prepare two new Rangers.” He didn’t add that all the active Mark III pilots had perished; Stacker was well aware.

“Just one, Herc. Raleigh Becket will take on the dominant role in Gipsy Danger for this mission.”

Raleigh Becket had arrived at the Hong Kong Shatterdome. It was raining, and Herc stood afar under one of the dome’s awnings. Chuck wouldn’t be happy when he heard about or ran into the other Omega. But, he imagined, his son would be in the minority. Surely, another experienced Ranger would boost the Shatterdome’s morale. Raleigh was a damn good pilot despite his insubordination and welcoming of the rockstar lifestyle thrust onto the earlier Rangers. And maybe if Knifehead hadn’t killed Yancy Becket, Gipsy Danger would be second to only Striker Eureka in kills. Someone in particular seemed excited. If not that, at least interested. Mako strode towards the chopper, carrying a black umbrella that matched her attire.

When Becket stepped out, he couldn’t see his face well and discern whether the Knifehead tragedy had swallowed the youth or poster boy beauty and replaced it with something firmer. But Raleigh carried himself differently: small, hesitant steps, not the swagger and long, lazy strides he’d seen at Manila.

Herc stepped away.

Buzz soon tore through the Hong Kong Shatterdome about the tryouts for Raleigh’s co-pilot. Apparently, it drew a large crowd in the Kwoon. And apparently, Mako sparred with Raleigh. He hadn’t gone. Just heard Stacker had denied his girl again.

They lifted her out and held her up for Chuck to see. Such a small thing, eyes closed, hands no larger than a walnut, and skin red as if angry for being jerked from her home into the cold room lit by fluorescent lights. So much smaller than he’d been. Cause, of course, he’d seen his conception courtesy of the drift. Then they whisked her away. He’d been awake for the procedure, numbed with a spinal—couldn’t feel the catheter shoved up him or the blade when it had sliced. Now, the doctor and his assistant worked to stitch the cut. Eight in total had watched his C-section, including the nurse who’d been with him and his Doc for the initial discovery.

Each person had a different expression of disbelief when they entered the room for the unplanned procedure. He killed Mutavore the day prior. He still hadn’t looked pregnant either. Though he would’ve admitted, within the last month, his stomach had lost much of its definition. The baby would have likely become somewhat noticeable if he'd gone to full term.

The staff had remained composed during the procedure, medical jargon, nothing more. But they’d gossip later. Some would probably guess the mandated check-up revealed the baby. Maybe they’d make theories about the other parent. He didn’t have a goddamn clue what else they’d brew. Didn’t care.

After the surgeon finished stitching, the unneeded medical staff left. A nurse explained his scar could be painful and tender for several weeks before she told him to take it easy for as long as doable. Don’t lift heavy objects, Max included; attempt strenuous exercises, especially sit-ups; soak in hot water; and most importantly, do not forget to take your painkillers. He thought it was laughable. He wouldn’t have long to rest. The war clock read just under six days, a battle at night. January 8th, 2025. An hour and a half after the procedure finished, when the spinal had worn, he walked. Pain jolted through him, and he gritted his teeth through baby steps. The new nurse watching had asked, did you know? He lied. But you’re still going to pilot? He had then glared at her and continued walking. The next week would be a bitch.

Allison Hansen was born on January 2nd, 2025, at 9:38 in the morning.

Stacker had chosen Mako to be Raleigh’s co-pilot despite his refusal before. The PPDC had five days to prepare.

Herc stood behind Stacker in LOCCENT. Gipsy Danger would have her first test run since the restoration. He hadn’t asked Stacker why he allowed Mako to pilot. To put the odds in their favor? Stacker knew damn bloody well they’d never be.

The door to LOCCENT squeaked. He glanced back. His son sauntered in with a scowl, hands in his pockets. He wanted to shake his head. Didn’t. Gipsy’s test run held more importance than needless family drama. Chuck had made it quite clear at breakfast: he didn’t expect much from the has-been and his rust bucket. He should’ve appreciated having another Jaeger, but that cunt had his head so far up his damn rear. The mission wouldn’t fail whether Gipsy was there or not. Because Chuck Hansen did not fail. Or so he imagined his son believed. He turned back to the glass window without a word. Tendo had given Raleigh and Mako the okay to start. “Whenever you guys are ready.”

The bay’s lights stretched across the curving planes of metal, shone in the faded cerulean paint job, minor jags and scratches, but Gipsy didn’t have a hint of rust. Gipsy had risen anew from Oblivion Bay, reborn from hearts filled with fiery revenge: Mako’s delicate hands and Tendo’s steady eye. The nuclear reactor bellowed, and the bay trembled. It would be a historical moment, Herc knew. LOCCENT’s door then busted open. Gottlieb stormed in, yelling atop the clamor, and before Stacker could watch his girl’s machine awaken, the scientist dragged him away. He nodded to Stacker on his way out before taking his place. And like the story of many things, everything was fine until it wasn’t.

His heart was frantic. Quicker than it’d been before any drop.

“I will not have that has-been cunt on my fucking bomb run!”

Pentecost remained silent, fixed at parade rest, the usual blank expression beneath his glasses. It was ridiculous. What did they not get? The whole operation almost fell apart! It was that damn leniency towards weak Rangers that led to the Jaeger program’s downfall. He furled and unfurled fists before spinning toward the door. He heard the onset of his old man’s grumblings. Expected. Herc Hansen had more empathy for the bloke who had nearly killed them all.

The mission would only succeed if it excluded one shaky variable. Raliegh-fucking-has-been-Becket.

Speak of the devil. He met the has-been’s eyes in the corridor.

Got in his face.

Hollored. Exploded.

It was exhilarating. Insults poured. Like an overflowing cup. No one in the PPDC was searching for a grave. If the has-been yearned for one, he should’ve made it on that paper fucking wall.

And Mako.

She should’ve known where she belonged. Alpha or not.

Some men knew how to father.

Then his skin rippled beneath Raleigh’s knuckles, and he was fifteen, fighting older peers in the Jaeger academy. He always won his fights. Three years older? Five? A Beta? Alpha? No matter the person.

Yet not this time.

He ended up pinned on the ground, Raleigh atop him, stretching his arm back. The door slammed open. He fought. Struggled. Fuck! He wasn’t going to be beaten by a has-been. By a running fucking coward. By another Omega.

He wasn’t.

He wasn’t—

Then his old man was pulling him away. Yelling at him. About being a Ranger for once. It was like they were back in Sydney during Scissure, and he was pleading to look for Angela, thrashing in his father’s arms, being carried away. Even though she was back there. Somewhere downtown. And if they’d just gone.

Herc Hansen had no room to say what represented a Ranger. The man who had abandoned his wife. His mum.

At some point, he went limp and let his old man pull him to his quarters.

He sunk into the nearest chair, Max snuggled up to one of his legs, and his old man shut the door. Herc had a stern expression, wrinkles pulled tautly. He expected yelling, but then the expression dulled, and he said, “You’re bleeding.”

He looked down. Blood stained his shirt. Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit.

“I’m fine.” Not true. The adrenaline had vanished. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to pull himself from the chair, not soon, despite the painkillers, and his abdomen would probably swell in the next hour. It hurt more than the bruises on his face or his arm. He was humiliated, too. Probably tore the stitches.

“Let me look at the cut.”

“No!”

“Stop being a goddamn stubborn cunt.”

“I’m fucking not! I’ll get it looked at”

“It needs cleaned.”

He yelled. “You don’t understand!” The motion jostled his abdomen, and he winced. Went quieter, completely still, looked at the ceiling, “It’s not a cut.”

Boots thumped. His old man must’ve moved closer. Said nothing, though. Didn't ask. They didn't do that sort of thing. But of course, this would be the one thing Herc Hansen would be stubborn about. Some stupid cut.

