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Chapter Text

20 November 2019

Powell River PPDC Training Academy and Kaiju Research Facility - Early Morning

It starts out as a slow day. A normal morning. Lance had missed both the first and second wake-up bells, and would have missed breakfast too if not for Hunk's diligent informal third bell, which consisted of pulling all three of Lance's pillows out from under his head, one by one, and then unceremoniously dumping him onto the floor. No matter how many times he'd undergone similarly rude awakenings, the cold concrete against his bare skin never failed to jolt him into consciousness.

He makes a mental note to add pajama pants to his Christmas list. And slippers. Fuzzy ones. Possibly with cute faces, just for good measure. It wasn't like he intended to wear them outside his room, anyway, and if things went his way, he'd be living in similarly cold, concrete quarters for, well, however long this whole Kaiju War thing lasted. (Or however long he did. The thought is morbid, but short lived. He wasn't even a pilot yet. He has plenty of time to worry after he had his hands on an actual jaeger, but so far, he was lucky to even get a good hour in the simulators).

"Lance," Hunk groans, shaking him free from reverie. Sheepishly, it dawns on him that he's been standing around in his underwear, half-asleep and daydreaming, for at least a solid minute. Okay, so, it starts out as a really slow day. "Can you please just... put on some pants so we can go not miss breakfast. I would really, really like to not miss breakfast."

Lance scours the room for the bottom half of his uniform. The bottom half of any of his uniforms, really. "Five minutes." He glances around the room hurriedly, and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror he’d propped up on top of a bookshelf a few paces away. His short, feathery brown hair has found a whole host of brand new directions to stick up in. Okay, so maybe more like ten minutes, he thinks, but knows better than to say out loud.

"In five minutes there will be no more eggs!" Hunk protests. As if on cue, his stomach growls audibly. "And also I'll be dead," Hunk adds. "You heard that, right? I'm-"

"You're dying, yeah, yeah, I know, it sounds really dire," Lance replies, waving a hand dismissively. He's well accustomed to Hunk's melodrama around breakfast. "Just help me find my pants."

Hunk is either too hungry or too used to Lance to offer a rebuttal beyond some wordless grumbling as he sets off to search under Lance's bunk. It takes him laying flat on his belly and swinging an arm wildly through the dust bunnies to finally find a pair, rumpled up with a pair of socks, a protocol manual he's pretty sure Lance hasn't read, and a Matador Fury action figure. All of it, in all its dust-bunnied glory, is so predictably Lance that it makes Hunk grin a little in spite of his growling stomach. He sets the rest down gently on Lance's bed and holds the pants up, triumphant as an Olympic medalist, before tossing them to him.

They make it to the mess hall just as the eggs run out.

---

Lance is not a particularly good listener. He'd never been a very good student before enlisting, and he hadn't quite stuck around in school long enough before doing so to find out whether he'd manage to actually graduate or not. Mostly, he paid attention to things that interested him, and tended to rely on Hunk to repeat the most essential parts of what was left. They'd met at their trainee orientation on what had been both of their very first day at Powell River, and, not counting the two days when Hunk had refused to speak to him over a stolen taco, they'd basically been best friends ever since. Hunk was into engineering, with no aspirations towards piloting, so Lance had never felt all that threatened or undermined by him. That, and both of them seemed to know intuitively where to stop when teasing each other, which they did plenty of.

Sure, Hunk had memorised every manual there was and he could build just about any mechanical component he needed given fifteen minutes, a pack of gum, and a pile of trash, whereas Lance sometimes struggled with which end of a ruler to start at, and couldn't sit still long enough to finish a medium sized newspaper article, but all that just meant they balanced each other out. The things that really mattered, whatever those things were, well, those they had in common. At least, that's what Lance figured.

When it came down to it, he'd do pretty much anything for the guy, and he knew Hunk would too, even if he might grumble about it a little first, and if that wasn't real love, Lance didn't know what was. Not that he was in love with Hunk or anything. He was pretty sure he wasn't, anyway. He was pretty sure he'd know.

"McClain," a stern voice interrupts, "are you going to sit there staring into the middle distance behind Garrett, or are you going to at least attempt to answer the question?"

"Uh," Lance looks around, hoping for some clue to what the question had been, finding nothing but an apologetic 'You're on your own here, buddy' glance from Hunk, who he was definitely sure he was not in love with now, the traitor. What was he good for if he wasn't going to at least pantomime a hint, anyway? "Well, it is a pretty nice middle distance," he deadpans after a moment.

The instructor sighs. "Very well. If you're not going to take this seriously, I suppose we may as well ask your other half. At least we know which half has the brain."

Lance slinks down in his chair slightly as laughter titters around him, his ears feeling hot with embarrassment and frustration. He's not stupid, and she knows it. She has his test scores, and he wouldn't have been here without some level of aptitude. He was just...easily distracted. Which, okay, maybe not the best quality for a prospective jaeger pilot, but... okay, yeah, he didn't really have a good excuse for that one. Something to work on. He could admit to himself, at least, that he had plenty of room for improvement.

As Hunk rattles off the answer to some absurdly technical thing he was pretty sure he wouldn't have known even if he had been listening to the lecture, he resolves to start taking notes. Next time, obviously, as he hadn't brought a notebook this time, but still. Taking notes might not look cool, but he figures that would balance out when he got his chance in a jaeger because of them. Besides, the more notes he got done, the closer he was to being in the simulators, or in the training rooms.

The closer he was to a jaeger.

Almost anything was worth that.

---

Vancouver Shatterdome - Early Morning

It starts out as a slow day. A normal morning. Keith sulks out of bed like a raincloud at 4am, making his way through the near-empty corridors, down a well-worn path which he had specifically selected to encounter the least possible number of people before reaching the training rooms. He already has his compression gloves on before he even leaves his room each morning, and he doesn't take them off until he lays down each night, so he's able to go fluidly from a few warm-up stretches into his morning training routine without stopping to adjust anything. It's seamless, and quiet, and serene, just as he likes it, and best of all, he's alone. Keith had never been a particularly extroverted person, and life in the Shatterdome, life as a ranger, didn't allow for a whole lot of time alone. He'd take it wherever he could.

Being a jaeger pilot didn't demand a particularly intense training regimen - you had to be relatively in shape, of course, and have some idea what you were doing, but he didn't know of anyone else who kept the kind of discipline that he did, not even amongst the more established rangers. Sure, there were people who put in extra time, striving to be the best, or the most camera-ready, or whatever, but for Keith, it wasn't about any of that. Unlike some rangers, he didn't particularly care about being a superstar pilot, and he flat out hated the attention he got whenever he skirted the title. Thankfully, he had Shiro to handle most of the media attention they got whenever Kerberos Champion returned from a mission. Between that and the general constant activity of the Shatterdome, it got pretty overwhelming. He needed his mornings to himself. He needed them normal. Especially mornings right before a big mission.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Keith’s movements are precise, yet fluid. Well-rehearsed. Kerberos Champion is big, but she's agile. She'd need to be to keep up with her pilots, and he knows her skin almost as well as his own by now, so when he closes his eyes, he can feel her as he moves. Machine static, kaiju blue, endless ocean waves, and Shiro’s heartbeat echo behind closed eyes. He ducks into a roll and pops back up, facing a punching bag. Another set of deep breaths, and he strikes, careful, but not too restrained, working the last of the night's sleep out of his muscles. He keeps his eyes shut, and does the drill by touch and memory.

