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Luxkie II was a planet of mint green and pale sand with baby blue water, a paradise dream vacation to anyone rich enough for a resort or whatever rich people did on islands.
Not that Luxkie II had resorts. Or rich people, planetside anyway. Or most of that mint-green grass anymore, not after a few dozen Titan pedes had tramped all over the soft, untouched land and turned it into ash-coated, blood-stuck tilled soil. Jack knew which blood-painted soil footprints were BT’s because the IMC grunts underneath them during the first day of fighting had almost made him throw up.
Seeing a human body crushed under BT’s foot is… not comfortable. It makes a strangely loud squishy noise, not one that was overly pleasant to hear repeatedly. Jack didn’t like that noise, it made his fucking skin crawl, like scraping nails on an unsealed windscreen.
Plus BT had almost died on the last day. Again. And the whole time he’s transported to the repair bay (with his datacore held in Jack’s jittery, shaking hand) Jack can’t think, can’t focus, can’t do anything. He makes it to debriefing with the dull ringing of bombs still in his ears, voices overlapping a million times like feedback through a bad comm-
“Cooper!” Briggs’ voice is demanding, loud, fucking deafening, but it cut right through the muted whine and the thud of a hammer behind his eyes.
“Y-yes, ma’am.” He snaps up in response, eyes wide and trying to relax, trying to focus. He felt like someone had coldclocked him, absolutely, horribly off center.
She stares at him for a long, studious moment. There’s something in her gaze, analysis or calculation or something that says she’s studying him, before she nods. “Report on the central battle.”
“For the fifth time.” He hears someone mutter behind him and winces before Briggs whips toward the pilot (Letterman, if he remembers by the voice) with a glare.
“Can it.” She orders coldly, then turns back to Jack. “Cooper, central battle.”
“I… I was in the dropship with squad Four-Seven-Niner,” He says, all too fast. Way too fast. He sounded crazy, manic, God stop please. “we d-dropped on the central part of the eastern battlefield without immediate Titan assistance,” Breathe, keep going. “and committed to clearing a path for the other Pilots and Titans as our backup.”
His voice gets stuck at that point and (why, nothing’s even fucking wrong, it was a fine battle, we won, it’s over, I’m fine, BT’s fine, it’s all fucking fine.) Four-Seven-Niner’s lead picks it up. “It was a challenging forward strike, but we managed to drive the wedge into their lines before their Titans dropped.” She says, all firm and poise, talking slowly and steadily in a way that makes it perfectly clear what happened. “After that, we took to more of a defensive strategy, intending to keep the lead until the rest of the squads arrived. This… did not go as well as we hoped,”
At her words, the whole group scoffs slightly or laughs, because that is a contender for the understatement of the century.
“They had dropped two Ions and a Legion very quickly, practically on top of us. We had to scramble for evasion before Cooper, Fafnir, and Hassim’s Titans were dropped, and the rest of the squads caught up with us.” She gestures to the three of them, and Cooper wants to sink through the floor.
The memory of BT burning through the atmosphere and crushing the Legion under terminal velocity shield instantly returned to him, remembering the joy and victory he felt in the moment BT had opened up, before it was ruthlessly crushed by the instantaneous light and burn of an Ion’s core streaking across BT’s shoulder and front (close to the datacore, too fucking close) as he snapped closed and tried to find cover to avoid further damage that cut across his chassis.
Jack had screamed, turning his Archer on the Ion instantly and fired shot after shot as fast as he could reload them, before the Ion had been pounced by the twin Ronin and Northstar team from the 6-4.
BT had not found excellent cover, and good portions of his chassis had been blackened or melted . His right arm wasn’t mobile at the shoulder, the cockpit had been melted shut, his radio didn’t sound right, BT’s voice didn’t sound right, staticy and broken and stuttering and the side of his optic casing was cracked and Jack was going to fucking lose it-
“-ooper had managed to keep the last Ion distracted, but FAL-6284, BT-7274, and AC-0092 had been heavily damaged. Echo team managed to get them back, where they could provide rear support.” Four Seven Niner is saying, but Jack swears she has a name. She did tell him it, but what is it? He wants to ask, but that’s not good in a fucking debrief, plus that implies he forgot, and what does that make him other than a terrible person not worth paying attention to and God fucking damnit, Cooper, buck up and stop freaking out.
Briggs clears her throat and Jack grips the table to keep himself from jumping. “Alright. FAL, BT, and AC are in repair bay right now?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Then it doesn’t seem like we have much more to talk about. Ceris, Malian, Gordon, stay here, we can discuss future moves. The rest of you, hit the showers.” Briggs orders, her voice firm and yet, oddly comforting. Ceris, that was her name, Ceris, right, she told me, she totally did. Jack thinks as he turns stiffly to follow the others, before Briggs turns and says, “Cooper, c’mere.”
He freezes and shuffles back over to her, trying to focus on her fully, but he feels like his attention is broken. It’s piecing together shattered glass but the pieces keep cutting his hands and doesn’t that sound poetic, kinda embarrassing.
She takes a long look at him and he can’t tell what she wants. Did he fuck up something beyond the briefing? Is she just gonna leave him in this rut while staring at him as his heartrate went higher and higher, anxiety rising in his throat and he really, really, wants to scream.
“Go get a meal, Cooper.” She says, jolting him back, and that’s… that’s it. “Something warm to drink, yeah? I’ll see you down there soon.”
And with that, she turns back to the table and lets him be.
He blinks, because that’s all, Commander? before walking off in a daze. His fingers are flicking at his side, because he doesn’t have BT’s core anymore, and oh God is he ok?