He was tired, and the reveal came out his mouth like he’d called his old man old for the thousandth time: monotone and anticlimactic. “I had surgery yesterday. Think I tore the bloody stitches.”

“Surgery?” He heard a thud then felt Max move and his old man’s hands atop his knees, “Chuck, why would you need surgery?” Then there was a plea, “Ya’gotta tell me.”

Herc asked. He didn’t like that. But the drift couldn’t mend this situation. His eyes remained on the ceiling. “I made a mistake, s’all. Went to get my implant replaced a few weeks back, blood test came back saying I was pregnant, a nurse confirmed it, told me the thing was pretty damn far along, so she couldn’t do an abortion. Best they could do was take it out when they thought it could survive. Y’know the rest.”

There was silence, unbearable and throat-tightening. His old man patted his knee and said, “Charles. Look at me.” He did as told. “You should’ve told me. You—”

It was a low whisper, “You would’ve told Pentecost. He would’ve taken me out of Striker.”

Angela had been so sick, it practically made him sick—no, he actually did puke one morning—but she had swelled quickly regardless, stuck to wearing sundresses right after her first trimester. Her entire pregnancy had been an ordeal; they’d just known, no different than any other fact of life, that their only child would be a handful. And Charles. He would've never thought. He’d been training every other day. But his son didn’t play lying games, even if Stacker and the PPDC PR department wished otherwise.

Herc stared down at his granddaughter, nestled atop white blankets inside the treatment facility’s incubator. He could see his expression reflected in the transparent acrylic case. It reminded him of first seeing himself in the mirror after Angela’s death. The porous skin had soaked in all his inner agony, showing it outward, creasing and sagging in ugly ways, but now his face was dampened by a decade of war, too.

He had asked one of the nurses, “How old?”

“Preterm. About thirty weeks.”

Mutavore. Kojiyama. Fiend. KC-24. Rachnid. Hound. Bonesquid. They’d killed all seven within the last 30 weeks. Chuck had said he’d known for a few weeks. Since which kill? Fiend? Kojiyama? He remembered how exhausted Chuck had been after KC-24. Did he know then? He did the math in his head. That should’ve been around sixteen or seventeen weeks. He could’ve had a second-term abortion. Surely, they would’ve offered one to a Ranger. But he’d claimed the nurse said he was too far along for an abortion. He pursed his lips.

He also served Angela at beck-and-call during her pregnancy, and she’d joke that he should think of her as his commanding officer: required to massage her swollen feet or go on wild goose chases at three in the morning for her cravings. Chuck had not complained once. Not openly. If he had in his mind, he hadn’t brought it into the drift.

His gut twisted, and his son’s words played in his head. He would’ve taken me out of Striker. Striker Eureka, the PPDC’s bread and butter. Only thanks to its pilots. However, a pregnant Omega should not have been fighting in a war, regardless of having symptoms or not. But, seemingly, Chuck had been ignorant of his condition for a long while, through many fights. If he hadn’t been?

Well, he probably wouldn’t be looking at his granddaughter.

Allison. Close to Angela. Each, three short syllables that rolled off the tongue. It was hard to say if Charles was unlucky or lucky, able to conceal the whole thing and continue piloting.

One of the nurses approached him after he’d lingered awhile. She looked overwhelmed and said, “Your son needs rest. We want to avoid any long-term complications, so could you make sure he doesn’t do anything else stupid? I understand he must pilot, but outside of that, preferably nothing except bed rest and short walks.”

“Can try. Can’t make any promises.”

There were two major stories throughout the Hong Kong Shatterdome in the subsequent days. A fight between Omegas, Rangers Hansen and Becket. Without context, who exactly, it would’ve seemed absurd. Nothing more than kiddy play to certain, snotty Alphas.

And the second story: Marshal Pentecost had delayed Operation Pitfall. The next battle would not end the war.

Gipsy Danger killed her sixth and seventh Kaiju, Leatherback and Otachi, nearly 5 years after her last, Knifehead.

He’d watched Leatherback’s death atop Striker Eureka’s shoulders with his old man beside him. The inky night sky had bled into the ocean, becoming one tapestry of complete darkness, blackened without distant city lights, their glow stripped by Leatherback’s EMP attack. Waves had crashed against Striker, creating an endless din, loudening and softening. The Pacific had been ready to take it. To take them. Curl around and drag them down to hell along with the Kaidonovskys and Wei Tang brothers, to the place many other Rangers had gone. Griffin and Zachery, too. Where you become nothing more than a photograph on the news, eventually a memorial. A moniker. Hero. Despite your failure. But Gipsy had arrived. Deus ex machina.

Chuck would not admit his awe to anyone. Or relief. A chopper rescued them before they could watch Gipsy’s battle with Otachi.

“Goddammit,” his old man mumbled.

“Keep it fucking still.”

“Like I’m not bloody trying.”

The chopper shook. His old man’s arm had swelled beneath his drivesuit. Sweat coated his forehead, and his mouth was twisted in a frown. But then it lifted into a smirk, and his old man said, “I bet you’re happy that Stacker brought that has-been in now.”

“Oh, fucking shut it! You want to jostle your arm for what? To spout some bullshit?”

His old man chuckled. Their back-and-forth continued.

Through the conversation, despite its likeness to their one after Mutavore, the war’s end never dawned on either of them, even if it had become inevitable. The battle had been too bleak. It was only when the techs rushed to get Herc out of his drivesuit that Chuck realized: his old man wouldn’t be beside him for Operation Pitfall. Not with a broken arm. And his old man's arm looked pretty bad. He’d watched dumbly as the techs whisked Herc away before one had asked him in a low voice, “Can we?” The two techs, with fleeting touches, had then slowly peeled off his drivesuit.

It was unexplored territory for the techs, the younger Hansen out of sorts, and they exhaled in relief once finished.

Chuck returned to his quarters after and sunk into bed. Max clobbered up onto the sheets to curl aside him. He still wasn’t supposed to pick him up, so he hadn’t. He was trying to do as his old man asked after needing his scar restitched. Herc’s words had been coated in velvet, delivered with an evil grin. Ya wanna’stay in Striker Eureka, don’t ya? So sit your fucking ass down and relax till that fucking war clock rings.

He wondered if Pentecost would force him to pilot and bear Striker Eureka’s neural load alone. Pentecost had struggled to find Raleigh a co-pilot. Raleigh, who was humbled, less temperamental. Could he pilot alone? Raleigh had accomplished it for a short period, and Operation Pitfall would be certain failure with only Gipsy. He turned over and wrapped his arms around Max, nuzzling into his fur. The situation had gone to shit. Two more Jaegers, scrapped, and he’d have to rely on Gipsy Danger. At least Raleigh and Mako weren’t half fucking bad.

A thought hung heavy in his mind, shackling him to the waking world. He’d made it to the final mission. Other Rangers hadn’t. The most senior Ranger would watch.

It was official. Obvious even before. But he’d hoped not.

A sling supported his broken arm.

Hushed remarks bounced within Striker Eureka’s crew, and doubts hung heavy like fog. Striker Eureka was supposed to carry the payload. Our Jaeger's still intact. And what good is a Jaeger without a pair of pilots? Many more remarks were flung. Few good. Crimson Typhoon and Cherno Alpha’s crews fared worse. But the heavy mood had not drifted to all parts of the Hong Kong Shatterdome. Gipsy’s crew had popped champagne, and the alcohol rained on Raleigh and Mako when they returned. Mako got swept in the celebration, drenched by excitement, and circled by the crew she’d worked with since 2023. It was easy. Her machine had returned with victory, even after free-falling from the atmosphere. She dragged Raleigh into the fray, and, though at first, he acted awkward—not one to enjoy people after his tragedy—he became pliant under her hands. Mako had whispered to him, it’s okay to enjoy this moment. We earned it.