It comes down to this: he doesn't know what to expect from the rest of the day, and he doesn't like it. Kaiju he can handle, but this mission involves too much of the human element for his liking, not to mention they don't know what the hell they're doing. It’s unpredictable. That's why Kerberos Champion is going along at all. Just in case calling it a 'routine recon mission' a hundred times in briefings isn't enough to make sure it goes routine. Keith is pretty sure sending a jaeger is a great way to make sure it doesn't, but Shiro's got a friend on the team they're going to be accompanying, and he seemed to think it was a great idea, so Keith had let it go. He’s a pilot because he can drift with Shiro, not because he had a perfect score in the simulator, or because he wanted it, or anything like that, and he knows it, and it’s amazing, and Shiro’s amazing, so he didn’t argue. Still, he hates ‘just in case’ missions. His next strike knocks the bag swinging back so violently it almost hits him back. More control, he thinks. It's just a glorified science field trip. There's nothing there to be this wound up over. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Keith runs over the mission in his head. First, they’ll escort the science team’s ship they’ve been assigned to the Kodiak Research Facility, and then from there, out, into the ocean, towards the Breach. Once the science team signals them, confirming completion of the readings and collections they’d come to do, they’ll move off again and escort the ship, now laden with precious cargo, back to Vancouver. A few weeks after that, if all went as hoped, they’d start to see results from the data collected slowly trickling their way out of the Powell River Research Facility. By the next kaiju attack, if their predictive clock was any good as it was then, they’d have the beginnings of some real results from today’s mission. It might have been just a recon mission, but Keith understood its potential importance. He simply worried that too many of the others involved weren’t, well, worrying enough. Approaching and probing the Breach just didn’t seem likely to be a picnic in the park to him. There was too much potential for risk, too many unknown variables, and sure, those variables were exactly why they’d planned the mission to begin with, but that didn’t mean Keith had to like it.

He can feel Shiro at the door before he hears him crack it open and ask to come in. It’s just another side-effect of sharing someone’s head for over a year. Keith doesn’t open his eyes, and he doesn’t say anything, just nods. There’s a soft shh sound, like sandpaper, as the door drifts closed behind him and clicks shut. Keith finishes a round with the punching bag, and opens his eyes at last just as Shiro holds out a practice staff to him. He’s smiling, warmly, and it makes something in Keith settle. He widens his stance without being prompted, and Shiro’s smile splits into a low chuckle. When they’d first met, the very first time Shiro knocked his legs out from under him, he’d told Keith to widen his stance. It was the first thing he’d ever said to him; the second had been that he knew they could drift together.

Shiro glides forward, staff extended, and Keith effortlessly dodges away, parrying, reversing, and slipping behind Shiro, their backs barely grazing each other as they pass, a lot more like dance partners than sparring partners. It takes two entire minutes for either of them to score a point on the other, and when they finally do they’re face to face, both breathing a little more heavily, both smiling, their staves poised directly above each other’s heads. Keith can almost feel the drift settle in right there. It gets like that sometimes, like the drift is a lot more than what they’ve been told it is. Intense. Waking dreams, or sometimes normal dreams, but not normal. It’s hard to explain, so he never bothers trying. Besides, Shiro’s the only one he’d want to try explaining it to, and with him, he never has to.

“You don’t have anything to be worried about,” Shiro says finally, as they stow their staves and get ready to head off to the mess hall together. “It’s just a recon mission.”

Keith frowns at the floor as they walk. “You’re probably right,” he says, and for a while, he almost believes it.

---

“Keith, this is Matt.” Shiro has his arm around a thin, blonde-ish man with big, round glasses. He definitely looks like Keith figures a kaiju researcher ought to look. Shiro is beaming. “We were in Jaeger Academy together for a while a few years back,” he explains, though Keith wasn’t really sure whose benefit it was for. Sure, he’d never met Matt, but he’d felt Shiro meeting Matt, when they drifted, a hundred times, so he may as well have.

“Nice to finally actually meet you,” he manages, hoping Matt won’t notice the forced nature of his smile, knowing Shiro definitely will. He meets Shiro’s gaze levelly, speaking without speaking. He really is glad to meet Matt, he just wishes it wasn’t for this. Shiro’s expression softens slightly, just for him, and Keith knows he understands. It isn’t apparent to anyone else in the room, but neither one of them is at ease with their mission.

The Breach is a dangerous unknown, and this mission more or less amounts to waltzing right up to knock on its door, and then go poke around in the bushes out front. Keith doesn’t like to jump anywhere where he can’t see where he might land, but he loves the feeling of flying on the way down, so he just keeps jumping. Besides, he has bad feelings about plenty of things that turn out just fine. Keith is really good at getting bad feelings about things.

Matt is picking at his nail beds absentmindedly, and Keith notes unkempt cuticles and short, ragged nails. There are faint yet unmistakable dark circles underneath his big, hazel-brown eyes, all of it framed by a mop of mousy, tawny hair. He definitely looks tired, and at least a bit out of place. He seems nervous, but it's that special kind of nervous that science types like him always seemed to get when they were forced to mingle with anyone who’d never slept under the desk in their lab before. Like he's constantly checking to make sure he's in the right place. He didn’t give off an air of being bad at talking to people the way Keith is bad at talking to people, more that he’s just a lot better at talking to certain kinds of people. Keith brushes a shock of dark hair out of his dark eyes, and frowns slightly. The thing is, part of him does really want to try and be nicer to the guy, maybe even try to play at befriending him, but he doesn’t know what to say. Keith is really good at not knowing what to say. It’s part of why he likes being around Shiro so much - he’s almost too easy to talk to, and even easier to not have to say anything to at all. Shiro has that effect on most people, to some extent, Keith is well aware, but he doesn’t mind at all. They’re drift compatible - the whole world knows what they have together is something special, something valuable. Something irreplaceable.

Keith has a lot under his belt, simulator scores and kaiju kills and press tours, but if he were honest, the thing he is proudest of is that, for all the people Shiro knows, Keith might just be the only person who really, really knows him. The fact that it’s mutual isn’t as impressive. Keith is like a stray cat when it comes to most people: you can groom him however you like, but he’ll never stop hissing when you get too close, or drawing blood if you catch him off guard on a bad day.

So yeah, he’d like to make a good impression on this Matt guy, and his dad, (Dr. Samuel “Please, just call me Sam!” Holt, who he can’t bring himself to call anything but Dr. Holt), too, but, well, good impressions are more Shiro’s thing than his. He’s just there to get the job done. Preferably sooner than later. All this standing around biding their time with idle chit-chat like they’re all going to the movies together or something is really wearing at his nerves.

Despite his best attempts to the contrary, Keith finds himself struggling to keep hold of the thread of conversation. Words ebb and flow around him, sounds drowning out language, all blending together. Unable to stay focused, he gives in to the familiar static of his own thoughts, and fixates on a loose thread in his a sleeve instead. When the thread finally pulls free, he lets his attention drift on to blowing a loose strand of jet black hair out of his eyes. Shiro’s always telling him he ought to let him cut it, and he’s probably right, but it’s been like this since they met, and something about that, about the vibrant, tactile memory of that, memory of it coming loose from where he’d tied it back when Shiro knocked him over that first time, sweat-soaked bangs falling heavy in his face, and how it suddenly hadn’t mattered if he could see through it or not, because he could feel Shiro’s movements a second before he made them, could see the slightest change in direction out of the corner of his eye, could almost swear he heard the other man’s heartbeat, in time with his own, something about all of that has kept him from anything more than a light trim ever since. Besides, it didn’t get in the way very often, and it gave his hands something to do when they don’t have anything better to occupy themselves with. When he gets anxious, which he’s found to be happening more and more since their assignment started, Keith always feels better when he has something he can do with his hands.  

He’s almost surprised to discover that Shiro, Matt, and Dr. Holt are still standing next to him a few minutes later, chit-chatting about something or other, something about a mission, maybe this one, maybe not. Keith tries to tune in closely enough to find a way back into their conversation, but it’s too much small talk and too many strangers, so he just stays quiet. Some technician or something jostles past with a crate of something or other, knocking Matt slightly off balance and sending Keith into an instinctive defensive stance. His hands curl into fists and get halfway up before he manages to take a deep breath, and let it go. Next to him, Keith’s body having been pushed just a few inches closer together to his, Shiro lifts a hand, and gently touches his shoulder. Reassurance. Shiro’s hand is gentle, if not soft, warm, and big enough to more or less encompass Keith’s entire shoulder. It lingers for only a few moments before it’s gone again, but it’s enough. Keith sighs quietly, absently wishing Shiro hadn’t been so quick to take his hand away. Life before he enlisted had not been big on small talk and safe crowds. Sometimes, he doubted he’d ever get used to it, and most of the time, he’d say he didn’t even want to.