Forcibly, he reminds himself that BT’s core is in the repair bay with the MRVNs and engineers and he’s just offline for recovery, he’s fine. They made it out of the fight, Echo squad saved their asses, it’s fine. It’s all fucking fine.
“Coop!” Davis’ voice is low and insistent, but it brings his focus back around. And considering how absolutely terrible his attention span is right now, Jack’s willing to take whatever he can grab onto. “Join us for dinner?” He asks from the end of the hall, gesturing into the mess.
And well, Briggs did tell him to get a meal, right?
He nods and heads forward, keeping his right hand on the wall just for stability. It’s reassuring in some way, that the wall doesn’t shift when he touches it, but it also makes him keep moving toward Davis.
“Coop, you good?” Davis asks when Jack holds the door for a couple seconds longer than is normal. Longer than he should. “What’s up man?”
“N-nothing.” He stammers immediately, shoving off the frame and stumbling into the mess hall behind Davis, just a few steps of uncertainty before smoothing out. It’s a rolling motion, one that settles into a pattern that could turn into a leaping jump any second.
Stupid as it is to think of it, it’s his Pilot-walk. Every Pilot does it eventually, or so Lastimosa had said. After it all, he was glad that it happened. Kinda felt as if he had made it, or something like that.
That sounds dumb.
It had sounded dumb when Lastimosa said it too. Maybe that was why he died. Saying dumb things to save one dumb person’s ass. Jack shouldn’t’ve made it off that fucking planet, and he shouldn’t’ve left Lastimosa’s body behind. No real burial. Just an explosion and a dead planet.
Should be a ship’s news headline, Jack thinks blandly. ’Area Man Most Disrespectful Pilot and Student, Mentor Back from Dead Exclusively to be Disappointed in Person.’
“So, Coop, what do ya’ think?” Davis asks, dragging Jack’s focus back into the conversation just as they arrive at the table, the 6-4 table.
There’s a second where Jack tries (really, he does) to go back through his memories and figure out what Davis was asking him about, but nothing comes up. So instead he says, “Sorry, I… sorta zoned out for a minute. What was that?”
Because really, what else was he supposed to say? ‘Sorry I was thinking about my dead mentor who I took’s position while being in no way prepared for that position? Now I’ve got so much to tell him but I can’t because oh guess what, he’s dead! My bad, I totally forgot I was having a conversation!’
Yeah, no.
He still totally catches the look of concern that Gates fires between him and then to Bear.
“The gauntlet contest!”
Gauntlet contest. Jack thinks blankly, because, ok, sure. There’s a contest now? Shit, he hadn’t run that fucking thing since Typhon, since Lastimosa, since- can I please stop fucking spiraling sometime today, thank you!
At what must be his best blank stare, Davis groans. “We planned it like, last week! See who could get the fastest time.”
Then he remembers, because yeah, he had mentioned that. Wait, if it’s Tuesday, then…
“That’s tonight.”
“Hell yeah, Coop!” Davis must have taken his remembering tone for excitement, because his voice is a cheer. It’s too loud in Jack’s humble opinion, but whatever. He can beat his skull into a wall later, though. “It’s in like, three hours! Gates is gonna let us use the extra pods to get everyone’s time.”
Gates turns toward Bear slightly, muttering, “Did I say that?” At his nod, she turns back and mumbles, “right...”
“Three hours, in the training hall?” He asks, as confirmation. Because he remembers this now, remembers being damn excited for it, remembers training for it. God he feels hazy. Is this what being drugged feels like?
“Cooper!”
And that’s one more voice talking to him, one more noise, and he really, really fucking wants to scream. Can he please hear one (one) coherent thought out of his useless mashed-potato brain without someone fucking interrupting for three fucking seconds-
“Cooper, eat something.” Briggs says, setting a tray in front of him. It’s got a weirdly pale stew and a slice of honest to God bread from one of the colonies, which would be absolutely delicious and immediately devoured if Jack didn’t feel like his stomach was full of rocks. “Swore I told you to eat a meal, Goddamn.” She murmurs, then shoves in next to Gates. “Move.”
“Ask nicely.” Gates says instantly, but allows herself to be scooted over to make room. “Don’t step on my feet, Briggs.”
“Don’t put your feet under mine, Gates.” Briggs responds, prompting Droz and Bear to do the, ‘I’m rolling my eyes but gesturing also so you know I’m exasperated’ move, while Davis reaches over to snag Jack’s bread.
Any other day he would object to it, but he doesn’t really want to eat, and food shouldn’t go to waste.
“Davis, don’t steal Cooper’s food.” Gates admonishes, voice firm and parental. Briefly, Jack wonders how much of the ‘family’ comment is real or a running joke, because Gates acts like their mom all the time. “You had your own.”
“Aw…”
Jack opens his mouth, makes a half-hearted squeak, before clearing his throat and continuing, “It’s ok, I’m… not really hungry.”
Gates gives him another odd, concerned look while Davis takes the bread, then she picks the empty coffee mug off Jack’s tray, gets up, and walks off.
He takes a minute to stare after her, before nudging his tray out of the way and laying his arms on the table. Tired as he is, he’s hoping for just a few extra seconds of nobody talking to him, and he hopes that adopting the ‘Nobody Talk to Me’ pose of ‘I’m Going to Nap on This Table’ will get some results.
Even if he looks like a child not wanting to talk to the family at dinner.
Sleep is still a pretty messy thing for Jack. On-off, even when BT’s there to reassure him and keep him stable. But BT’s not there, the link’s on but not active and Jack just wants his brain to stop spinning is that too much to ask?