Herc found Raleigh soon after. His clothes and hair were still damp with champagne.

Raleigh's expression sobered when his eyes had flicked down to the sling; they returned to him when he spoke. “Thank you. From me and my son. He won’t ever say it to you.”

“I can imagine,” A pause. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it in time. If we’d been quicker—”

He cut him off. “Mate. You were following Stacker’s orders. And I’m still fucking kicking, ain’t I?”

“Can you. . .?” Raleigh never said the last word. As if saying it, like it was some magic word, would conceive the reality that he couldn’t into existence. Pilot. He shook his head. Raleigh said, “I guess you don’t know what’s gonna happen to Striker.”

“Not yet, but Stacker’s a crafty bloke. I’ll put my faith in him.” He patted Raleigh on the shoulder with his good arm, “Operation Pitfall will be a success, and we’ll drink, not just today, but till 2026.”

Even if he hadn’t believed in Operation Pitfall before, Herc wanted to.

“I will pilot Striker Eureka with your son.”

Hong Kong suffered excessive damage from Otachi’s rampage. It was unlikely any lounges would be open, and even if one had been, the battle’s aftermath would remind them of their fallen Rangers. So they stayed in the Hong Kong Shatterdome and sat on two rough couches across from one another in a dimly lit room. Neither drank. Stacker had offered a bottle of single malt scotch, but he’d said, not today. He wasn’t supposed to with the painkillers.

Herc had suspected why Stacker wished to meet again. Stacker had served his invitation with a steely expression, his decision too obvious even before they sat. It was now or never. Perish or don’t. Gipsy Danger and Striker Eureka were the last pillars protecting civilization, and if the Kaiju demolished them—well, he wasn’t keen to think of the outcome.

“I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. You’d said there was no room for failure.” He looked down at his arm. I failed. The thought sounded more like Chuck’s than his own.

Many didn’t know, but Ranger Chuck Hansen had once chased a R.A.B.I.T.. Just one. While drifting with his father during Striker Eureka’s first test run.

Marshal Stacker Pentecost was there to observe the test. Many in Striker’s crew had little hope for the new Hansen pairing. Some had even found it downright ridiculous. Surely, anyone in their right mind could see it wasn’t smart to have a hormonal sixteen-year-old—an Omega, at that—drift in the PPDC’s shiny new Jaeger, let alone with a veteran Ranger, whose head must've possessed all the colorful horrors of war. Many in the Sydney Shatterdome also knew Ranger Herc Hansen had lost his wife in Scissure. That only made the pairing more puzzling. And ridiculous. But Striker hadn’t needed to be deactivated during its first test, and no one feared for their life that day. Even if Chuck Hansen had chased a R.A.B.I.T..

Because out of all of his father’s memories, Chuck latched onto one of the good ones. Herc didn’t admit to Stacker in their discussion afterward what it was of, only assured the situation wouldn’t happen again.

Marshal Pentecost allowed the two Hansens to perform a second test run, which went much smoother, before assigning them to Striker Eureka. Herc Hansen’s experience was very much needed on the battlefield, and his son was a quick learner with natural talent.

Striker Eureka’s first drop dispelled many doubts, a swift kill with Gipsy, MN-19. Its second drop dispelled the remaining few.

Marshal Pentecost Stacker knew he'd be able to drift with Herc’s egotistical son. No test necessary. All three of them were the reddest flowers of war, blossomed from the same branch. Chuck would undoubtedly agree to the arrangement.

Before Stacker left, he unpinned his badge and placed it on the table. It’s yours now.

She wasn’t looking at him, but her eyes were open. The same blue as his. The drift once divulged to him how his old man felt when he looked at him for the very first time and found his appearance too similar to his own. He couldn’t feel the same about his own child. It would’ve been shitty if this cunt who hid in him for six months came out resembling some bloody bloke he didn’t give a shit to remember.

Nurses shuffled around the room, preparing to take his daughter out of the incubator. He’d asked earlier if he could touch her, and a nurse suggested skin-to-skin. He’d agreed to it.

When the nurses finished, he sat shirtless in a chair, his daughter to his chest, ear above his heart. A quilted blanket atop them with his daughter's head barely peeking out of it. He wished Max was curled up against his feet, but dogs weren’t allowed in the treatment facility. A safety hazard, someone told him when he asked to see Max during his first mandated check-up after Manila. He rested his hand across his daughter’s beanie and gazed down at the little cunt.

You totally chose the wrong parent. But I suppose babies don’t choose their parents. Looks like fate hates you, too.

Then he rambled out loud. Wasn’t it good for babies to hear their parent’s voice? He thought he heard something like that once.

“If I survive Operation Pitfall, I’m gonna get another tattoo. I don’t know where, but I’m thinking something like a tally of all my kills. I could have fourteen—maybe fifteen—now, but one of the bloody Kaiju during the last drop wiped out all the power. Probably didn’t like that me and my old man had been killing its buddies.”

He continued. “But if I don’t make it back, you can’t be mad at my father. He’s gonna be bloody decrepit after all of this, and I’m sure he’d rather not raise another kid. Failed the first. But I’m the only one who can be mad at him. It’s not like he forced me to become a Ranger. Just dragged me all over the fucking PPDC after my mum’s death.”

She wouldn’t remember this. Then he had an idea and asked one of the nurses to record a video. The nurse didn’t question.

He looked into the camera and said, “We’re two days away from Operation Pitfall. Here we are. You and me. If you’re watching this, then I closed the breach and saved the goddamn world. You should also know that ya’made my fucking job a lot harder than it had to be.” He kissed Allison’s head. “I love you. You’ll probably find out that us Hansens don’t really say that shit, but ya’ deserve hearing it once.”

He then thanked the nurse. He’d move the video to a USB drive and make sure his father received it later.

The afternoon passed, and he left the facility in the evening.

Not everyone could survive this war. So many hadn’t. Not his mum. And he likely couldn’t save himself. When faced with his own mortality, he felt he could get what happened during Scissure.

In his first drift, he saw that after Trespasser, Angela and his old man discussed what they’d do if the Kaiju attacked Australia. His old man had wanted to stay. Despite Angela telling him many of her coworkers were thinking of moving inland, into Asia, or trying to get passports to Europe or America, live near the Atlantic—play pretend that the Kaiju weren’t a thing and hadn’t threatened the world. It had then been necessary to ask. What if a Kaiju attacks and we’re apart, if I’m at work? Angela had been fidgeting with her wedding band. I’ll come for you. And what about Charlie? If he’s at school? What if you couldn’t get to us both? She had then pursed her lips and looked down, away from his old man, before muttering, I shouldn’t have brought this up. I’m sorry.

His old man could've chosen Angela and spent the last decade with someone who truly loved him, even if it meant grieving together over their child’s death. Time may have numbed that pain. And he could've made it someone else’s job to protect the goddamn world. Would’ve been way fucking easier. But Herc Hansen was a bloody honest-to-god Ranger. Even if he had believed and spouted otherwise.

Now, in two days, less than forty-eight hours, his old man would have his choice undermined. This time, he’d save Herc. And his daughter. And every mother fucking bloke on the planet.

No one would have to think who should I save again.

He’d win. Even if it meant death.

Then his old man’s proposition would drift at the bottom of the Pacific, and the Kaiju-free world in his old man’s memories would remain foreign like splashes of color coalescing into a picture he could never quite make out. He’d never be allowed to taste such sweet things. But that was okay. He had no regrets.

Being a Ranger and killing Kaiju had tasted sweeter than everything he’d missed in life.

The techs had dressed his son in his drivesuit.

He lingered in the driveroom, holding Max’s leash. They had no time. Nothing substantial.

Certainly not enough to lay it all out. They’d probably need a decade to untangle their drama.