Dr. Holt is spilling tech-talk about what Keith is sure actually is their mission now, so he pushes down the static that’s swarming in his head and focuses on what he has to say. Most of it’s minutia that don’t matter to what Keith is there to do. He’d been hoping for something that might be helpful to know about escorting Dr. Holt and his crew, but instead Keith listens to him describe the new machines they’ve built and acquired to measure tectonic activity on the fly, or record the high frequency vibrations of multi-level water currents and upwellings, and so on. All the technobabble fades together within a few sentences, and while Keith had paid attention better than some in his tech classes at the Academy, most of it still goes right over his head. He can’t help but smile noting a telltale vacancy in Shiro’s expression. When Shiro notices him looking, his smile broadens, and he raises a single eyebrow, almost imperceptibly. Some of the tension eases out of Keith’s shoulders, and he realises, only as he goes to return the smile with a slight one of his own, that he’s been clenching his jaw. It’s Matt who finally steers his father away from them, casting an apologetic backwards glance their way, and suggesting they go check on the supplies.

“Dr. Holt is the smartest man I’ve ever met,” Shiro tells Keith as soon as the pair are out of earshot, still smiling, his voice soft, his breath warm and tangible on Keith’s skin as he ducks down to speak close to his ear, “but I think he forgets sometimes that makes him a little hard to keep up with. Still, if you catch him at the right time, you really can learn a lot.”

Keith watches Shiro curiously as he turns away from him to watch the Holts merge with another group, comprised mostly of other researchers. There’s a somewhat foreign note to his gaze. Whatever Shiro sees in Dr. Holt, Keith’s pretty sure he’s never seen it in anyone. In a rare moment, Keith doesn’t have a clue what Shiro’s thinking. He opens and closes his fingers a few times, breaking and reforming a loose fist. Shiro’s expression holds for a few more moments, and then dissolves, back to his usual warm, confident nonchalance, but not before Keith realises where he’s seen that look before. It’s something a lot like homesickness. It isn’t something Keith is all that familiar with. Right there, in the Shatterdome, his Shatterdome, with his jaeger and his copilot: it’s the closest Keith’s ever gotten to anywhere feeling like home.

There’s a sudden rush of cold, coastal air through an open door somewhere. Keith shivers in spite of his jacket, and then Shiro’s hand is back on his shoulder, drawing him in against his side. Shiro, Keith learned long ago, always runs hot. Warmth seems to radiate through him from the points where they touch, and Keith lets his eyes close for a minute to just breathe in the moment. Sea salt, cold wind, Shiro’s hand on his shoulder, the taste of machinery turning the air metallic, the feeling of being somewhere he knows he belongs.

Things move quickly after that: Allura Altean, the Vancouver Shatterdome’s chief LOCCENT Officer, calls their names out through the station-wide comm, summoning them to the jaeger deck to suit up and get into their conn-pod. Allura was the daughter of two former rangers, Alfor and Coran Altean, of the old Mark II Jaeger Crystal Tempest. Since their jaeger’s decommissioning, Alfor had retired, but Coran now served as Vancouver’s Marshall, a command he freely shared with his daughter. Though younger than most in her position, there wasn’t a single person in the Vancouver Shatterdome who’d question her authority, nor fail to jump to her defense, no matter the situation. She’d more than proven herself where it counted, and beyond that, she had the incredible ability to make even the lowliest janitorial grunt feel absolutely vital.

It was from Allura as much as from its white-accented exterior and high-reaching sentinel towers that the Vancouver Shatterdome had drawn its nickname: The Castle. Though it had begun as an insult tossed her way by fellow PPDC trainees, Allura had embraced her own nickname: Princess. She wore it like a badge of honour, hurling it back in their faces while carrying it all the way here, to her first command. Keith casts his gaze up, for a moment, past the jaeger docking bay, over the crowds, to where Allura is standing, along with Marshall Coran, and the rest of their team. From so far away, she really did look like a princess, up in her tower.

If the commotion in the docking bay is any indication, the mission is finally about to get underway, with Kerberos Champion set to get a headstart launch on Dr. Holt’s ship. Keith frowns at the floor, kicking the toe of one shoe against the other, waiting for Shiro to finish socialising so they could head up to the floor together. Finally, he does. Shiro takes a final quick moment for goodbyes to the Holts, along with promises that they’ll see each other soon - at sea, and back at base when they’re done - and then they’re off. The rest goes off like clockwork. By now, The Castle is a well-oiled machine.

Once his suit is on, the last of the armour plates snapped and shifted into place, Keith feels his breathing get a little clearer, the pressure in his lungs almost entirely evaporating. Plates and pads press into his skin with a comfortable pressure, forming familiar patterns, and when he moves, it’s smooth, and unburdened. He wears his drivesuit like a second skin.

It doesn’t matter what he might feel like down there, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, listening to diatribes on things he either doesn’t understand, doesn’t care about, or doesn’t want to think about. Up here, with Shiro at his side, the drift already beginning to settle in over them even before the neural handshake is initiated, he feels invincible.

It’s almost impossible not to feel invincible, when you’re in a jaeger.

Almost, but not quite.

---

Powell River PPDC Training Academy and Kaiju Research Facility - Late Night

Lance is restless that night. His head feels like soup made out of jealousy, frustration, and way too many thoughts, all clamouring to be heard. He hadn’t heard about the Breach mission until lunch that day, where he’d just sort of stumbled onto the news as it was bantered around the gossip circuit by trainees and scientists alike. The details were fuzzy, but this much he was sure of: a group of scientists, possibly scientists he had actually seen and almost actually knew, not to mention their support team, was rendezvousing with an actual jaeger at the Vancouver Shatterdome, and the actual jaeger in question was Kerberos Champion. Kerberos was a Mark III Jaeger, known for her agility and creative use of swordplay and hand-to-hand techniques. She’d held her own against the big guns, and come out on top, though: three kills, four assists, and no major damages to date. She was the reason why Lance was in Canada in the first place. Or, more specifically, her pilot was.

Lance had lost family, distant, but still blood, in the Puerto San Jose attack back in May of the previous year, and he’d enlisted in the PPDC, with his sights set on the Jaeger Academy, a month later. The thing that bridged those two events was a single television interview, one he’d happened to catch late one night, not too unlike this one, just a day after the attack. Lance remembered every detail of the static-y broadcast, the flustered reporter stammering over her script, the rubble backdrop still steaming, and there, at the centre of it all, Takashi Shirogane looking right through the camera and straight into Lance’s soul, telling him that anyone could be standing where he was, that anyone could fight back, if they only took the chance to walk out their door and do something about it.

And okay, maybe it was a little embarrassing, but when he was having a particularly rough day, sometimes the only thing that got him through was imagining Shiro there with him, warm encouragements radiating off him like heat from the sun. So what if he’d fantasized once or twice about crushing it so hard at the Academy that Shiro found out who he was and came to meet him. And possibly ask him if he could replace his current copilot, because seriously, Lance had no idea what a guy like Takashi Shirogane could possibly see in a guy like Keith Kogane.

Where Shiro was warm, brave, and open, Keith was cold and caustic, short both in stature and in temper, giving clipped answers, never smiling for the camera. His entire body was about half the size of Shiro’s chest alone. Lance wasn’t sure how he stood upright in a mild wind, let alone piloted a jaeger. He was always messing with his hair, which was ridiculous, I mean, who even has a mullet anymore, or else he was fidgeting with the sleeves on that stupid cropped jacket he always wore, and he never answered anything that he could get away with Shiro answering for him. As far as Lance was concerned, Keith hid behind his partner and his, he had to begrudgingly admit, pretty impressive piloting skills. The guy was a jerk, plain and simple, and Lance was definitely not jealous of him in the least.

