Chapter Text
The sound of a body hitting the mat echoes around the chamber, followed swiftly by a unified “ooh” released from the crowd, as if they too had taken a punch in the gut and came to on the flat of their back, just as the new trainee experiences first hand thanks to Percy Jackson.
He looks up at Percy, confused as to 1) how he got there and 2) how he got there so quickly. But Percy extends a hand and pulls the trainee to his feet and sends him shuffling to join the rest of those who are just as beaten and bruised as he is.
Annabeth makes a note on her clipboard. The entire list of contenders is marked with an X, another failure. Beside each X is a note. She scribbles her thoughts pointedly, and taps the pen to mark the period, a little harder than necessary. She doesn’t raise her head, but looks up as Percy goes back to his end of the room.
He sniffs and wipes his running nose on his taped hands, then flexes his fingers while rolling his shoulders. He makes it look like this is just a warmup. This is going a lot differently than the last time they did candidate tryouts. Jason Grace had already stood apart from the crowd. He was a fighter through and through, every fiber in his body. Up against Percy, it was a long match. And they worked well together. They complimented each other. Under any other circumstance, they may have been rivals, competing to be top dog of the Shatterdome. But it turned out they were like halves of the same piece.
And then came the accident...
Yet now, no one can match Jason’s reflex, his timing, his precision. None of these candidates are compatible. None of them would be able to stand the drift with a veteran like Percy. They’d get swept away, like a plastic cup in a hurricane.
Annabeth makes another note on her sheet.
If anyone is worthy of being his co-pilot, they must do better than this.
“Who’s up next?” Frank Zhang asks this, for about the thirtieth time, from in front of the huddled masses of those who are trying out to be the next Jason Grace. They don’t look thrilled. Frank stands with his hands perched over a stave, casually leaning on it as if waiting for something interesting to happen. And nothing interesting will happen, not with this group.
They’re too slow, for one. Too cocky and green, thinking they can trick Percy with a fake out or two only to find themselves with their faces on the floor and their feet in the air. They have heard the stories of the pilot from the now-decommissioned Bronco Thunder and want to show their worth and brag about it at dinner, saying that they beat the “famous” Percy Jackson, and that’s their downfall.
But that’s not why Annabeth is annoyed. Not even close.
They’re all brawn and force. There’s no thought behind their movements. At least, no thought that’s smart anyway. Their footwork is stunted. She even sees Frank smack the last trainee in the feet with the end of his stave for his sloppiness. He had taught him better than that.
A water bottle sits on a bench next to a crumpled up towel. Percy takes a swig of water and wipes his brow of sweat. He glances over at the trainees, who look between one another, seeing who has the guts to volunteer to go next. They look as if they’re almost ready to fight each other for the chance not to go next. He sizes them up while Annabeth sizes Percy up.
She flips the page over and makes another note, sighing while she does.
Jason Grace has showed up to watch. He is on the other side of the training room, sitting in his chair as usual, watching the sparring sessions behind linked fingers and a furrowed brow. He doesn’t seem too impressed with the bunch either. Annabeth watches as Piper leans down and whispers something in his ear. He nods to whatever she just said. They’re both looking at Percy.
She knows what they see. She knows that they see a different Percy than the one they’re used to. Ever since the downfall of Bronco , Percy doesn’t smile much anymore, he doesn’t eat much either. He’s like a ghost, only possessing the body of his old self.
Yes, that’s what’s annoying her. She can’t read him. He’s functioning on autopilot. Where he used to be coy, creative, cunning - he’s now a mechanical husk. She sees that everything is there, everything is working as it should be. And yet something is missing.
At any cost, he itches to get back in a Jaeger, she can tell.
It makes him weak. It makes him selfish.
With that attitude, he’ll never make it.
He turns back to his bench and wipes his hair clean of sweat with the front of his shirt. The hem of it lifts up just above the edge of his pants and she can see the memory of Jason’s pain branded there on the small of his lower back, circuitry-like lines creeping their way around his skin, as straight as a surgeon’s incision.
It’s a transfer from the drift, physical and psychological. She knows the theory behind it, but seeing it for herself is something entirely different. The agony of Jason’s injuries had only been in his mind, firing off all of the same signals that he was in pain, a pain so excruciating, it haunts him, even though it isn’t his own. How he got the both of them back to shore… Truly, not just any Jaeger pilot could do that alone.
But she only gets a look at the scar for a moment before Percy pulls his shirt back down and returns to the ring for another round.
Guilt. That’s probably what it is. She can see it now. Somehow, it might be worse than actual pain. It shows up in his face, in the neutral lines around his mouth, the mask he wears squaring off with another challenger. It’s in the flatness of his hair, the gauntness of his cheeks, the distant, not-quite-there look in his eyes. And Annabeth can see it, peeking around a brick wall in his thoughts. She wonders if it’s to hide what’s truly going on inside his mind, a façade he wears to become unreadable because he doesn’t want to know himself.