When his son did approach him, he squatted, petted, and kissed his dog.

This was how things would end between them.

More love showed to his dog. Best friend, actually.

But then his son stood.

“I know it all. Everything you wanted to say.”

They hugged. Not too short. Not too long. Pulled away.

Then he was looking at his son’s dimpled smirk. And that was their goodbye. Not sappy or melodramatic. A hug and smirk. Suiting for an arrogant bastard.

Charles might not have been like Scott or Angela, but he’d grown to be a whole hell of a lot like him.

But, of course, Charles was also very much his own person. Carved from the chaotic world, all jagged edges. That’s why he was Chuck Hansen. Not Charles Hansen. Chuck with the awful mouth and short temper, who did the stupidest shit like fight his fellow Rangers.

Perhaps their lives could’ve worked out better. Another time and place, a world not marred by a decade-long war against Kaiju. But that hadn't happened.

He was proud. Hoped his son wouldn’t be in too much pain. He was still healing, after all.

And just wished he could’ve been with his son in Striker.

Well, if they succeed, at least he’ll live. Someone would have to raise Allison in Chuck’s place.

He yelled down the narrow corridor. “Stacker! That’s my son you got there! My son. . .”

Then he left for LOCCENT.

Not a single cloud dotted the sky. It was blue. Everywhere. A picturesque farewell, hopefully a good omen. They dropped and smashed into the water then. Waves rippled on the surface before rushing against Striker Eureka’s frame, its eyes. He saw it through the cameras inside the Conn-Pod. The water fizzed and foamed, and the ocean pushed against their descent before giving way as if welcoming them with watery tendrils. The further they went, the dappled light dimmed. The Pacific swallowed everything. Hell to the tee. Too fitting for the grotesque Kaiju bastards.

Chuck noticed Pentecost’s glance toward him. “It seems you kept secrets from me.”

He snorted. “Like you didn’t keep secrets from all of us.”

“Your father was quite aware of my condition.”

“Big fucking deal,” Then his tone sharpened, “Don’t slow me down.”

“Who do you think you’re speaking to? I believe I said bring no ego.”

“Well guess what, mate? You’re in my Jaeger.”

It was simple bickering that had no detrimental effect on the drift. But someone in LOCCENT still advised them to concentrate. Oh, he very much was. They were both on the same page. Get the bomb to the breach. Blow the fucking thing up. Fortunately, the two mad scientists had arrived in time to provide the final puzzle piece to the plan, magic to make it succeed. They’d need to bring a part of a Kaiju with them.

They hit the bottom of the trench with a thud. Gipsy followed a second after. Despite their Jaeger's lights, the visibility was nothing less than atrocious. He grumbled at this. But LOCCENT kept in their ears, guiding them, and they moved toward the breach. Then there was trepidation. A moment of only the sound of their Jaegers cutting through the water. Someone at LOCCENT sucked in a harsh breath. A mic caught it. “A category V is approaching. . .”

“That’s one big bitch,” Tendo grumbled.

Striker Eureka was hurled against the ocean floor—whipped by a tail. He flung backward in his harness. Stacker grunted. The Kaiju really had no sense of etiquette. Not a scrap of patience. I didn’t know we were taking Kaiju on dates, Pentecost thought. He didn’t berate Pentecost for the quip or LOCCENT. But a quicker warning would’ve been appreciated.

Then it began. Their skirmish in hell.

Slattern. Another of Pentecost’s thoughts.

People believed the Kaiju were large when they first arrived. To think. The bastards had gotten too damn big. That, or all those category Is and IIs were the Kaiju’s tykes. Slattern dwarfed them. It also knew about the missiles. Targeted them. Nothing could ever be easy. Apparently, the Kaiju didn’t rest on Sundays.

“Gipsy’s against the two other Kaiju! Category IVs! You’re going to be on your own.”

They recovered. He spoke to Pentecost in his mind. I’m not gonna be bested by a bloody fucking tub of lard.

Slattern slinked around the terrain with ease. Certainly, not fitting to be dubbed a lard. It had already retreated into the shadows, likely readying for another assault. A predator stalking prey. They’d be unable to outmaneuver it in the conditions. He always preferred close and personal—quick and finished. None of that waiting game shit that gave time for your heart to rest. Only pumping adrenaline.

Slattern shot out and tackled them.

They were yanked across the ocean bottom once more, and Striker Eureka’s wings ricocheted against the rocky vents, screeching, metal torn and bent. Lights and warnings blinked and blared in the Conn-Pod. The techs would not have been pleased. And this Slattern bastard still didn’t have a goddamn scratch. They’d need to fix that. Striker Eureka aimed for its throat. Then arms.

When he was scrawny, the years before he joined the Jaeger academy and had his growth spurt, his old man would teach him hand-to-hand combat, and they'd scrimmage. In their matches, he’d need to target his old man’s knees or the collarbone he’d broken before, try to stretch the fight to tire him. He had always loathed losing, and he fought Slattern with the same ferocity as he had his old man back then.

Their struggle displeased the bastard, and in an opening, it leaped out of reach.

A guttural roar ripped through the ocean.

“Fuck,” Someone uttered in LOCCENT. It was soft, followed by a yell. “One of the Kaiju has abandoned Gipsy! It’s coming for you.”

I have an idea, Pentecost thought.

He responded, let’s do it.

“Gipsy plans to help you,” LOCCENT said.

“Gispy, do not move. You will use your Nuclear Reactor to bomb the breach. That’s an order.”

LOCCENT went silent, waiting. Like they knew Pentecost wasn’t done. “The payload is jammed. We’ll create an opportunity.”

Mako would understand and carry out her orders. She always had. Such a good girl. These thoughts weren’t his own, instead, Pentecost’s, washing over him, heavy like a rainstorm. Insurmountable trust, the tightest knot. If there’s anyone I’d leave the mission in the hands of, it would be her. She’d scorch the breach with her fiery revenge, and Raleigh would keep her cool enough, steady and composed after this, and once they killed these two Kaiju bastards with the payload, Gipsy’s sword would cleave the remaining one into a clean two. Mako knew how to craft the finest blades, a gift from her biological family.

Pentecost finished. “I love you, Mako.”

He had to say his own piece. Couldn’t make his old man lonely. “Dad, you always said, if you have a shot, take it.”

He turned to Pentecost and thanked him. Maybe now, when Gipsy completed the mission, and the press came and asked for comments about your son’s service, his old man could say he was a proper Ranger who had respected his opportunity and the man who’d made it possible.

The two Kaiju hurtled toward them.

—there was nowhere to go but forward.

Yet he recalled one of his old man’s memories, a particular one that always burst with emotions in the drift. A cool Australian night, the soft glow of string lights. Friends and family close, watching, both whistling and cheers from Don and Scott. His sweaty palms and the black tie and navy suit that suffocated, but not really. God, I hope her father doesn’t think I look bloody stupid. What about her mum? At least it’s not so fucking hot anymore. Don’t slip and fall. The satin gown wrapped around Angela’s waist, and its tulle train swayed as they glided around each other, fingers intertwined. It was the first wedding dance. Angela had a shy smile, small yet magnetic. It was the same smile she wore when he’d first stumbled through asking her out. They’d walk in the world together. For the rest of their lives. She’s fucking mine. So-so-so goddamn beautiful. He’d undress her later. There’d be the slow pull of a zipper, then the plucking of bobby pins from her hair. He’d eventually mark her nape in the silent hours of the morning when they were tangled in the covers, half-asleep after their consummation.

He let his old man’s love for Angela consume him as his fingers glided across Striker’s monitors, working to detonate the bomb.

It was silent. Maybe not enough time for anyone in LOCCENT to speak. Maybe they were scared to speak. He wasn’t scared. Promises of Angela flickered in his mind. He’d join her shortly. White noise.