No one really knew what Keith had done before joining the Jaeger Program, and he wasn’t exactly eager to tell them. Any questions about his past were deflected, the questioner often dismissed to the point of insult, with Shiro left to clean up Keith’s PR Mess. Naturally, Lance suspected a life of crime. He liked to imagine Keith being caught, preferably for something really dumb, like stealing display armchairs from a department store or something, offered the choice between prison and the Jaeger Program, for, well, some reason or another. That part wasn’t important. It made a good story, anyway, and Lance had told some variation of it to Hunk so many times that the other boy now responded to any mention of Keith’s name with a loud groaning that he refused to stop until Lance did. Sometimes, the stalemate would go on for over a minute. Lance really, really did not like Keith. He was wasting his hour in the spotlight, which in and of itself, in Lance’s eyes, was unforgivable, and he was, as far as Lance was concerned, undoubtedly a dampener on the life of one of his greatest heroes. Frankly, he wasn’t sure which offense he considered the larger one.

Once or twice, mostly at Hunk’s beleaguered bidding, he had briefly contemplated the incontrovertible fact that Shiro and Keith were drift compatible. Logically, there had to be something there, then. Some reason that Shiro could drift with Keith, or even just put up with him from day to day. Maybe Keith was just camera shy (which Lance decided was pathetic, if true). Maybe Keith was sick (which Lance decided was irresponsible, if true). He figured Shiro, at least, would have mentioned if they were childhood friends, and the media would definitely have reported on it if they were, you know, like, together, so that ruled out both of those possible explanations, and they definitely weren’t siblings, even long-lost ones. In the end, Lance had concluded his foray into Keith-sympathizing with an even greater resentment for the guy, and had resolved that from that day onwards, Keith would be his rival. The fact that Keith had no idea who he was, and that Lance was just a trainee still, were facts to worry about later.

---

It’s almost three according to Hunk’s watch (which Lance had “borrowed” a few weeks previous) which means it’s actually about ten minutes past. The only reason Hunk hasn’t pushed too hard on getting it back from him is because, no matter what, the damn thing always seems to be slow. Lance is both too lazy and too opportunist to give it up and just buy himself a new watch already, so he’s gotten pretty decent at just adding ten minutes to whatever time it says, and knowing he’ll be a little off anyway. Either way, with first bell at 0500 the following morning, it is officially way, way too late to be going for a walk. Or at least, he decides, it’s way too late to be going for a walk alone.

Lance rolls out of bed, his sheets sticking to his bare arms slightly in the unseasonal heat, and crosses the room to shake Hunk until he’s conscious, but when he gets there, he realises that Hunk isn’t sleeping either. When he sits up, groggy, but very much awake, Lance notes the redness of his eyes. He really hopes he looks better than that, even if he doesn’t really feel it. “Can’t sleep either, huh buddy,” he offers, settling down next to Hunk on the edge of his cot.

Hunk shakes his head. “It’s too hot,” he says, “which is...” there’s a pause where Lance waits for him to finish yawning, “you know, which is pretty weird, given it’s almost December, and we’re in, uh,” he yawns again.

“Canada?” Lance supplies.

“Right,” Hunk nods. “Canada. We’re in Canada, and we’re on the coast, and it’s November, and I’m sweating. Lance,” he says soberly. “Why am I sweating?”

It occurs to Lance with a certain amount of what he can only call shame, that he is actually too out of it to make a joke at Hunk’s expense over that. On any other day, there’d be a retaliatory light punch in the arm, to get Lance back for such a lowbrow line, and on any other day, there might be a display of mock-agony from Lance, and decrees that he’d been wounded, and then they’d both be laughing themselves into stitches. Whatever is making things hot right now, Lance is going to find it, and he is going to fight it. It is the middle of the night, and he will fight the sun if that is what it turns out he must do. Lance doesn’t even sweat that much, and he’s still sweating way too much.

The cot is creaking under the weight of both of them, straining at its edge, and after a moment, Lance gets up to hunt down a piece of paper he might be able to fold a fan out of. It takes him a few minutes to admit that he has no idea what he’s doing, and Hunk grabs the paper out of his hand to give it a try. He has a working fan within seconds, and even as Hunk uses it to blow some much-needed cold air his direction, Lance’s pout only deepens. He keeps forgetting all the esoteric skills Hunk has that make him absolutely terrific at things no one else would ever bother to get good at. Example of the night: origami. Alternate example of the night: showing Lance up, even in this, his moment of sweaty vulnerability.

It doesn’t take Hunk all too much persuading to skirt curfew just this once and head out of the trainee complex, Lance just ahead of him to make sure the coast is clear and they aren’t about to get in trouble. After all, the pathways outside the complex, leading down the hill towards the coastline, are extra inviting with their relatively cool night air, clouded with light sea spray and scented with the soft, woody aroma of pine needles and beach grass. Lance has to bribe Hunk into coming with him (whatever he wanted to poach from Lance’s tray at the mess hall for the next four days, as well as a pair of new socks that had come in a recent care package from Lance’s parents), but it’s worth it to not have to be alone. Something about the whole night just feels… off.

Outside the complex, the night air is oddly stagnant, heavy, and filled with the sounds of a couple of dogs howling, somewhere across town. Lance wonders what might have set them off, but tries not to dwell on it too much. It is the middle of the night, after all. When the howling stops, the silence that takes its place is abrupt, and oppressive. He hears a cricket try its luck, only to give up again a moment later. It’s a thick silence, one he finds himself uncertain about breaking. Hunk, for his part, doesn’t say anything either. The conversation that passes wordlessly between them consists of scarcely more than a handful of nervous glances in each other's directions, but it’s enough.

Lance stops just a few dozen feet out from the complex. He rubs his eyes, blinks a few times for good measure, and squints up at the sky: it’s overcast, which is typical, but it’s also unmistakably… illuminated. He checks and double-checks the horizon for an early sunrise, but, of course, he doesn’t find one. It takes him a moment of dumbfounded contemplation, and then a low humming sound suddenly fills the air overhead, crossing above the complex, and eventually fading. Moving off towards the water. Both boys tilt their heads to follow the source of the sound, hazy eyes fixed skyward. They’re both a bit addled from sleep deprivation and heat, but there’s no mistaking it.

Out in the distance, over the faintly glowing ocean, the sky is beginning to fill with helicopters.

Chapter Text

10 August 2013

Shirogane Household, Gastown, Vancouver, BC - Mid Afternoon

The first time Takashi Shirogane sees a kaiju, he’s in the kitchen of his parents’ apartment, perched on a bar stool at the counter, his long legs just shy of the ground. He’s watching TV over a bowl of rice while his mother cooks, glancing over at the screen between steps. She’s out of the room, pot left simmering in the stove, mochi maker churning away gently, when the broadcast shifts, abruptly.

At first, Shiro’s pretty sure it’s a prank, and he sets down his chopsticks to grab the remote and check if it’s on any other channels, which it is. In fact, it’s on every channel. Shiro is still flipping through dozens of copycat broadcasts, unable to process what he’s seeing, when his mother gets back, laundry basket on her hip. It takes her a minute to realise what she’s seeing, and when she does, her response is simple, and matter-of-fact. A reporter reads out a death toll while cellphone footage of the creature plays in a small box at the corner of the screen, and Noriko Shirogane reaches out, and unplugs her TV.

It’s about an hour or so later that Shiro finally manages to get out of the apartment. Sitting at a Starbucks down the street, people clamouring about their lives all around him, Shiro reads the news on his iPhone in silence. He taps a video, and then another. Buildings crumble into dust, helicopters and planes are batted from the sky like flies, and everywhere, people are running. The Golden Gate Bridge is ripped from its moorings and drops into the bay, just like in every disaster movie Shiro’s ever heard of. More than one headline is already calling it Judgement Day, but Shiro doesn’t believe in that kind of stuff. No matter how bad things get, there’s always a way to fight it. There has to be.