Jason gives Percy an encouraging nod before Percy starts up again and Piper slips a grin. She swipes her thumb across her neck, signaling: Finish them .
Annabeth makes another note.
That’s what makes him unfit to be a pilot again. He’s not ready. He’s using a Jaeger for all the wrong reasons.
Tryouts today were a bad idea. She huffs and makes another note.
These are her cadets. This is the top ten percent of students in the academy, hand chosen by her . They’re supposed to be the best and they’re not living up to her expectations. She considers starting over with a new group tomorrow, maybe reserving this for another date once Jackson gets his attitude sorted.
Frank practically pushes a trainee into the middle of the mat. His classmates hoot and cheer encouragement, though it’s lost its edge compared to when the fights first started. The new opponent raises his fists, bobbing on the balls of his bare feet. He’s pale, either because he’s scared or because he hasn’t been outside much. He looks like the total opposite to Percy. Noticeably, they have very different fighting stances. Percy is more relaxed, loose. He sweeps his feet across the cushioned floor and he flexes his back. Oxygen fills up his lungs, steadies him, and he turns sideways, scanning every inch of the new guy.
Annabeth, too, compares the nobbly muscles of him compared to the lithe, coiled swagger in Percy’s body. She hopes the trainee has a quicker reaction time. He’s been ranked subpar on his physical exams, but his performance in strategy training modules has averaged him out into the top tier. By choosing him, she had hoped maybe he would balance Percy, build up his strengths in offense, tighten his weaknesses in forethought. She can see that it was a miscalculation. She could tell this was going to end with one of them on the floor. She already knows which one.
She makes another note.
“Fight,” Frank barks, and honestly, it’s almost over before Frank can even finish the word.
The guy hesitates. To attack or to defend? He can’t decide. Bad move.
He fakes, ducks right, left - the guy kicks - but Percy grabs him by the foot and flips him. With his arm pinned behind his back, the guy calls uncle almost immediately.
“Point, Jackson,” Frank says, monotone. He suppresses a yawn.
Annabeth sucks on the insides of her cheeks, puckering her lips in thought, as she notes the results as Percy lifts the guy to his feet and walks back to his bench.
“What’s with the face?” Percy asks, quieting the crowd.
Annabeth doesn’t realize that he’s talking to her at first, only after noticing that the room has gone uncomfortably quiet. So she looks up from her clipboard for a moment, glances around, and then sees that Percy has walked into the middle of the mat, his feet planted and his arms crossed, staring directly at her.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“Every time I finish a fight, you give this look like -” He makes a face that is an exaggeration of her own. “Am I missing something?”
“I’m frustrated,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“You should be. None of these people can drift with me. Didn’t you screen them?”
She looks back down at her clipboard. “It’s not them I’m talking about. It’s you.”
The room goes quiet, quieter than before. All eyes are on Percy. He’s hot red in the face and shifts of his feet. “Sorry?” he asks, his Aussie accent piquing now that he’s upset.
“You’re not taking this seriously. I would have expected more from you.”
“Like you know better?”
“I do know better, that’s why I’m in charge.”
Percy balks. The trainees look back and forth between the two, like at a Wimbledon match. Annabeth keeps her voice level, throws her words around as if she’s flicking them off her wrist, not troubled to see where they land. She knows she’s right. Even Percy knows she’s right, though he’s too proud to admit it.
“Alright,” he says, “if you think I’m not serious about this, how about you show me what I’m doing wrong.”
Some of the trainees make noises but are quickly silenced by the look on Annabeth’s face. Her eyebrow is raised, letting Percy’s challenge hang in the air between them. She and Percy have never seen eye-to-eye, not since the incident. They stare each other down. Percy doesn’t think she’ll take him up on the offer. Perhaps he’s testing her, in his own way. This is a different kind of tryout. She regards him, the kilter of his hips, the slight frown of his lips, the muscle throbbing in his cheek.
Methodically, she bends down to unlace her boots.
The room buzzes with more excitement than it’s had all day. Some more trainees join the crowd, the numbers growing to watch, anticipating what’s the come. The energy has gathered passersby, wondering what’s about to happen, murmuring with bets and wagers.
Annabeth takes her time undressing. She unbuttons her jumpsuit and ties the arms around her waist and tucks her dogtags into her white tank top. She sets her boots neatly beside her clipboard on the floor and pads onto the mat.
She makes sure to pay attention to her bare toes on the firm, plastic floor. It wakes her up a little, invigorates her senses. The mat always smells like feet, and body odor, and cleaning agent, which makes the other smells more potent. She expects this is as close as her nose will ever be to it.
Her hair is usually tied up into a tight bun, the standard uniform for someone in her position. With a casual twist of her wrist, she unwinds her hair and lets it fall. She pinches the hair tie in between her teeth and pulls her curls into a high ponytail.