They could catch up on all she missed, a conversation drawling through the day till sunset. And they could take time for a cuppa. She had always prepared black tea for breakfast. Drank too much of it.

His son laughed a dry chuckle, his last glint of life.

Then they lost Striker Eureka’s radio. But they could hear the bomb through Gipsy’s, and he watched through her cameras, relayed in LOCCENT. He managed to keep himself upright and silent.

The explosion parted the Pacific.

What had Charlie been thinking about?

Striker Eureka killed its fourteenth Kaiju, Scunner, 11 days after Mutavore.

Gipsy Danger killed her eighth and ninth Kaiju, Raiju and Slattern, 4 days after Leatherback and Otachi.

Gipsy’s pilots returned. Champagne rained in the Hong Kong Shatterdome again. And as Marshal, he requested an emergency meeting with the UN to unveil their success. Naturally, many were dubious, and several asked for proof of the breach’s closure. He promised PPDC charts showcasing the change in energy around the Challenger Deep but also asserted they’d need time to monitor the area. So you don’t have any current proof, one man had said. Sir, I mean no insults, but we detonated a nuclear reactor within the Anteverse. I’m sure I do not need to describe what kind of destruction that would cause on Earth. Moreover, if the breach is not actually closed, we’d see a double or triple Kaiju drop within the next five days. In the end, the UN decided the PPDC’s successful bombing should be shared, but not yet complete assurances of the breach’s closure.

So, an hour later, the PPDC PR department rushed to get him into a clean blouse and suit. They had to forfeit complete properness when he refused to wear the navy jacket. He wouldn’t jostle his arm too much for a suit that would hardly look crisp. After he laid the jacket over his shoulders, a woman had pinned Stacker’s former badge to the lapel for him. He’d stared down at it for some time. Then he had to go. Showtime.

After sightings earlier in the day of Striker Eureka and Gipsy Danger headed toward the Pacific, the press had been clobbering outside the Shatterdome. They got to see the choppers return. But no Jaegers.

The crowd had grown since. Cameras flashed and recorded when he stepped out to acknowledge them.

Worldwide, TV programs were halted and replaced by memos of an important announcement, then footage outside the Hong Kong Shatterdome of the PPDC’s new Marshal, Herc Hansen.

“Earlier today, the PPDC sent out our two remaining active Jaegers, Gipsy Danger and Striker Eureka, on their final mission, Operation Pitfall. The PPDC’s former Marshal, Stacker Pentecost, drafted the mission as a means to end humanity’s war against the Kaiju—a plan to bomb the breach within the Marianas Trench. The PPDC is proud to say the mission was successful, and Gipsy’s Rangers, Raleigh Becket and Mako Mori, have returned. Despite success, both Jaegers were destroyed, and Ranger Chuck Hansen and Marshal Pentecost Stacker perished in combat. Speaking on behalf of the PPDC, we do not want to give the impression that Kaiju will never make landfall again. Only time will tell. Regardless, the PPDC will remain committed to keeping the Pacific safe.”

He had a new suit tailored the following week for business matters, the necessary public events that heeded no military decorum. Gray instead of navy, not tight but clean with shape in the shoulder, all unbroken lines, fitted to his figure. Stacker would’ve given a nod of approval, maybe even a curt compliment. Mako had mimicked Stacker, nodded and said it suited him, nothing more. Many in the Shatterdome told him similar things in various ways.

Yet, still, he scrutinized himself in the mirror before boarding his chopper to Sydney.

Since his announcement, a streetside memorial had flourished where Striker fought Mutavore two weeks prior. Though long-term Ranger memorials were sure to creep up across the globe for years to come, financed by foundations and countries, he'd felt a need to go and pay his dues to this one. Many within Striker’s crew were joining him, too.

He would’ve liked to bring a piece of Striker Eureka’s armor. But unlike parts and pieces of Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon, Striker Eureka’s armor would never wash ashore. Regardless of delusion. In pictures of the memorial, he’d seen numerous bouquets. So when the chopper landed, he went to get his own flowers. But on the street, people stopped him, his ginger hair too recognizable. He was thanked, pitied, given get-well wishes, and cried to. The attention was unappreciated, especially from those who had cried over his son’s death. It felt almost shameful he lacked the same intensity. Despite this, he refused to be cold, only a bit flustered. Finally, after many stops, he got to peruse bouquets in a small flower shop a few blocks from the memorial.

Omegas often received flowers from interested Alphas or mates, but Chuck was first and foremost a shit-mouthed Ranger, not an Omega; he had never received flowers or spoken about liking any particular kind. He decided on a bouquet of red roses. Red seemed fitting, reminded him of his son’s hair, and one of the employees had told him they were a popular choice for mourning, a token of love and grief. He had never told the employee why he’d come for flowers. They knew, though.

Like everyone and their goddamn mother.

It was noon when he arrived.

It wasn’t too hot. Statistically. 26 degrees Celsius. But he had jerked off his tie, shoved it in his pocket, and undid the first two buttons of his shirt. He was hot. Dizzied. So goddamn hot.

An aroma swamped the air, sweet and fresh, tickling noses, the scent of good things, specialties deserving of flowers—birthdays, weddings, celebrations—but now in a no-good situation. Bouquets and bulldog plushies crowded the long stretch of ground in front of the memorial’s mural. In the mural’s center, Striker Eureka fought Mutavore, sharp silver edges contrasted against dark hooks and curves. Painted off to the right side were scenes of Striker’s other battles. The two biggest depictions were those that had taken place in Australia: the climax of the fight against Spinejackal with Vulcan Specter, Striker midway through severing Spinejackal’s head with a windmill blade, and the other of Rachnid versus Striker. To the left of the middle scene was a three-quarter portrait of Chuck in his drivesuit but with his helmet off, upper body turned halfway toward the street. He had his left hand raised, fingers in the V position. They had written on the mural Greatest Ranger of All Time and Hero of the Breach.

He stared at it and found the places where paint had dripped and smudged and the straight lines that turned out too wobbly. They’d made sure to depict his son’s dimpled smirk. The press had found it to be one of his few desirable traits, a thing that could make people believe, even in 2024, they’d be on the war's winning side. He placed his bouquet within the flowered stretch. Others had come in the meanwhile, strangers, but none interrupted his moment.

Then someone rested their hand on his back. He didn’t look to find out who, but once they spoke, he knew—one of Striker’s longest-tenure crew members, a man who’d been with him since Lucky Seven.

“You were a good father to that cunt.”

He hummed. Refused to shoot the man down.

That’s not true. He should’ve tried harder when Chuck pushed him away and lashed out. Should’ve kicked his ass a great deal but hugged even more.

Instead, he’d been apathetic and provided an illusion of love, spun within the drift, intertwined with battles and Kaiju. If not for stepping inside a Jaeger, Charlie would have never known what he’d wanted to say to him. He should’ve made it tangible. The drift was no excuse.

He stood, and the old crew member said, “Ya’ look pale.” Another crew member suggested they rest, get something to eat. Before long, everyone had announced their favorite sit-down restaurant in the area, and he was turning away from the mural.

They chose a place he’d been to many times. He ordered something nostalgic but mostly picked at the food. No one mentioned his plate, still full, when they left.

Another voicemail. More grumbling. After two months, Allison would be discharged. He still mostly needed his sling, despite beginning physical therapy, so he couldn’t yet hold her, but even once he rid himself of the dreadful thing, his new position wouldn’t allow him to care for her. He’d hoped his parents, at least his mother, Tess, could help him for a few months. He called often. They never picked up. He knew it would’ve been a selfish request.