He figures he’s excused for his actions when something warm and smooth brushes his knuckles, and he pulls up to see Gates holding his mug out to him. “Drink that.” She instructs, and he takes the mug and a sip without even thinking. Damn, she really is team mom.
It’s made from one of those powder packages, lemon-flavouring and fake sweetness, but it’s comforting and warm and Jack feels slightly more alive with even the first mouthful. “Thanks.” He murmurs at her, and she settles back in next to Briggs with a nod, while Davis and Bear start discussing the merits of frag grenades and arc grenades in the gauntlet.
Davis and Bear’s conversation (which settles exactly nothing) and a finished mug of tea later, and Jack feels alright enough to drag his (now breadless) tray back over and try the stew. It’s lukewarm and not exactly flavourful (and everything tastes like ash to Jack right now but that’s not a problem) but it’s still food and the tea reminded him that he is hungry.
“I better see those frags in action.” Davis says as he gets up, dragging Droz and Gates’ trays over to his and stacking them up. “If I don’t I’m gonna shove an arc up your ass.”
“You can try.” Bear rumbles as he grabs his own tray, Briggs’, and Jack’s now empty one.
Davis tips his head slightly. “I can and I will. I think it’d hurt, no?”
“Depends on if you’re into electrostimulation.”
The expression that Droz makes is instant and practiced, exasperation and dry tolerance brought to it’s natural limit before he says, “Stop the measuring contest, prove it later,” as he gets up.
“I did say they could use the sim pods?” Gates mutters again, this time at Briggs, who nods sagely. “…I have got to stop letting them ask me for things when I’m sleep deprived.”
“Yes, but then where would Vasquez get the footage for their weekly fail reels?” Davis chirps, and trots off with his brother following behind.
Gates whips around instantly. “You tell Vasquez they’re not as funny as they think they are!”
“I’ll let ‘em know!”
Jack can’t help the slight grin on his face at that. He’s not as comfortable as the other SRS are with each other yet (he’s an intruder, an imposter, he can’t replace Lastimosa and he totally feels like that’s what he’s trying to do. They always look at him like he’s the odd one out, he never has anything to add to the discussion, it’s terrifying) but the 6-4 are like this constantly.
It’s… oddly pleasant to witness. Refreshing, to the weird side eyes of the SRS and the distant awe and cool respect from the grunts and field commanders. It makes him feel normal again.
Well… it makes him feel Before-Typhon again.
“Coop.” Briggs once again jerks him to awareness, and he focuses as best he can to her. She’s his commander, even if she treats him casually most days. Another thing that makes him feel normal. “Go check on BT before the contest. Engineering report says all three of the Titans in repair should be online soon. Not repaired, but online.”
The words take a second to register, then he gets to his feet, stammers, “Y-yes ma’am, thank you!” and darts.
He’s halfway across the ship when BT comes back in a dizzying wave. He means it literally, because Jack staggers to the side and drops to his knees as the frighteningly dark (not empty, he always has to remind himself that it’s not empty, just dark, BT is sleeping, not gone) space in his head returns to colour and light and existence and-
“Cooper?”
“Hey.”
The word comes out hoarse and choked off as Jack uses the wall to drag himself upright. It rips at his throat because BT is back, and this is relief in the worst way. Relief that pulls him open and sets all his insides out, relief that takes too much oxygen and too much brain space, leaving no room to actually do anything else. He’s personally amazed he stays breathing.
“Cooper, your stress levels have fluctuated significantly, are you sure you are alr-”
“‘m ok, BT.” He says, waving a hand in front of him like BT’s right there, like the gesture matters, like this is a conversation he’s not having over comms. “Just… glad you’re back.”
BT is silent for an extra moment, and Jack takes the half-second of ‘ok, put thoughts back together’ to push fully upright and start toward the repair bay again. “I am glad to be back as well, Cooper.” He states, tone slower than normal but so many millions of times better than silence.
“Yeah, I…” Jack drops off, not knowing what else to say, before continuing with, “I’ll be in the repair bay soon. Just… Just gotta not get lost.” Again, his brain reminds. Not the first time Jack’s forgotten where the damn Titan repair bay and Pilot area are in the stupid ship.
He’s still not used to going there regularly, or being allowed in at all.
Inevitably, he takes a wrong turn and has to backtrack, but he makes it to the Titan repair bay. Though the confusion of location definitely doesn’t make him feel less twisted up and bent over backward, the sight of BT moving and active does.
“Cooper.” BT chirps the instant that he rounds the corner and enters the area properly, heading to the Titan without hesitation. “Was debriefing effective?”
“It was fine, BT.” Jack chuckles, even as he walks over and sets a hand on BT’s leg and uses it to ground himself. It’s a heavy sensation, simultaneously being punched in the gut and wrapped up in a blanket, a comfort and an impact. BT’s fine. Jack’s fine. It’s all fucking fine.
Briefly, Jack wonders if he’s been overusing that word.
“Are you certain, Cooper?” BT asks, because he always knows when Jack has anything going on. “Your vitals indicate that you may have been in distress.”
“Just…” Jack sighs, glancing to the side before leaning forward and resting his forehead on BT’s leg. “I’m fine now.” He corrects, because it’s more accurate.
BT doesn’t respond to that, but his optic cycles through in what Jack takes to be a nod. Rather than offering further conversation, Jack settles down on the concrete, leaned against BT’s pede, and relaxes his head against the Titan’s leg. It’s quiet, easy, and he honestly wants to take the time he has to nap. “What is your plan for the evening, Cooper?”