After a while, he walks home, feeling older than he was when he left. Fitting, maybe, that today is his nineteenth birthday. A chill runs up his spine unbidden as his mind conjures up images of buildings crumpling like tissue paper, streets splitting open, the creature marching forward, bullets rolling off its back like it doesn’t even know they’re there, and he wonders, if only for a moment, if he’ll ever have another birthday after this one. He shakes the thought out of his head as quickly as it comes. He just isn’t a Doomsday kind of person.

Sometime later, Shiro looks back on that day with an odd kind of clarity, like the before and after photos in all the infomercials he grew up watching: in the first picture, he’s still a kid, in the second, he’s a ranger. It’s like his life has two distinct acts, with a firm line down the middle by way of an intermission. It would be easy enough to draw that line at his enlistment, but he doesn’t. He draws it right there, walking home, his mind swimming with grainy, frantic clips of Trespasser bursting from the water into the already crumbling streets of San Francisco.

It would be two years before the first jaeger successfully fended off a kaiju attack, and almost another five before he found himself in his own jaeger, but some part of him was a ranger from the moment the world needed him to be. Some part of him always would be, even after it didn’t anymore. That was just the kind of person Shiro was.

---

20 November 2019

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, off the Canadian Coastline - Evening

They’ve been walking for an hour or two now, and Shiro can feel Keith’s anxiety humming in his chest as if it were his own, and even though he doesn’t have to, he wants to say something. He knows Keith feels that, and he knows he doesn’t want him to worry, so he doesn’t, not exactly. What he is is concerned, about Keith and about the mission, and about the Holts and the rest of their team down in their vessel, but he isn’t worried. It’s not in his nature.

More for Keith’s benefit than his own, he opts to sift through his memories for something to take their minds off of things. Not that he’s usually one for distractions, but this is a special case. Most missions have them charging right into action - this one, according to plan, has no action at all. Usually the adrenaline takes over, and usually they’re flowing through the moves, barely, if ever, pausing in their combat dance to exchange any words out loud. Usually, there’s just no room for that restless, doubting, nagging static energy to get into their heads the way it is now, because they’re too busy being two halves of a whole, too busy feeling complete, and powerful, and completely unstoppable. Neither of them are used to slogging through the ocean after a tiny submarine for action-less hours on end, and it’s definitely getting to them.

The thing is, they’re not even going all the way up to the Breach. Their destination is some sort of a vein, leyline, or fissure, a concentration of some kind of energy that seems to be spilling out from the Breach. The first reports on it, and almost all they have to go off of, is that it’s been messing with shipping routes all across the Pacific, causing erratic behaviour in tides, wave patterns, and thermodynamics. Dr. Holt, Sam, has a few theories about what the nature of the disturbance might be, but he has to get a little closer to test them out. At one point, Shiro heard him refer to it as a mini-Breach, but when he’d asked about it, Sam had assured him it was only one of several possibilities. Which was why they had to find out which one it was. If they had the resources to march all the way out to the Breach itself, Shiro has no doubt that Sam would take it, but that trip could take weeks, and a lot more funding than Powell River has to spare right now. They have this fancy, high speed submarine that they’re in right now, which allows them to go farther than they would in a normal vessel, but it still has limits.

Shiro pushes musings about their mission out of his head, feeling Keith’s restlessness like a static drone in his head, and shifts his mind towards a better memory. He feels the Drift seem to ripple slightly, ebbing and flowing around them, and then he lets his mind settle on a memory of the two of them together, waves crashing around Kerberos Champion’s feet, the first kaiju they ever fought (dubbed Canary, in dubious honour of the DC superheroine, Black Canary, for the supersonic screeching it emitted) falling to their sword. The memory washes over them both, and they can feel the fresh air on their faces as they climb out of the conn-pod, hear the cheering as they return to base as heroes. Keith’s memory adds the feeling of Alfor’s hand, warm and encouraging, on his back, and the sound of his voice, telling him he’d done well, and he was proud of him. Somewhere a little farther off, Allura is shouting, and Shiro hears his own laugh echo in his head before the memory fades into a sort of background hum. He feels Keith’s smile before he turns his head to actually take it in. Pulling things into the Drift like this isn’t common, he knows, but by now it’s just as natural for the two of them to communicating that way, through shared raw sensation and emotion, as it is to communicate through words. It might even be a little more natural.

Shiro knows it’s especially freeing for Keith, who has always had a hard time expressing himself clearly out loud. Here, in the Drift, he doesn’t have to bother: thoughts are clear, and even emotions make sense, and Shiro absorbs them all. There are things they don’t talk about, things that stay in the Drift, and there are things they might take out of it. Either way, whatever the science might say on the matter, they both know that the Drift doesn’t stay in their jaeger anymore. Sometimes, when they spar, it bleeds through. Keith always asks Shiro to join him in the training rooms when something’s bothering him: it’s easier than trying to talk it out in their quarters. More nights than not these days, they find themselves wandering through each other's dreams.

It’s common knowledge that jaeger pilots often begin to mirror each other’s body language, pick up vocal and physical tics, and other small aspects of each other, but there’s more to it than that. Shiro suspects that most pilots prefer to keep the bleed-through to themselves. A lot of a ranger’s life is under scrutiny and celebrity, but it’s easy enough to lie, to keep your answers short and showman-like, to give the people what they want and not much more. Rangers are rockstar heroes, confident and daring and fearless, ready to face the apocalypse head-on and then smile for the camera with its blood on their hands and a witty one-liner on their lips. The Drift just doesn’t fit into that picture; it’s quiet and intimate and vulnerable, and all too easy to get lost in, so of course they don’t talk about it. You don’t go around telling everyone that you believe in magic, you just do.

Keith’s mind is wandering slightly, back to that morning. He’s wondering if he made an alright impression on Matt, and while it’s obvious he didn’t mean to dwell on it with Shiro in his head, he doesn’t make any attempt to think about something else to cover it up. There are no secrets in the Drift, and no excuses between the two of them. Shiro conjures up memories of Matt’s awkward days in Jaeger Academy, his transfer to the Powell River Research Facility, his own expression of nervousness about the impression he’d made on Keith, and Keith relaxes. They’ll figure it out. He isn’t great at people, but Shiro is, and he doesn’t mind, and he’s there for him.

The Drift is peaceful, and the endless night sky around them is full of stars, glittering and reflecting light off the waves. If Shiro could pick one moment to live in forever, he thinks he might pick this one. Gazing up at the moon, he feels Keith’s face warm to a soft smile, and he knows he’s thinking the same thing.

---

23 April 2015

Kaiju Emergency Shelter, Downtown Eastside, Vancouver, BC

The first time Takashi Shirogane sees a kaiju in person, it’s already dead. He watches the fight later, watches it over and over again, studying Karloff, the monster, and Brawler Yukon, its adversary, as they grapple for the all too familiar coastline. He watches a building at UBC that he’d taken classes in the previous semester practically crack in two when Karloff backs Yukon into it, watches a support plane be knocked out of the sky by one of its claws and crash land in English Bay. He remembers the way everything shook, the way dust fell from the ceiling, the way the lights flickered. He remembers the way his mother kept her face pressed against his father’s chest, so no one would see her fear. He remembers the little girl standing next to him, clinging to his arm so hard that her nails left marks in his skin when she finally let go.

It was dark in the shelter. The emergency lights gave off a cool, unnatural bluish glow that made all of the refugees look like ghosts. There were even a few times where the lights gave out entirely, bathing the crowd in an impenetrable blackness, before flickering back to life several minutes later. The kaiju shelters were built to take a beating, but they were built fast, so certain corners had been cut. Besides, the wealthier inhabitants of the city had all either moved further inland, or had their own shelters, some personal, some with small, elite memberships who paid for the privilege of safety. Everyone had heard stories of what could happen in the public shelters when people got too scared.