To his parents, he was a traitor who collaborated with the PPDC to have their youngest son dishonorably discharged. Since his youth, his parents had created an illusion: Scott, their beautiful golden child who could do no wrong. Then Ranger fame went to his head and morphed him into the most awful Alpha. The destruction of Scott’s family was simply collateral damage in the discharge he couldn’t have mitigated.

Blood was supposed to be thicker than water. Don and Tess must’ve still been angry at his decision.

And maybe they were also angry that their one of their grandchildren had died. Pretty much by his hand in a world of sick, twisted mental gymnastics.

Today, he asked Mako to oversee the PPDC’s operations so he could visit his granddaughter and figure something out with the facility’s staff. Mako had slotted nicely as his right hand, more intimate with the PPDC’s operations than himself, but she didn’t yet have the years behind her to become Marshal. Would’ve been better if she did. He deserved retirement. Of course, he had to explain his absence.

She cocked her head, “You’re seeing your grandchild?” A pause. She tapped her stylus against her tablet. “You mean Chuck had a child? I’ve never taken you for a liar.”

“I’m not one. ‘Couldn't believe it myself. Hopefully, you can see her sometime. She’s got our ginger hair.”

Her eyes remained on him after he finished, but she lowered her head when she spoke. “I didn’t—”

He interrupted. “Just—” he hung onto the word. He had to think. “If you need me for something, I’ll be at the treatment facility.”

Mako had been bound to say something grating, dissonant chords from a pleasant voice, tuned by her childhood experience. Survivor’s guilt. Pity. Either or. Stacker was a dead man even before he sacrificed himself. Chuck wasn’t. And a child was more of a motivation than any to return and live.

The nurses greeted him with pleasant faces and had him sit before bringing Allison to him. He removed his sling, then they helped get Allison rested on his chest. He’d relaxed his bad arm off the side and put his good arm beneath her, keeping her steady. When the nurses finished, he thanked them. One told him before leaving, the nurse manager would be with him shortly.

Allison had grown, limbs and body now that of a full-term newborn, all chubby and wrinkly.

As minutes passed, he recalled his first week with Chuck. Angela had done most of the holding, always rushing to pick him up at the slightest commotion, and when he’d cried, she’d coo to him, and he'd perk up at the sound of her voice. It hadn’t been the same with him. At the very least, that first week. Allison also didn’t recognize his voice. She reacted to him no differently than she had the nurses. Blank stare, curious reaching. Would she have recognized Chuck’s voice? He pondered but quickly stopped. It didn’t matter.

He then thought of a solution. Maybe he could find out if Angela had any extended family still around. He hadn’t looked through the civilian obituaries in years. At that thought, he felt the muscles in his face tense up. Every bloody thing streamed back to the damn war. Amid his mental turmoil, the nurse manager entered. He managed a placid expression when he acknowledged her. Then they discussed. She couldn’t help him, only keep Allison there for a few more weeks. It was best she went home. He knew that, too. Shook his head in agreement and said it was okay.

Not really.

The nurse manager left before his head got the best of him.

Anxious murmurs had scratched the surface of his mind for weeks, festering like invasive weeds. All alone, without fear of anyone seeing him, they crescendoed into a blare then burst like a pus-filled wound.

Chuck deserved better.

More than sacrificing himself in a Jaeger. Even if it’d been his godforsaken Jaeger. And he wouldn’t have had it any other way. But his son was a fighter who’d done everything to save the world. And though there should’ve been no pride after his death, there was the smallest sense of it, a speck of dirt on white. He would’ve done the same. He should’ve. It should’ve been him and Stacker. He lived three decades of a fine fucking life. But his damn arm!

Chuck didn’t deserve to die.

And not every hero had. Raleigh and Mako returned. They could relish in their glory if they wished, and eventually, they could witness a Kaiju and Jaeger-free world, then unravel their trauma as pilots and build themselves anew. As Marshal, he could only be grateful anyone survived. But as a father, he was certainly bitter.

Chuck deserved to live.

A chance to rid himself of that damned attitude, even if it was the foundation for his entire self. Try a normal life, even if it would feel like becoming a doll in a doll house.

Most of all, Chuck deserved a chance to raise his kid.

Not him.

Angie would be so disappointed.

Her voice chimed in his head, the softest pitch, warm like her hands cradling his face after he would return from deployment. It shouldn’t have been soft. He failed the one thing she asked.

His parents must’ve known it, too, and the old crew member had lied.

He wasn’t a parent.

He’d known when faced with the memorial. It was a hollow title, rewarded only through sharing DNA.

Angela’s death hadn’t prepared him for this. Even though she’d been his other half. And Chuck wasn’t like that at all. Despite the drift. To strangers, Chuck had seemed more of a nuisance, a deep thorn in the side, stirring relentless misery for him. Why then, did it sting so much more? He thought maybe the war’s urgency and his desire to fight had numbed him from the grief after Scissure. But even now, he still had to march forward and rebuild the PPDC as its new Marshal.

Tears blinded Herc from his granddaughter’s fussing, and the blare in his mind deafened the footsteps of the man who entered. But at the man’s first noise, a quiet, umm, he snapped alert. Military habits.

Raleigh’s face was stiff, mouth tight in a frown. Still, he drew closer and said, “Do you mind if I. . .?” His eyes darted between him and his granddaughter.

He finally realized the wetness against his cheeks but couldn't wipe his face while holding Allison. He was far too gone to calm her anyway.

“Please, if you could.”

Raleigh swept Allison from his chest before sliding back to give him space while remaining. He must’ve looked pretty unbecoming. His eyes were definitely puffy, a palpable heaviness around them. He scrubbed the tears away while Raleigh muttered something to his granddaughter. Once done managing his face, he found Raleigh rocking Allison. She’d gone quieter. Raleigh was older, different hair, different posture, and a different kind of blue in his iris, dyed in sadness and not confidence, but still, Raleigh reminded him of his son. It’d been far too hard to imagine what Chuck would’ve looked like caring for his daughter, but looking at Raleigh, with his face lowered, distinctly sad eyes overshadowed by hair, he could imagine it was Chuck holding Allison. Then the younger man glanced up at him.

“Is she yours?”

He disregarded the question. “Who sent you? Mako?”

“Yeah. They want you at some meeting. ‘Don’t know the details.”

He slumped in his seat, turned away before mumbling profanities.

Raleigh asked again, “Is she yours?”

“I guess Mako didn’t tell you,” He still wasn’t looking at Raleigh when he said, “Chuck’s. Nurses said it was a cryptic pregnancy. He had a C-section after Mutavore.”

“Oh. That’s—” a long pause, “surprising. A testament to the Mark V’s radiation shielding.”

He finally looked at the younger man again. “Yeah. . . certainly.”

“Do you know the other parent?”

“Chuck wasn’t in a relationship.”

There was a faint hum from Raleigh. “Makes sense.”

They both went quiet before Raleigh said, “I don’t mean to overstep; I’m just curious. Do you plan on raising her yourself?”

“There’s no world where I wouldn’t. It’s just.” He stood and gathered the sling. It wasn’t a good look to make whoever wanted him wait. “I ain’t got many options right now. Can’t exactly do it while serving as Marshal.” He then said he’d get the nurse to take Allison.

But before he managed to leave, Raleigh said, “I can help you. As long as you don’t make me go on any victory tours or talk shows or all that celebrity shit.” They hadn’t begun any victory tours yet, but inevitably, people would clamor to see the all-American hero who saved the world. “I don't,” Raleigh paused. His face was scrunched and ugly. During the PPDC’s glory days, the Becket brothers never completed the Rangers’ rockstar requirements alone. “I can’t do that shit anymore.”

He couldn’t give Raleigh an answer now. It would be a long conversation. So he offered to discuss the matter later.

Raleigh shook his head, said okay, and then, “What’s her name?”

“Allison, but with two Ls.”

Raleigh laughed and said Tendo was bound to be confused.