“Uh,” Jack has to actively come back online for the third (fourth? Why is he counting?) time that day, and rubs his face. “um, supper. Gauntlet contest. That’s… it, I’m pretty sure.” He says, scrubbing his eyes and settling out again by rolling his shoulders against the metal. BT doesn’t move, letting him try to soften the plating through shuffling.
Comfortable, metal is not. Comforting, BT’s presence is.
“Would you prefer to rest in the cockpit?” BT inquires, even though an engineer glares at him for asking.
Taking that as a, ‘you’re not repaired enough yet, Titan’, Jack shakes his head. “I’m alright here. I’ll just take a nap.” He hums, because if being a rifleman taught him anything - beyond being good with a dozen different weapons - it’s how to sleep anywhere.
“I will wake you when it’s time for the gauntlet contest.”
Patting BT’s leg slightly in thanks, Jack settles against the mildly warm metal, zips his jacket all the way up (still can’t get out of that practice) and shuts his eyes.
“Jack…”
BT’s voice is soft and calm, a brush against his consciousness that slowly drags him to awareness.
“Pilot, it’s dinner.” BT says, and Jack groans as the sensation of ‘awake’ hit him fully. His nap had not reduced the oncoming headache (now the present headache) or the vague sense of weight in the back of his head.
Groaning, Jack flicks one eye open and instantly winces at the assault of light from the Titan bay. “Mnghh…” He groans out, turning his head away. “Turn th’ l‘ght ‘ff, BT…”
“Jack, it’s halfway through dinner. And the gauntlet contest is in an hour.”
“Mnoh.” He responds, tipping his head under his arm and fully intending to go back to sleep.
Silence for a while.
“…Jack?”
“Ffffine.” He groans out while pushing upright, because speaking is tiring and he’s tired and he wants to go back to sleep. “…’m up. Wh’ts for food?” He slurs through a yawn, feeling his jaw crack and simultaneously, the headache ripple through his skull. Rubbing his eyes, he sighs and leans his shoulder on BT. There’s a blanket pooling on his lap that wasn’t there before, and he briefly plays it through his fingers before looking up at BT’s optic.
The black shutters click closed momentarily, a concentrated blink, before BT says, “According to the alert, supper is some type of stew. No specific flavour given, though it contains indigenous foods to Luxkie II.”
And appetite gone. Excellent. “…I’m uh, fine, actually.” Jack says, rubbing his temples and trying to eliminate the pain that radiates from somewhere above his throat and behind his eyes. “Just want some water.”
BT makes a noise like the grind of metal and a grumble at once. “You need to eat, pilot.”
Jack thinks about food (yum) and about stew (normally pretty yum) and about Luxkie II and the squishy noise. The very specific squishy noise. Hard no.
“I’ll… yeah. I’ll get something, BT. Just… maybe not the stew?” He gets out slowly. He can be honest with BT - it's hard not to be when the two of them practically live against their link - but it’s still difficult to get out of the ‘I’m fine’ habit.
He can tell when his words, the slow-growth headache, and particularly uncomfortable gut-squeeze feeling get to BT, because the Titan resigns. “There are granola bars.” He says, and Jack wants to laugh (if it wouldn’t hurt his head more) at the utter disdain that BT holds and seems to have always held for granola bars.
“Thanks.” Jack hums, getting to his feet slowly. Each movement feels like un-oiled joints, a grind to shift into a normal stance, and remove his suddenly-too-heavy helmet from his head. His face feels sticky, his hair is flat and greasy, and he kinda wants a shower.
“Enjoy the gauntlet contest, Cooper. I will see you in the morning.”
“What, you going to bed early?” He asks with a chuckle as he whips out his hair, temporarily ignoring the spike of pain and vertigo.
BT shifts with a whirring and light thud. “Yes. ‘Beat their ass’, Pilot.”
Despite the spike of hurt it causes, Jack laughs at the statement, then folds the blanket and heads toward the hallway. He can get a granola bar or two, maybe an acetaminophen, before the gauntlet contest.
The door of the sim pod hisses when he pulls the lever to shut it, slumping back in the seat with a groan. Getting granola bars and medication had been nothing short of a disaster, and Jack had been suffering through the consequences of trying to ‘swim upstream’ during the mid-dinner rush for nearly an hour.
“Fuck…” He mutters, not yet turning on the sim pod, just enjoying the silence of the enclosed space. It’s quiet and soft, and for a brief moment, he considers catching up on that nap that was interrupted.
Then a hand knocks on the front door of the pod, and Davis’ voice calls through with, “You ready to rock in there, Coop?”
“Yeah!” He returns hoarsely, shaking his head out to focus. “C’mon, Jack, c’mon…” He mutters to himself, trying to get his head in the game before they go into VR.
“Alright, Pilots!” Davis’ voice echoes into the internal speakers of the pod as Jack does his best to centre his attention. “Welcome to the Gauntlet Contest, and have we got a new one for ya! This gauntlet is courtesy of Sim Tech Austin Lee, and based on the design of this I’m pretty sure he hates us all.”
The green lights flick on in cascade, scanning over Jack even as he winces slightly away, avoiding the initial flare. He shuts his eyes, sighing softly, and decides to relax in the few seconds of load up.
Meanwhile, Davis continues. “Par time is seventy seconds with twelve enemies eliminated, that’s right, one minute and ten seconds to make Lee’s court our bitch!”
“Davis!”
“What!? I didn’t say anything wrong!”