By then, scientists had developed equipment that could monitor the Breach, giving the world some warning when a new kaiju was on its way. There was plenty left to fine-tune, of course, and they still knew next to nothing about the creatures, each of which was entirely unique. It had been almost six months since the last attack, and almost another six before that one. Sometimes, Shiro had found it hard to believe that it had only been two years: the world had grown around the kaiju, like a scar over a bullet that hadn’t been removed. They knew the pattern, and to some degree, they had accepted it. Twice a year, cities fell. But maybe they didn’t have to.

Shiro had already left his apartment that morning, school bag slung over his shoulder, travel mug of tea in hand, waiting to catch a bus, when the sirens had gone off. He remembers feeling the blood draining from his face at the sound - one he’d only ever heard on TV. It had taken him a minute to get his bearings, to try and remember where the nearest shelter was. He had no idea how soon the attack might be, or what direction the kaiju might be coming from, and his mind was swimming with hypotheticals, desperately trying to figure out the best way to safety. Ultimately, he settled on sprinting the entire way back home, pulling out his phone on the way to call his parents and let them know he was coming back to meet them. Wherever they went, they could at least go there together. He had hoped they would have enough time for that, at least.

They had been waiting outside the apartment for him when he got there, looking pale and drained, but relieved to see him. His mother reached up to touch his face, just for a moment, as if she was making sure he was really there. Shiro had smiled at her in a way he hoped was reassuring, and starts detailing the plan he’d come up with on the way, pausing to defer to the both of them when he realises he’s telling them what to do. His father, a small, good-natured man, looked somewhat dazed, and his mother seemed like a kettle just about to boil - neither of them had minded that he had a better head in a crisis than they did.

All around them, the city was in chaos. Traffic stacked up within minutes, and people poured out of their cars just as quickly as they had gotten into them, leaving the streets clogged with empty vehicles. People moved erratically, shoving past each other, shouting to be heard above the sirens and the crowds. Everywhere, people were on their cellphones, desperately trying to track down their families and loved ones, to find a place to go, a route to take, a place to meet. Shiro had taken his mother’s hand, and steeled himself to fight their way through the crowd. Whatever else happened, however long the attack lasted, and whatever was left of the city when it was done, Shiro would do whatever it took to make sure his parents were there to see the end of it.

When they reached the nearest shelter, the doors had already closed. A police officer in full riot gear informed the crowd that the shelter was one of the smaller ones, and that it was already at more than 100% capacity. Rather than stick around to argue like some of the other people had, Shiro had forced an opening in the crowd, helping his parents through it. It was several blocks to the next shelter, and despite the number of people already safe underground, the streets seemed just as full as they had before. Maybe even fuller. Shiro had ignored the headache starting to throb inside his skull from all the shouting and wailing of sirens. They didn’t have too much further to go.

A wave of relief had washed over him as they approached the first of the Downtown Eastside’s two massive kaiju shelters. It was a neighbourhood known, amongst other things, for its large homeless population, and Shiro remembered reading that they’d had more space available because of it - shelters that were already shelters, and only needed to be reinforced, not built from scratch. It had meant that the shelter might not be the best in town, but it was there, and its doors were still open, and that was all Shiro needed just then.

His parents had followed him in, and the three of them were pushed through a long, sloping hallway, underground, into a large, concrete room. Tracklights lined the low ceiling, giving off an electric whine that did nothing to alleviate his headache. Wall to wall and shoulder to shoulder, hundreds of people were packed in so tight that every stranger could feel another’s heartbeat. Not long after, he had heard the thick doors shut and seal with a heavy sound that echoed down the hallway and into the shelter itself. All around him, people had stopped trying to move, and stopped trying to speak. A thick silence had fallen over the crowd like a fog. There was nothing left for them but to wait, and to hope.

When the first tremor had shaken the shelter, the sickly blue lights flickered for a moment, and Shiro had felt something latch onto him. Looking down at his side, he found himself looking at a young girl, maybe six or seven at most, eyes wide and lips wobbling, straining to keep in tears. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there. Carefully, his eyes flicked around the crowd nearby, trying to figure out if anyone that he could see looked like they might be her parents. He had found nothing, even after he’d asked her who she had come to the shelter with. She had told him that she had come with her brother, but somewhere in the commotion, the two had been separated. Shiro smiled warmly down at her, and cautiously placed a protective hand on her shoulder. She had leaned into him, her expression one of timid bravery. “I’ll be your big brother until we can find your real one, alright?” he had told her, and she nodded. “No matter what happens, I’ll keep you safe.”

The hours they spent there had seemed to stretch on for days. Mostly, the shelter had kept an anxious silence, only stirring into noise and movement when the room around them would shake or the lights would flicker. The few times that they lost light entirely, many voices raised, some frantic, some attempting to maintain the calm, others begging to be let out, suddenly struck with the thought that this vast, concrete chamber might easily become a mass tomb.

Through it all, Shiro had held on close to the little girl at his side. At one point, two, or maybe three, it was impossible to tell, hours in, she tugged at his shirt to capture his attention. She was tired, worn out from running to the shelter, and from searching for her brother in the crowd after she’d been lost. Careful not to jostle the others around them too much, Shiro bent down, and lifted her into his arms, letting her lean against him, her face nestled into his shoulder. She was heavy, and after a while, he began to lose feeling in his arms from holding her for so long. Shiro ignored his discomfort, keeping her there, cradled against his chest, until she woke on her own, startled awake by one of the larger tremors.

When the shelter doors finally opened many hours later, it had taken several anxious minutes for the people within to begin their evacuation; no one knowing what they might see when they emerged. After all, before that day, fighting a kaiju had been a terrifying, multi-day endeavour that left behind poisoned, broken landscapes. Trespasser had destroyed three cities before it had fallen; ecologists suspected that the land around Manila would take hundreds of years to recover from the noxious remnants of Hundun. The wealthy fled as far as they could from any city that was under threat of kaiju, knowing it might not be there to return to when the attack was over.

Shiro had hung back, holding the girl, whose name he has discovered was Hana, close to keep her safe from the crowd as it had begun to rush out. He had waved his parents on ahead, telling them he’d meet them outside - he needed to help Hana find her brother, and didn’t want her to be jostled too much in the commotion that was sure to follow as people pushed to get out. Still within the shelter chamber, he heard people gasping, some crying or shouting, but he couldn’t see what they were seeing just yet. Lifting Hana up higher to help her look for her brother in the crowd, he began to pick out what people are saying: they had launched a jaeger, and it had won. The kaiju was dead in the bay; the city had been saved.

As the crowd had begun to thin out, draining from the shelter back into the streets, Hana suddenly perked up in his arms, raising a small hand to point towards the hall. “Brother!” she yelled, almost giggling with what Shiro assumed to be relief. She turned back to him, a contagious smile on her face. “I can see him!”

“Alright,” Shiro said, smiling back at her. “Let’s go get you home.” Hana beamed, bouncing slightly, and then gesturing to be put down. He had helped her to her feet, and then gently taken her hand. “I told you I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?” he said, and she nodded, still smiling.

When they reached her brother, a man Shiro judges to be roughly his own age, in the crowd, he had almost bursts into tears. Hana’s brother leaned down and swept her off her feet, spinning her around in a hug, pressing kisses to her forehead and chubby cheeks until she protested, then turn to Shiro to thank him. The three of them left the shelter together, and parted ways outside, blinking in the sun. Hana hadn’t stopped waving to Shiro until the pair had finally turned a corner, and disappeared out of sight.

Seven months later, Shiro enrolls in the newly established Jaeger Academy. When he gets on the plane that will take him north, to Kodiak Island, where the Academy is, his mother waves goodbye to him from the gate until he can’t see her anymore.

Almost three years later, he finally sets foot in a jaeger - his jaeger - for the first time. He feels his memories flow over him and through him like ocean currents, then feels them intertwine with Keith’s, and he feels his new partner move through them. When he looks back after that, some part of Keith is there too - in the airport, in the shelter. On K-Day, watching grainy videos of Trespasser on his iPhone. He knows it’s the same the other way around too, that some part of Shiro must be in Keith’s memories. He remembers the look on Hana’s face as she reunited with her brother, and emerged into a city that had been saved by a jaeger, and he shares that memory with Keith too, as strongly as he can, this time, and every time after. He repeats the memory like a mantra: this is why we fight. This is why we win. This is why the world needs us. Now let’s get out there and kick this kaiju’s big, glowing ass.