He never got a hold of his parents, and at some point, he stopped trying. Instead, Raleigh Becket helped him care for his granddaughter—though Allison's night duties were his alone. After Allison’s first birthday, he’d adopted co-sleeping with her in the bed he bought, non-grata, for his new PPDC quarters. Max would join them most nights, lying down at his feet.

After a year and a half, the suit he had tailored dangled on his frame, and he needed another one tailored. When he’d have meals to discuss PPDC matters with Mako—Raleigh, too, because separating the two wasn’t feasible—Raleigh would urge him to eat. Never outright. But it became too obvious, done too often. The question of whether he was enjoying his food or the comment that his plate was still full, or sometimes even the outright, Herc you have to eat, remark. And he knew he should’ve eaten more than he did. But his son’s death had whisked away his appetite and flattened the taste of things, and time, no matter how much passed, didn’t seem to amend that.

His hair had also grayed considerably. He learned how to dye it—embarrassingly, asked Mako for tips. Even if he couldn’t cover his gray stubble, he thought it’d be best for interviews. Which there were a lot of.

Of course, many asked questions related to his new position. But many more liked to try eliciting statements about his son, hopes to squeeze something juicier than business-speak from him. Chuck’s age became a dagger against him. One woman, the host of some influential talk show, had said, like you, I’m a parent, before following it with, so I’m just wondering why you would allow your son to pilot at sixteen? The attempt at pathos was not for him and instead, the audience. He’d responded that it wasn’t his decision but a joint agreement between the PPDC’s Australian division and former Marshal. Surely, you had some say? Your son didn’t become a pilot overnight. He’d walked away. Yelled at the producers in the back. I’m done with these dumb fucking questions. The clip went viral. It didn’t even contain all he had yelled. People online theorized he might’ve been more like his son than previously believed, sour tongue and all, only beaten away by his military background long before he became a Ranger.

Only half a year after Pitfall, he drank Stacker’s scotch. In an odd coincidence, Raleigh sought him that day he drank, saying he couldn’t get Allison to stop crying. In his drunk fog, through slurred speech, he’d asked Raleigh, were ya’lookin to die on that damned wall? He’d been wondering. There were days he could hardly look at Raleigh and Mako. Especially Raleigh. Because Chuck had wanted to live. Raleigh, he wasn’t sure. But only the alcohol could force his big mouth open. The next day, he apologized.

A little after a year, Allison hit him in the face one night, waking him, and said Dada. He sobbed. He would’ve stepped away and had his breakdown elsewhere, but it was five in the morning.

When Allison could say more words, she titled Raleigh Uncle Ray. Raleigh spent plenty of time with Allison, even when she grew into a toddler then a tyke. It was only possible because Raleigh went whenever Mako went, and for those first years, Mako worked closely with him.

Then, finally, he stepped down as Marshal at age fifty and retired. Fifteen years later than expected.

He returned to Australia with Allison.

H.A.N.S.E.N.

At six, she learned to write each letter separately and then, eventually string them together to form her last name. She wouldn’t learn till later what the name meant to others. But she knew at that young age that her peers’ parents acted weird when they first met her pop, and lots of people liked to stop him when they went out. She hated it after a long day. Sometimes, though, if she grumbled enough those days, her pop would carry her home atop his shoulders. She liked that.

Even before knowing the concept of war, young children, herself included, were well aware the Pacific was a horrific ocean, worse than its six sisters, marred by crumbling walls and nightmarish stories of monsters making it theirs. In school, she'd initially learned about humanity’s war against the Kaiju in year 3. The teacher showed a video of the first-ever Jaeger's inaugural battle, Brawler Yukon against Karloff. Her pop had told her a little about the war prior to the first lesson—said he fought in it. Her 'father', too. They were co-pilots.

They never talked much about her birth father. She didn’t mind. She had her pop, Herc, and even though he didn’t allow her to call him dad, he was her father. The man who’d kiss her forehead. Nobody else.

After the video in class, she asked her pop if there were any videos of his Jaeger. He had then revealed that he piloted two different Jaegers, Lucky Seven and Striker Eureka. The second was also her 'father’s'. After saying that, he showed her Striker Eureka in an old news broadcast recounting its first fight. While she watched, her pop had described Striker Eureka as Australia's pride and joy, the only Mark V Jaeger ever produced. Then, in the video, a clip of her birth father played. He wasn’t old. He reminded her of the students she saw in junior high school. Her pop assured her that her 'father' had eventually grown.

Having seen the man on her pop’s phone screen, her ‘father’ stirred her heart.

Little by little, like peeling away the paper hiding a gift, she unveiled the legacy of her last name. Chuck Hansen. The youngest ever Ranger. Accredited with the most Kaiju kills, fourteen, all category IIIs and IVs. Battled against the only category V to appear on Earth. One of the four Heroes of the Breach.

She hadn’t known what Hero of the Breach meant when she first read the title.

However, she learned what happened to her ‘father’ when she was nine. Even behind her closed bedroom door, her pop heard her sobs. He let her sleep with him that night.

The more she learned, the more puzzled she became, wondering why her pop always visited the beach. He’d taken her at least once a week since they moved to Sydney, often more than that, and he’d walk where the Pacific’s tide would lull inward and rush against his legs.

Naturally, after she learned her ‘father’ had died in the Pacific, she’d thrown a fit the very next time her pop tried to take her to the beach. Ultimately, they didn’t go that day. But she would return, despite assertions during her fit that she’d never go again.

Herc had told her that very next time, “I feel closer to my son, you father, whenever I come. I like to think he knows I’m here if I touch the water.”

In a rebuilt San Francisco, the PPDC held its ten-year reunion on January 12th, 2035. The PPDC’s Secretary-General, Mako Mori, proposed and spearheaded the event. More than two thousand former and current members of the PPDC came to the reunion.

Wind nor rain encroached on San Francisco that day, but instead, a gentle winter’s warmth.

He made Allison wear a good dress and a cashmere jacket. San Francisco wasn’t freezing, but in Sydney, it was summer, and he’d hate it if his granddaughter started sniffling. Despite policing Allison’s outfit, he didn’t wear a suit himself. After retiring, he’d rid himself of all his tailored suits, a most-relieving act. Mako had come to the reunion in a satin slip dress and suit jacket. She looked like a lily, head-to-toe in white but not dainty. The suit jacket elongated her shoulders, hanging past her dress and down to her ankles, cutting a long, powerful silhouette. Raleigh matched Mako but had dressed less formally in beige wide-legged trousers, a cream oversized sweater, and an equally oversized coat. Their matching outfits would surely spread in the news and spur buzz.

When he met them, Raleigh expressed with much pleasure how much better he looked. It was true. Even though his hair was peppered and new wrinkles had settled on his face, he’d put some meat on his bones again. Raleigh looked better, too. Despite reaching the latter side of thirty. And he’d finally been marked. The lucky cunt? None other than Mako. Allison, of course, had jumped up when she saw Raleigh, and he’d caught her with an oomph. After finishing with them, he met with different members of Striker's crew. He had to introduce Allison to those who retired shortly after the breach’s closing. Some of them asked if Allison was his. He’d say Chuck’s, and they’d ask when?—how? Those who had stayed after the breach already knew Allison. But she didn’t remember many of his PPDC contemporaries and kept behind him most of the day. Though she always greeted those they spoke to. When dusk painted the sky in pinks and oranges, they returned to their hotel room, and before she drifted asleep, he kissed her goodnight and said, "I love you."

Sometimes, Allison would grumble she was too old for kisses. Not that night. She must've been too tired.

The morning after, they met Mako and Raleigh for breakfast.

He watched Mako swat away Raleigh’s fork. It was the third time he’d reached for her food, but only the first unsuccessful attempt. Mako glared at her mate. “If you’re still hungry, order something else.”