A crackling, then a flash of light and Jack stumbles forward into the virtual world of the training sim, dropping to his knees with a soft gasp. He shoots to his feet as fast as he dares, hoping for the vertigo to subside fast enough that he can just brush it off and pretend like he’s perfectly awake.
“Coop, over here!” Davis chirps from the side as the pilots start sparkling into the sim, confident in their multicoloured armours, customized personally.
Jack still has his red suit, and Lastimosa’s old helmet. He’s also the only SRS Pilot (that he knows of) in the contest. While he had asked, Briggs had refused on grounds of ‘I have work to do, Cooper’, and he didn’t know enough of the others to feel like he could ask them.
Social anxiety had been bad enough talking to people when he had been a rifleman, but in the Pilot’s breakroom? Yikes.
The Pilot’s room does have better (likely stolen) chairs though. So that’s a plus.
He walks over slowly, hands wrapped in his straps, and looks around for the barest semblance of an idea at what he’s getting into. It’s a fairly typical Glitch area for training, except this one is all glass and stone, open space with grass and sky.
With a surprisingly painful shake of his head (it’s getting worse) he moves forward and lines up with the rest of the Pilots.
They’re all holding with loosely restrained tension, like dogs at the ends of their lines, waiting to be released to the new gauntlet. It’s something Jack never participated in before, and if he happened to be feeling any better, it’d be damn exciting.
“Alright Pilots, how are we feeling tonight?” Davis calls as he trots out of the side, arms up like he’s ramping a crowd. Considering that the two dozen or more Pilots react with jumps from foot to foot, light whoops and at least one or two jumpkit assisted leaps into the air, he’s perfectly in the right to do so.
The energy in the waiting area (a round space similar in design to the first gauntlet room he was ever in, except with only one exit and a completely open roof) was akin to a gathering storm. Nobody in the room can seem to sit still, and despite himself and how absolutely shit he’s feeling, Jack starts bouncing slightly. It’s infectious and rabid, the sensation of excitement and anticipation spreading through him like wildfire.
Davis laughs at the encouragement. “Excellent! Now, before we start, some rules and regulations.” A groan from the waiting crowd. “Yeah I know, I know.” He taps some buttons on his wrist and the arsenal poles slide into place. “So, how today works. First run is gonna be no weapons, no nades, no timer, just all of you taking a good sprint through the course to get a hold on the path and the style. Try not to shove anyone into the dirt. Then we’re gonna do solo timed trials with weapons, no grenade boost. We’ve got anything on the wall, and no, don’t go looking for an EPG, I already asked, as mentioned, Lee hates us. If we get through those fast enough - looking at you, Jace - we’ll play some competitive live runs. Sound good?”
Someone’s metal foot hit the floor with a thud. “Get on with it!!!” They shout a second later, and the whooping from the crowd grows instantly, several people firing pistols at the sky.
“Hey hey!” Droz is the one who barks them to attention this time, quieting the group. Jack takes the time to notice the older Pilots (Lastimosa’s age, he thinks) that have arrived are standing a bit to the back and side, giving the others the space to be the pile of unrestrained kids they apparently are. “Settle down!”
“Let us go!”
“Fine, fine!” Pulling up his own wrist buttons, Droz puts on what has to be his playlist. “Davis, you running today?”
“Like you aren’t? Pile in, everyone!” Davis calls, and Jack finds himself pushed forward, to the second row in the middle of the Pilot pack. “Alright, when I start it, we run as a group, get a feel for the course. You ready?”
Jack whips his head side to side, completely out of his depth, as Davis shouts a call for ‘go’ and the shoving at his back is immediate. He swallows as they force the group forward, before leaping into the first jump that goes from starter platform to curved wall.
It takes the first two turns on nearly full circle walls followed by a sharp dive to a lower wall for Jack to realize, Yeah, Lee totally despises us, as he follows the other Pilots. He’s not the fastest, not by far, but he holds to the middle of the pack as much as he can.
Another high leap, slide over a ridge, dive straight. Single jumpkit leap, slide under the low bar or go over it. Leap, leap, run into slide into wall run, and done.
It was a fast course. Of course, it’s a little easier when you don’t have to shoot anything, but also a little harder when you were dodging other people’s arms, jumpkit backblasts, and feet. Jack feels at least three people’s various body parts pile on top of him when they slide into the waiting room again, and that was before another two sets of feet (at least) hit his back or side.
And considering how absolutely dogshit the course run had made him feel (running never felt this bad, even with like… blood loss) he genuinely considered laying flat and just letting them trample him.
“Alright, alright, get off the greenies ya animals-“ Droz grumbles, and tugs someone’s squirming body off his. “Cooper, Howl, get up, you’re not dead.”
Jack rolls over and gets up slowly, testing his movement for bruises (only in sim, but they still hurt) as Droz gestures them forward. “Alright, Davis has taken the initiative of putting us in a… what kind of order is this?” He asks, gesturing the piece of paper at his brother while Bear looks over his shoulder with his head cocked.
“It’s based on basic training gauntlet times! Fastest first! Change up the order each time?” Davis gestures widely, and the group half sighs while the other half nods to him in agreement.
Droz sighs, then waves a beckoning hand to one of the veteran Pilots. His name tag says Meijer, in a faint orange and violet Holo Pilot suit. “You first. Get goin’.” He orders, and then turns to the group. “Plisetsky! You’re up next!”
“I’m coming.” Replies a senior Pilot with a strange, hybridized helmet. Their suit’s mostly black, but the faintly coloured visor gives them a less ‘shadow in the corner’ look. They lean back slightly, a casual but still powerful pose with their hands on their hip straps, nodding to Droz before coming forward to take a peek at the page of names.