That’s more like it.
Now things feel more familiar.
These are her roots, her beginnings. She feels like she’s a private again, working her way up the ranks. Her muscles quiver, not with fear, but with an unused energy she wishes to release. She’s been waiting for too long. Her duty was keeping her to the sidelines. Percy has forced her hand.
They walk past each other, taking opposite sides of the ring.
And, to her surprise, she sees a spark of something in Percy’s eyes, same as hers. It wasn’t there before, not with the thirty-some competitors he’s faced today. A smile quirks his cheek.
“Do you need to wrap your wrists?” he asks, showing the frayed bandages over his knuckles as he turns to face her.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” she says. She readies herself. She stands loosely, looking as if she’s on her heels, but she’s poised, steady, waiting. Her fists are curled, only just, as she shifts her shoulders and gets into a wider stance. Raising her hands, she finds Percy mirroring her, almost down to the last inch. It’s natural, instinctive. There’s an underlying hum of familiarity.
They’ve never faced each other before, never even so much as trained in boot camp together, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Now they are on the same page.
The reason he’s been disappointing her today is because she wasn’t challenging him. It was time to give him room to prove himself.
“Fight,” Frank’s voice calls, and by then Percy’s moving, fast, faster than he’s been moving all day.
She dives, rolls, comes up, parrys his punch and counters with a cross. He kicks, she blocks. His movements are solid, his technique genuine. He’s not holding back. She rises, throws an elbow, he blocks, and backs up. Their footwork match, a dance. Step, one two three, step, one two three. There’s a rhythm to her heart, in his breaths, with his strikes. Each one is countered, blocked, dodged, neither of them able to land a hit.
Good , Annabeth thinks. There’s something still there.
They break, parting for a moment, gathering themselves with a couple of breaths.
“What are you doing?” Piper calls to Percy. “Are you trying to lose?”
Annabeth’s heart is alive, thrumming for more. Percy doesn’t answer Piper. He doesn’t have time; Annabeth is on the attack.
She leaps, cracks her elbow down, misses, he pivots, spins, she grabs him from behind, he goes to hit, she catches his fist and turns. Two steps, she rams up against him, her back against his chest, and she throws him off her hip. He hits the ground with an enormous THWACK.
The crowd erupts, but Percy lashes out with his heel. It connects with the back of Annabeth’s knee. She drops. He pulls her wrist. Together they fall, scrambling, jockeying, vying for a better position. They roll. Percy ends up on top. Her legs are pinned, she’s struggling. But his hold slips, he loses grip, they roll, and she’s on top. Their arms are pretzels, their legs vices. Their grips change, loosening, then grabbing onto each other once more, never letting the other get the upper hand.
“Reset,” Frank calls. It’s a draw. They break free from each other.
The crowd whoops and claps. Percy and Annabeth get to their feet, returning to the outer rings of the circle. The blood has rushed to Annabeth’s face. She feels flush, if not a little winded. She is out of practice. That’s what no training replaced by lots of paperwork gets her. But she’s ready for another round. She’s not walking away from this one with a loss.
She faces Percy, and he looks just as ready as she does. There’s a sheen of sweat across his chest and his face. He shakes his head, droplets falling from his hair. He raises his fists. She does the same.
Frank starts the next round with, “Fight!” And they begin again. It’s more fluid this time, more dynamic, changing, morphing, flowing, leading and following. Each land a couple of hits, fair and well-won. It’s far from over. They’ve only just begun.
There’s power in her breath, in her strikes, equal to his own. She can read him now. He’s opened himself up. He’s pouring himself into his movements, completely letting go of all that held him back before. She sees him through everything. Perhaps, she thinks, he sees her too. This is the most basic level of humanity. This is the drift.
And something must have changed in Annabeth’s face, because Percy reads her for a moment too long. She takes the openness of his body and sweeps her foot around, taking his legs out from underneath him. He lands hard on his back and Annabeth presses her knee on his chest, keeping him down flat into the mat.
There’s a pause, a moment of nothing. Just the two of them, looking at each other, seeing what wasn’t there before.
Then there’s a cheer from somewhere far away and Annabeth is brought back to reality. Oh yeah. She’s in the training room, she’s in front of all of these people, she’s won. She backs off of Percy and steps away. He sits up, almost as if he’s on strings, and he keeps staring at her.
The crowd is stunned, no one is sure what to do or how to react. Even Frank has perked up, his mouth having fallen open sometime during the fight. He is smiling.
Annabeth takes a deep, grounding breath and straightens her back. She goes back to her things, picking up her shoes and her clipboard, and faces the rest.
“That is all,” she says. “Dismissed.”
No one moves. Only Percy gets to his feet. He’s flushed, panting, but he’s softened, like clay. His eyes aren’t so far away now. And they’re locked onto her.
“Hey Percy,” Jason says, cracking open a wide grin. “I think you’ve just found your new co-pilot.”