---

20 November 2019

Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean - Twenty Minutes ‘Til Midnight

When they finally reach their destination, Keith is so submerged in the Drift that he almost jumps when Dr. Holt’s voice comes through their comm. He doesn’t, of course, because Shiro is there to temper him and keep his actions deliberate, but that doesn’t stop Shiro from flashing him a wry grin. Have a nice nap? he thinks in Keith’s direction. Keith pictures that one time that Shiro got drenched by a sudden wave that had come up over the top of the tide pools they’d been visiting on one of their rare days off, and Shiro laughs, out loud.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Holt sounds confused.

“Sorry, Sam,” Shiro replies, “just a little joke between rangers. You have our full attention now.”

“Ah, you two were speaking through the Drift just now, then.” Dr. Holt’s voice is glowing with interest. Keith forgets sometimes how strange the concept can be to others. He makes a mental note to take a little time after the mission to talk to Dr. Holt about it. He figures he’d appreciate that, and he’s still worried about leaving a decent impression on the Holts. They seem like good people, and more importantly, Shiro treats them almost like family. It isn’t that he feel obligated - Keith certainly isn’t known for putting a lot of effort into appearances - it’s that he genuinely cares. He hadn’t really until he saw the way Shiro was around them.

Dr. Holt explains that his team is going to descend all the way to the ocean floor, a trip which should take roughly an hour, as the spot they’re in had been chosen for its relative shallowness as well as the strength of its energy readings. Once there, they’re going to take a series of data samples on things Keith mostly doesn’t quite understand, and then they’re going to come back up, running a few more scans on their way to the surface. They’re testing things like temperature and current, as well as examining the ocean floor itself to see if they find what the source of the disturbances is.

Matt takes over the comm for a few minutes while his dad moves off to oversee some procedure related to their descent, less to talk science stuff, it seems, and more to just talk. He’s sounds like he’s been just as bored the last few hours as they have, if not more. “So does today come out of your vacation days?” he says, evidently a lot more confident in conversation now that he’s in his element. Keith hasn’t been inside the research sub, and he doubts it looks at all like he imagines, but that doesn’t stop him from picturing Matt decked out like a mad scientist - lab coat, goggles, maybe a beaker of something in hand for good measure. Shiro mentally corrects him that even mad scientists have field work outfits. Keith has to stop himself from laughing at the image Shiro conjures up: lab coat over wetsuit. He’ll add that to the list of things he won’t mention when trying to make a good impression on Matt later.

“Wait, the kaiju are giving us paid vacation time now?” Shiro says to Matt. “I’ll have to be sure to thank them.”

Matt’s laugh is soft, and a little awkward, but it’s nice. “You probably missed the memo because it was all written in kaiju,” he replies.

“That’s probably it,” Shiro agrees wryly. “It always was my worst subject back at the Academy.”

“You’re better at punching them than talking to them.”

“Well, I guess that must be why I’m in the giant kaiju-punching robot and you’re not, then,” Shiro jokes. Matt doesn’t seem to mind, so Keith figures it’s not a sore spot. Plenty of people go to Jaeger Academy who don’t actually intend to become rangers. There’s a whole lot more involved in fighting the kaiju than just piloting jaegers, after all.

“We mostly stab them, anyway,” Keith adds. There’s a bit of an awkward pause, and he almost regrets saying anything. Matt and Shiro bantered together so easily that it had made him forget why he tended to keep his own additions to himself. He just wasn’t good at small talk, and he had a habit of making jokes that no one else realised were jokes. Though, to be fair, he misses a lot of other people’s jokes too.

“What?” Matt says.

“Mostly we stab them,” Keith repeats. “We have a really, really big sword.”

Another moment passes, and then Matt is laughing again. Keith isn’t sure he meant for it to be a joke - they do, in fact, have a really, really big sword - but he is pretty sure that Matt is laughing at him in the good way, so he’s willing to take it. Shiro is chuckling softly too, and when Keith looks over, he can see his eyes sparkling through his helmet screen. Matt’s right - they should be taking today out of their vacation time. Not that they actually have vacation time. Obviously. He’s pretty sure the kaiju don’t even have a language, anyway.

Dr. Holt returns a few minutes later, calling Matt away and cutting their conversation short, for which Keith is less relieved than he would have thought he’d be. He’s actually starting to feel like maybe they could actually get along just fine after all, at least so long as Shiro was there with them to keep things from getting awkward, the way they always are when Keith is alone with anyone else. Maybe it’s just his inability to understand how anyone could just be comfortable around people, but he thinks maybe Matt is a little like him. At least, as far as dealing with people is concerned; Matt acts comfortable around Shiro, and Keith is in Shiro’s head, or he’s by Shiro’s side, so he’s an extension of that comfort zone. In any case, that’s basically what Keith feels about Matt. So when Matt says they’ll pick up where they left off later, on the trip home, Keith actually means it when he tells him he’s looking forward to it.

---

The first sign that something’s wrong is when Shiro tries to patch through to the Shatterdome, to give a routine update to LOCCENT mission control and let them know things seem to be proceeding on schedule.

“Something must be interfering with the long-range radio transmitters,” he explains to Matt and Dr. Holt a minute later. “We’re just getting static. You guys can give it a shot, but I doubt you’ll get a better signal than we can from up here.” His theory is proven within seconds, and Keith hears someone swear.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Dr. Holt reassures them, though his voice seems a little bit shaky to Keith. “It’s probably interference from the fissure. After all, electromagnetic irregularities are one of the things we are here to study.” He laughs, but it dies in his throat pretty quickly. Then he’s back to work, assuring them he’ll patch back through to them in a minute after he tries a few more tricks to reach mission control.

Shiro glances over at Keith as discomfort rolls over both of their psyches like a light fog. “Maybe you should think about packing it up early, Sam,” Shiro says once Dr. Holt gets back. “Take what you’ve collected so far and let us help you get home safe. We don’t know what’s down there.”

“Precisely!” Dr. Holt retorts. Then he sighs, resigned. “You’re probably right. I’ll tell my people we’re going home. We’ll get everything in order, and be in contact again as soon as our equipment is ready to go. Give me ten minutes,” he adds, sounding defeated. Keith knows it’s the right call, but a part of him understands what Dr. Holt is saying - this is why they’re here, and they don’t have any proof that whatever’s cut off their long-range radio is anything dangerous. Of course, they don’t have any proof that it isn’t either, but that’s why Dr. Holt and his team didn’t come alone. I’m not letting anything happen to them, Shiro thinks pointedly. Something feels off, and I know I’m not the only one here that’s bothered by it; I’m in your head.

You don’t really have to remind me, Keith responds dryly. We are having a psychic conversation right now, you know.

He feels Shiro smile, barely there, but enough. You love it, he says. Keith doesn’t see the point in responding to that. It’s not like he can argue.

The second sign that something’s wrong is that it takes Dr. Holt half an hour to get back to them, and when he does, he’s frantic, babbling something about strange readings and needing to leave as soon as they can. Keith can hear Matt with him, trying to talk him down, but he doesn’t sound especially calm either. Nothing Dr. Holt is saying makes a lot of sense, and Keith is straining to pick out his words when they start to be consumed by static.

“Sam!” Shiro calls out, and Keith can tell from the way his voice goes level and commanding, almost detached if you listen close enough, that he’s actually shaken. He can feel him shifting firmly into hero mode, tucking his vulnerabilities away behind a thick armour in a way that Keith has never gotten the hang of. When Keith wants to fight his fear, he pushes himself further into the Drift and lets it go, scattering into the cracks between a million different memories in pieces so small they may as well not exist anymore. In here, he knows how to get that serene strength that Shiro so naturally slips into when he needs to. Outside, he mostly keeps things from getting under his skin by keeping himself prickly and hot, guarded and quiet and easy to anger. He’s been in the habit of getting angry instead of scared ever since he can remember.