Sitting down, Jack figures that he has some time to wait. He’s not the fastest of Pilots, so a good portion of the others will go first, and he has time to get his mind back from the first run.
When Meijer skids in, Jack lifts his head and watches as the timer locks in with 30.25, twelve targets hit, and an 80% accuracy. Droz whistles in an impressed tone before nodding Plisetsky forward. They take off with a leaping first jump, darting around the curve and out of sight while Droz calls, “Helix!” with a very specific gesture, as if to better catch attention.
A Pulse blade Pilot trots forward with a pleasant wave, her teal-green-gold outfit surprisingly noticeable in the wood tones and marble of the training sim, standing at the ready with her arms folded casually against her chest. “Here!” She chirps as Droz steps closer with a nod.
“You’re up, get ready.”
When Plisetsky skates in with an effortless slide, Droz nods Helix out, and she darts away with a snap movement.
“Takahashi, Varsenfell, rock paper scissors for who goes first. You two tied last round.”
A sim pilot, grey and teal-blue with a long scarf, steps forward next to a burgundy and grey Pulse Blade pilot, the two sort of shuffling closer before doing the instructed game. Takahashi - who wins - waves a prosthetic hand to the other before stepping forward, waiting for Helix’s seamless slide into the room. The instant that she slips through, he’s gone.
Jack drops his head down again, resting the lip of his helmet against his knee and shutting his eyes. As disorienting and weird as VR is, it’s not bad to sleep in once you’re inside the sim. So he sighs softly and relaxes. He has time to doze before his run.
Jarred awake immediately after though isn’t how he wants to be.
“Cooper, they called you for next.”
A teal-gold boot is on the edge of his vision, nudging his foot slightly, and he looks up to spot Helix. “Th’y… did?”
“Yeah. Right away.” She nods, her orange visor tipping slightly when she spoke. His first thought is that it has to be later than he feels. Jack sighs, shuffling his feet, and Helix offers him a hand that he takes without a thought. Once he’s upright, he gives her a nod of thanks, then heads to the lineup.
While another Militia rookie takes their run, Jack reorients himself with the concept of ‘standing’. Feeling off balance when he’s just about to run through a gauntlet course is bad, but he figures he’s just waking up.
“Cooper, go!”
And Jack runs.
Two full circle turns. Shoot three enemies with the EVA. High leap, shoot one while sliding, dive onto two more. Reload in the air while single jumpkit leap, land into-
And Jack gets the air punched out of him as he runs gut-first into the low-bar, splattered on his back as he goes from top speed to nothing with impact, arms spread to the side. He’s gasping for breath, diaphragm working at lungs that won’t respond, gripping slightly to the stones underneath him as he tries to reconcile ‘moving’ with ‘breathing’.
“Coop? Cooper, you good?” Davis is calling into his comm, and he tries to shove himself into rolling over, but it doesn’t really work. He chooses to stay on his back and relearn breathing.
There’s a hiss of a jumpkit nearby, and Meijer slides next to him with a sim pilot (their armour is signed ‘Janu’) close second. It’s the first time he notices Meijer’s helmet emblem; an SRS Prowler, painted boldly on the side. “Hey kid. Gotcha good, huh?”
Jack nods, because it’s all he can do, as Meijer takes his hand and snakes another under his shoulders to help push him upright. “C-c-”
“Deep breath, kid, as much as you can. We’ll get you out of here.” Meijer says, pulling Jack’s left arm over his shoulder. Jack’s right goes over Janu’s, before Meijer presses ‘reset’ and white fills his vision. His feet hit solid ground as they loaded into the waiting room, still gasping for air.
“You wanna take five and try again, or you wanna get outta here?” Davis asks as he steps over to them, and Jack is grateful for the offered exit. He nods to the second one, and Davis pats his shoulder. “I’ll send you out. Go to sleep early.”
A few taps on his wrist and Jack is shot back into the real world, back into the fading green lights of the sim-pod, back into painful headaches and exhaustion. And gasping still because he still feels like he’s out of air.
Then the door opens and Meijer steps in, reaching up and taking the front of Jack’s suit. He grabs the wrist that’s got him, using it as support as he coughs and wheezes through having his lungs mentally dead and physically fine.
Dragged free, Jack nods his head to Meijer, stumbling against the older Pilot as he’s pulled. “Thanks.” He whispers to him.
Meijer nods, patting his arm, helping him down the hall. “Davis said bed, right?”
“Mmh.” Jack nods, straightening with a cough to take a deeper breath. “Ow…”
“VR damage to real life nothing.” He returns gruffly. “Hard, yeah?”
A moment later, Meijer shoves the door open to allow Jack to nudge through into the barracks. He’s eventually allowed to sit on a bed that Meijer guides him to. “Thanks.” He mumbles quietly, getting to the process of removing his armour.
“Get some rest, kid. I wanna see your best next time, got me?”
“Yessir.” He offers a tired salute, still pulling off the top of his armour before flopping over in bed, not even caring enough to get his suit off. The door shuts behind Meijer, probably gone back off to the training sim, and Jack exhales every ounce of regained air from his lungs. Maybe an early night and a good, full eight hours of sleep, and he’d feel better.
Yeah.
A full night's sleep solved everything.
Jack comes back to himself sobbing.
It’s noiseless. Or maybe it isn’t and he’s just gone deaf, who knows.
He’s in his barracks - Lastimosa’s barracks - and he swears he can feel blood on his hands - not his blood - and his throat’s closed up.