Raleigh had cleaned his plate too swiftly. When the waiter returned to check in, he asked if he could still add to their order. The waitress was happy to oblige.

Allison asked, “Uncle Ray, why are you so hungry?”

He cringed at his granddaughter’s candid question. He answered before the other man could. “He had a long flight. Probably hasn’t eaten in two days.” They hadn’t had much either, aside from snacks. He shoved some egg into his mouth. Though his sense of taste never fully returned, he’d adapted.

It was a good enough answer for Allison. She picked up her fork and stabbed one of her breakfast sausages.

Then Mako smiled at Raleigh. “Anata, you should tell them the good news.”

“Better than your fucking marriage?” He asked.

“Yeah. . .” Raleigh muttered. He said something short to Mako in Japanese, hazukashii yo, before saying, “We’re actually expecting.”

He hurriedly congratulated the two. Mako had once vented about their fertility troubles when he was still Marshal. Piloting Gipsy and taking Metharocin had ruined Raleigh’s ability to conceive. Even treatments hadn’t helped them.

Mako continued for Raleigh, “After he turned thirty, we decided, if it happens, it happens.”

“Lo and behold,” Raleigh finished.

“How far are you?”

“Fifteen weeks,” Raleigh said.

“So you’re going to have a kid?” Allison asked after she finished chewing her food.

“Yes. In a few more months. Hopefully, your granddad can take you to see them once they're born.”

Allison perked up at the comment and began listing all the things she’d have to do with them. Raleigh humored her.

After breakfast, Mako asked him if they could discuss a few PPDC-related things. Raleigh said he’d head back to their hotel, so he asked if he wouldn’t mind taking Allison with him. He knew the man likely wanted to rest, but assured she wouldn’t be a bother. The matters must’ve been important if Mako wanted his opinion, and Allison didn’t need to overhear their conversation.

Her uncle dug through his suitcase, went into the bathroom and returned in an oversized tee and shorts. He then sunk onto the bed, rolled over, pulled the covers over himself and fell asleep. She decided to watch TV. Beneath her uncle’s soft snoring, the TV’s audio droned lowly. An adult movie was playing. Bleeps, action and gore. But she didn’t change the channel. It was nothing compared to the Jaegers and Kaiju. Sometime through the movie, the covers rustled. She turned to look. Raleigh had stumbled out of bed and toward the bathroom. The goofy sight was followed by retching. She had to cover her ears and only uncovered them when he stepped out.

“Are you okay?”

“Just a little queasy, normal pregnancy things.”

Her uncle grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and snatched the box of crackers atop the room’s small table. When he returned to the bed, items in hand, she asked if she could sit with him. He patted the spot next to him before setting the items on the nightstand and massaging his stomach.

“Does the baby always make you feel bad?”

“More often than not. But it’s good. I know they're alive and growing.” He huffed then. “I can’t believe your father didn’t realize his own pregnancy.”

“So he didn’t get sick?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I thought you fought in the war with him?”

“I did. But I left the PPDC for a while and didn’t come back till the beginning of 2025. Your birthday is the day I arrived at the Hong Kong Shatterdome.” It was a disappointing admission. Her thoughts must’ve shown on her face because Uncle Ray had drifted closer and spoke like they were sharing secrets at a sleepover. “But y'know what? The day after I arrived, your father punched me in the face.”

“He punched you!?”

“Yep. Granted, I punched him first. Had him on the ground before your grandfather broke us up.”

She wanted to know more. In most interviews, her ‘father’ had been coated in sweat and still in his suit. Scowling or grinning, no in between. What was he like when he didn’t need to defeat Kaiju? She couldn’t ask her pop, and now she knew her uncle wouldn’t know much, but the words still sat on the tip of her tongue, and she couldn’t stop them. “What was my birth father like?”

“He was the bravest man I know.”

When she'd gone to leave with her pop, Uncle Ray pulled him aside. As his hand lingered around her pop’s bicep, Raleigh said something to him. She couldn’t hear.

The clear packaging tape split beneath the box cutter. A crisp hissing sound. To his ears, the noise was a prelude to the scoop of emotions opening the cardboard box named mementos would entail. He’d taped the thing shut and stuffed it away half a decade ago.

He didn’t expect to open it so soon. Maybe in another half a decade—Allison’s sixteenth birthday or after she became a teenager; she hadn’t even presented yet. But the online artifacts of Chuck Hansen, the PPDC’s greatest Ranger, had tempted her curiosity, watered it like a flower, and Raleigh had urged him to talk to her about him. So he brought the box out, wiped the dust off, and goaded her, saying he had a surprise.

She sat beside him on the floor. It was night, and her hair was still wet from her bath. She had curious eyes.

First were ten pictures.

Everyone from his and Angela’s families, them in the middle, at their wedding. The wedding vows. His first family, Tess, Don, Scott, and him. A portrait of him in the RAAF’s service dress uniform. Scott holding his daughter as a baby. Angela with a newly-born Charles. His second family, Angela, Charles, and him. Scott and him wearing their Ranger-issued bomber jackets. A young Chuck and Max in the Sydney Shatterdome. And a group photo of Gipsy and Striker’s crews after Operation Pitfall.

Beneath the pictures, he’d placed Max’s leash, the nasty letter Scott’s daughter sent him after his discharge, and below them, his dog tags and jacket with Lucky Seven’s insignia.

He glanced at Allison. She was studying the pictures, and her face danced between expressions. He answered all her questions. Many were about the people. Once she knew everyone and was satisfied enough, she then asked, “What else is in the box?”

He removed his jacket, revealing the last set of items.

All the items had made their way into the box at different times, and though he’d only taped the box shut the day before they left the Hong Kong Shatterdome, the box had been with him since he’d gone to clean his son’s quarters two weeks after Operation Pitfall.

He faced Chuck’s jacket, dog tags, and a USB drive.

Allison scooted toward the box. Her voice was soft, and her hands hovered. “Can I?” He shook his head then watched her pluck the dog tags. She slid her finger over the metal before flipping the tag back and forth. She held her breath, inhaled the air a second later. She hesitantly put the tags around her neck before pulling out the USB drive.

He stood from the floor. “Let me get my laptop.”

Rustling sounded from the other room, and when he returned, Allison had her face pressed against the folded jacket. She then lifted her face. “He wore this?”

“Sometimes. He wasn’t a jacket-kind-of-guy, preferred showing off his arms.”

She hummed, set the garment in her lap, and handed over the USB drive. He sat next to her and plugged it into the laptop.

He’d already watched the USB’s video once. After he had discovered the drive and Chuck’s dog tags stuffed in an envelope on his desk. He hadn’t cried then. Couldn’t, likely. He wasn’t sure about now. But he clicked the file, and Allison leaned into his side. The video played. It was hard to forget his son’s voice when there were hundreds of clips of him online, many turned into sound bytes. But no video plastered online captured him in a similar light to the one he’d shot with his daughter two days before Operation Pitfall. His intonation at the video's beginning was similar to the one used in his interviews, too brash for his own good, but it softened and unveiled Charles by the end.

Allison was laughing then crying. And finally, she asked, “Why did he say that?”

“What?”

“That Hansens don’t say ‘I love you’. You’re always saying it.”

“I—” He stopped. Restarted. “Sometimes we make mistakes. There were things I never said to your father. By the time I realized it was too late.”

She wrapped her arms around him, stuffed her head into his middle, and though her hair and tears wetted his shirt, it was no bother. She was against him, a tangible weight that soothed his heart and silent tears.

“Thank you, pop. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And you, Chuck.

He’d join his wife and son in a few more decades, and in his will, he’d ask to have his ashes scattered across the Pacific. For now, he’d treasure the child in his arms.

And always—always—express his heart to her.

His son had cleared him the path to redo his mistakes.