They haven’t had line of sight with the science team’s vessel for a while since its descent now, and they hadn’t planned for losing the comms. Looking back, Keith has to wonder why. It seems like a pretty obvious oversight, given the communication disturbances ships had been reporting in the area they’d mapped the fissure to. Shiro is fumbling with a control panel, trying to sharpen Dr. Holt’s signal, but it’s no use. There’s only one thing left to make sure they haven’t lost them.

Shiro’s face is determined, his strong jaw set firmly. “You ready to go swimming?” he asks.

Keith gives him what he hopes is a confident smile. “It is a beautiful night for it,” he says, and he’s right. In spite of it all, the stars are still shining, and the water is still peaceful, though it doesn’t stay that way for very long. The two of them take a last moment to appreciate the night, and then they make the dive.

“I guess the vacation’s over,” Shiro remarks.

The waves part around them, and Keith imagines the surface as it disappears over them and Kerberos Champion swims downwards, searching the water for the science team’s vessel so they can retrieve it and help them all get home. He can’t help but think about the way the waves would grow steadily calmer, until there was no trace that they were underneath them. He can’t help but think about just how vast the sea is. Ever since his first step in a jaeger, it’s the only thing but the stars that can make him feel small anymore.

The current around them seems strange, murky and erratic, and even when the switch on Champion’s front lights, they can’t see too far ahead of them. I’m here, Shiro is thinking, less in words than in feelings, in something not translatable outside the Drift, and Keith is thinking the same things in return.

They finally get the vessel within their sights, and cautious relief settles over them. It doesn’t last.

---

The third and final sign that something is wrong comes as they turn east, homeward bound, the vessel gripped firmly but gently in one of Champion’s massive hands. They still can’t get through to the team on their comms, but they can get them home like this. It’ll be a bumpy ride, but a safe one. Once they’re out of the area of effect of the fissure, they’ll let them operate on their own again, and they’ll be sure to make verbal contact again as soon as they can. Keith stops holding his breath. It’s incredible how quickly things can change.

Three things happen almost simultaneously. First, Matt’s voice, marred by static but still discernable, makes its garbled way out of the comm. Keith can’t quite make out what he’s saying, and neither can Shiro, but between the two of them, they agree that he swears at least three times, and asks what’s going on twice. Thinking that it might be them interfering with the signal now, they release the vessel to its own autonomy once more, letting it rest on the sea’s surface, half-submerged. Second, when they try to answer, Champion’s internal AI system interrupts them, informing them that they must manually activate the conn-pod’s coolant release system, to prevent overheating. Overheating? Keith thinks. In the middle of the night in the ocean? He barely has time to reach out and set up the activation, let alone to wonder why he has to, before he notices the the last thing: from somewhere under the water, an unearthly light is growing brighter by the second. He notices, with a weight dropping through his entire body, that it looks just like the bioluminescence characteristic of the kaiju. The light’s colour is an objectively beautiful one, but it isn’t one he’s fond of anymore. It’s kaiju blue: the colour of death.

“Matt?” Shiro’s stoic mask has all but dissolved, and his voice is raised, desperate. “Matt, can you hear me?”

The comm crackles and whines, and Keith catches one, maybe two words, nothing he can string together, and then it gives out to static again. To his right, he can feel Shiro fighting down a murmur of panic as it creeps up inside him. They don’t have time to waste on fear or worry. They’re rangers, and rangers aren’t afraid of anything. Only, if that were really true, there wouldn’t be a need for rangers in the first place: without fear of the kaiju, they wouldn’t have a reason to fight them so damn hard. Keith lets his fear in on a deep breath, and lets it back out again as he exhales, dispersing it into the Drift like dandelion fluff.

All around them, the waves are starting to grow bigger, and to move strangely. They aren’t flowing all in one direction, aren’t following a tide. The eerie light from below makes them look like crystal formations, their sparkling edges jagged where they beat against Champion’s sides. Keith realises he can’t see the science team’s vessel anymore, and, with Shiro, he casts his gaze around them until they find it, bobbing wildly on the waves, and being drawn, unmistakably, in a circle. It’s a whirlpool, Keith realises, and it’s beginning to draw them in too.

Memories bounce unbidden through the Drift, no doubt brought on by the stress they’re under, and he fights his rising panic off to keep from letting any one of them dig its claws too deeply into him. They’re miles and miles away from the Shatterdome: now would be a uniquely bad time for them to wind up off program, or worse, desynchronised. He catches a glimpse of Shiro in a high school English class, his hair cut too short, intent on the notes he’s taking, and Keith can’t help but wonder why that’s the memory that keeps pulling at him, but then he hears Shiro’s voice in his head as he says, Charybdis. We were doing the Odyssey. She’s a sea monster. Keith sucked at English in school, but he remembers now, if only because Shiro does. Charybdis: the great whirlpool. He lets the memory go, and so does Shiro. They know better than to chase the rabbit.

They lose sight of the science team’s vessel a moment later, and Shiro’s composure is almost completely gone. He wants to find them, needs to find them, refuses to leave them behind, and Keith is trying to tell him that they need to get out of the whirlpool. Charybdis, he reminds him, we can’t lose ourselves here, but Shiro isn’t really listening. His own thoughts come unbidden, the Drift working its way into places they’d both gotten good at keeping it out of for the most part; they never bring their fears into the Drift, but they’re here now, and Keith can’t keep himself from thinking, I can’t lose you, Shiro, please, we have to get out of here. He refuses to admit that it’s already too late.

Memories from their childhoods race through the Drift like pictures in a flip-book. He’s heard of your life flashing before your eyes when you die, but somehow, he doesn’t think anyone ever imagined it like this. It isn’t just his life he’s seeing, anyway. He sees - feels - Shiro’s first baseball game, first cello recital, his seventh birthday, his fourteenth birthday, first dates and last dates and bad days and good days. He runs through memories he’s been in a thousand times, and ones he’s never seen before, and he knows Shiro is doing the same in his own memories.

Shiro is there in Keith’s first foster home, and he’s there in his second, and in every one after that until they gave up on finding a family who might actually take him. He’s there every time Keith ran away, and every time he got caught and dragged back again, to nowhere he’d ever call home, and he’s by his side at every fight he ever got in. He’s there in Keith’s bedroom at the group home the day his first binder came in the mail, anxiously ripping the packaging open and running to admire his silhouette in the bathroom mirror.

Meanwhile, Keith is there as his mother bathes a young Shiro in the tub of their cozy Gastown apartment, singing folk songs to him in Japanese. He’s there the day he graduated high school and got sick drinking too much cheap beer at a friend’s graduation party. And he’s there with him in that shelter under the streets of the neighbourhood Keith grew up in, holding that little girl, the day Karloff attacked Vancouver. Just as Shiro is there with him, somewhere on the other side of it, struggling to breathe as he has a panic attack, wedged between unsympathetic strangers. He still can’t believe they were both there that day, breathing the same stagnant air, sharing the same anxious heartbeat. He holds onto that memory for a moment longer than any of the others: they had survived together years before they’d ever met. He isn’t about to let that history go to waste. Somehow, they’re going to survive together again. They just can’t die like this, dragged down by something that they can’t even fight. It isn’t supposed to end like this.

Waves crest all the way over the top of Champion’s head, submerging them completely, and all around them, the water is brilliant with that same piercing light. It’s everywhere now, reflected through every ripple and stream of bubbles that are upwelling and swirling around them, dragging them down to the ocean’s floor. Static screams out of the comm suddenly, and Keith swears he makes out Matt’s voice for a second before the sound deafens him. Champion’s systems go haywire, everything Keith can think to reach for shutting down just as he gets to it. The last thing Keith remembers is Shiro’s heartbeat hammering in his head as the light envelops them, and Shiro’s voice, echoing through every atom of him: I can’t lose you either.

There aren’t words for the kind of quiet that follows.