Distantly, he thinks that this feels like that time with the heights and the ship. A panic attack.
This also feels nothing like that.
He woke up in a flop sweat, he knows. He feels fucking disgusting, slimy and moist and his sheets cling to him like- like-
There’s blood on his hands again.
With an aborted, disgusted swallow-groan noise (he feels sick, like someone pulled his guts out and stuffed them back in but put them back wrong) he rubs his face off with the sleeve of his jacket. There’s moisture on his wrist, he realizes, and then comes the realization that he’s in a cold sweat.
He genuinely doesn’t know why they call it a cold sweat. He feels like he’s burning up. He’s back, kneeling on Typhon and he’s covered in dirt, and he’s picking through Luxkie II’s mud with repeated short jumpkit leaps, and he’s- he’s-
He’s fucking dirty. It’s fucking clinging to him. Blood and mud and all the rest of it. God.
So he gets up.
The stumble to the shower is mostly blind. He’s exhausted, he’s overheating in his stupid pilot suit, but he can’t seem to open it up. He feels like he’s ripping in half. Or maybe breaking into pieces. There’s not really a metaphor for this.
And then he blinks and he’s standing in a shower stall. He’s panting, gasping, and he thinks water’s gonna fix that. He turns it on.
It washes the dirtsweatgrimeblood from his pilot suit, from his face, from his hands, but it also… doesn’t. The vision of stains on his hands and knees aren’t real, he knows that, but it doesn’t make them less… vivid. And the water helps, but only to wake him up. It feels like rain. It’s kinda good.
Then he starts crying. He can’t tell what part of his shower is tears and what part is water.
He kneels down, gasping. There’s water running across his face and soaking him to the core, but the blood is still there. It’s Lastimosa’s blood, it always fucking is, and if the man could stop haunting him that’d be great because he buried, he paid his respects, he mourned, but the memory won’t leave him the fuck alone and-
Oh God, he thinks, but from the soft keening noise that’s coming from somewhere (his chest, he realizes after a minute) he probably said it out loud too. He failed Lastimosa.
Fucking… take care of him. Take care of BT, that was all he asked. That was all Jack was asked to do.
And he failed.
He failed twice. He failed spectacularly, BT’s had more near death or actual death experiences than Jack has and that’s saying something. Even today, on fucking Luxkie II, nowhere, nobody and no shits to give, and he nearly died.
‘Take care of him’.
Jack throws up into the shower drain.
“…Ma’am..?”
Sarah wonders what she did to deserve this.
She’s a simple person. She does everything she can and some things she can’t, when she can do them. Her only request is that whatever higher power exists grants her at least four hours of uninterrupted rest, provided nothing is exploding. This is a simple request.
This request is rarely granted, but, at least they try.
This idiot does not sound overly panicked. Nothing is exploding. I should have fucking slept with MOB tonight. She thinks, remembering her Titan’s plaintive look at his request that she sleep near him. He could’ve turned this idiot away. He could’ve ensured that she wouldn’t’ve been woken up.
“Boss?”
But that’s not her lot in life. Her lot is leader.
And leader she will be.
“Y’s..?”
“There’s a… uh… pilot, I think. In the showers.”
She lifts her head. She looks at the clock.
3:17 blinks back at her, almost cheerfully. She considers how much trouble she’d be in if she yelled at him to go the fuck to bed.
A Pilot having a midnight shower is not a leader’s fucking problem, and therefor, not her fucking problem.
“…Deal. With. It.” She growls out, flipping over and laying back down. One more hour. Please, God, one more fucking hour.
“Boss I’m um…” He pauses for a moment, clearing his throat. “I’m pretty sure this is an SRS problem, boss.”
She inhales, gathering her sanity. She exhales, containing the burning rage that makes her want to scream.
And then she rolls over, puts her feet on the floor, and grinds the dirt out of her eyes with the heel of her hand. “…’ll be right out…” She mutters, pulling herself upright.
She has the sense to pull her jacket on over her t-shirt, zipping it up (nobody wants to see your fucking nipples through your shirt at 3 in the morning) and rubbing her face again before opening the door.
Jeremy Zeref is the one looking back at her, in his own rumpled, ‘I was just sleeping’ t-shirt and shorts. He does give her a little blink of surprise though, and she does her best not to be offended. She’s fully fucking aware of the picture she paints, what with her Pilot’s jacket half-zipped over an ancient, oversized One Direction t-shirt (she doesn’t even like the band), her dad’s cargo shorts (belt not worn), and no bandana to hold back her hair. It’s been a bad week, ok?
“…Where?” She growls out. Her voice has turned into a husky, gritty mess of her normal. She’s too tired to care about his opinion. Mentally though, she checks to see if her activity woke MOB up. It has not.
So far.
She does not want to put her Titan back to bed if he wakes up. If he wakes up, she’ll feed Zeref to him. For fun.
Zeref jumps into action, fast. He leads her down toward the first set of showers, the ones at the east end of the ship where the Pilots have their barracks. Closest to the Titan Bay, because Pilots and Titans got anxious when separated by distance.
They pass an open barracks door, which isn’t really weird, so Sarah chooses to ignore it beyond nudging it closed as she walks past.
Getting closer to the showers though, she can definitely hear water running and… another weird noise.
Then Zeref opens the door for her and her overtired, slow-ass brain can finally drag together the realizations of ‘that’s someone crying’ and ‘I think I know who’s barracks door that was’.
“Thanks.” She says, suddenly sounding way less ‘grumpy exhausted bitch’ and way more ‘tired commander’, before slipping inside.
It’s not someone crying, side note, it is chest-wracking, heart-wrenching, gut-pulling sobs. Like someone is actively trying to cry their organs out, interspersed lightly with a high, keening cry of pain. She shuts her eyes.
It’s not the first time she’s dealt with this. It’s never a pleasant thing to deal with. When a new Pilot or a soldier or someone finally breaks for the first time under the stress of a battle or memories or anything else. It’s never pretty.
And she quietly, silently, groundlessly hopes that it’s not who she thinks it is.
Then she rounds the corner into the first stall, and there’s exactly who she thinks it is, but not quite in the same state she thought he’d be in.
Jack Cooper kneeling on the shower floor, in his soaking wet Pilot suit, arms curled around his stomach with his forehead pressed to the floor, sobbing into the floor under an ice cold - formerly lukewarm - shower.
“Oh shit, Cooper…” She mumbles, reaching over and turning the shower off before getting a towel. She kneels on the floor next to him and carefully - very carefully, the last time that she had to do this, Jackson almost dislocated her arm - places a hand on his shoulder.
Cooper flinches, jolting backward so fast he falls over and presses against the wall, eyes wide and terrified.
“Whoa, whoa…” She says slowly, showing her hands, wide and sprayed. “It’s all good, Coop. You’re ok.”
His chest is heaving, still crying despite shivering hard enough to rattle his entire body. He looks absolutely bedraggled. His eyes are red but also have heavy bags under them, and he’s got the glazed, thousand-yard-stare of a man stuck in memories, while also only barely seeing the person in front of him.
So she sits. She sits and she waits for his breathing to slow just a bit, for his eyes to focus slightly more.
“You know where you are?” She asks when she sees him finally make full eye contact.
“…Showers.” He says, teeth chattering.
“Yeah. Cold ass shower.” She agrees, then carefully sidles closer to Cooper. “C’mere. I’ve got a nice warm towel, and we’re gonna go down to the Titan Bay, sound good?”
Cooper’s wide-eyed stare lands on the blue towel, then nods quietly. She comes closer, carefully pulling the towel over Cooper’s shoulders and rubbing them to try and pull some water out of his jacket. He’s freezing, and he tucks in closer to Sarah when she sits next to him. Good. She thinks. He’s aware enough to press into offered warmth.
She grabs the edge of the towel and flips it over his head, rubbing at his hair to try and get the water out of it, even as he sniffles and cries softly into his knees.
For lack of anything better to do beyond try to warm him up, and desperately needing to fill the silence with anything other than Cooper’s crying, Sarah just starts talking. “Just a midnight shower, right? Not that bad. I mean, I’d say choose a warmer temperature next time. That’d be better. Christ knows I’ve had that fucking night, it’s never a fun night. I think my mama had to get me out. But like, it’s a great experience, the midnight shower. Maybe get out of here earlier, though?” He nods slightly to that one. Progress, even though he’s shivering harder now. “Jeez, you really kept cold, didn’t you? How long were you in here for?”
“D-don’t kn-now.” He chatters out, and Sarah does a mental fist pump at the actual response.
“Alright, well, you think you ready to get up? Go see BT?”
Wrong thing to say, apparently, because Cooper goes bolt-pale, then goes back to sobbing.
“Whoa, what’s…” And then she realizes.
Cooper almost lost BT again. And he’s already so close to BT normally. Combined with overexertion, general exhaustion, and battlefield stress of a Pilot?
This little incident has been a long time coming.
“I-I f-failed!” Cooper chokes out, raising his hands in a helpless gesture. “I-I- failed him, an-an-an’ I c-can’t- I can’t keep my promise, i-i’ was his l-last words, I c-can’t-“ And then he drags a hand down his face and covers his mouth, hyperventilating to some degree, and Sarah pulls him into a hug. Because yikes, what the fuck is this based on?
“Shit, Cooper… C’mon. C’mon, it’s ok.”
She manages to get him to his feet and into his room, changed into something not soaked, and down the hall to the Titan bay. He’s still pretty pale and shaky, clutching the towel like a security blanket. By now, MOB had been awake for a while, aware of Sarah’s increasing wakefulness, waiting for her to come to the bay. Cooper’s still staring at nothing, which is bad, but he’s semi-responsive and not shivering quite as hard. That’s good.
The Titan bay is dark, quiet and lifeless aside from a few MRVNs and the green of MOB’s optic. She only turns on the light above BT’s bay, then gestures MOB over. “C’mere, Mo.” She calls, and the Vanguard shifts - surprisingly quiet for his size, but he’s always been quiet - and slides closer to BT, nudging a cot along with him.
She sits Cooper on the floor, forcing him to cross his legs as he stares blankly at the floor, while she sets up his cot. While she’s at it, she gives BT a firm kick in the pede.
He comes online immediately, whipping his optic to glare at her even while she turns away and gets Cooper back up (his feet scrabble for a minute, like he wasn’t certain how to actually put them under him) and sits him on the cot. “BT, you up?”
“I am, Commander Briggs.” He responds, but he’s not looking at her at all. He’s looking at Cooper, who’s shaking and holding a damp towel around his shoulders like it’s a blanket and he’s four. “What happened?”
“I was kinda hoping you could tell me.” She says, sitting next to Cooper and pulling him close to her, keeping her arm around his back. He curls in like a kid. It would be adorable, if he wasn’t still shaking and sniffling softly. “Found him in the showers. Cold as ice. Can y’ tell me what happened today?”
BT considers that, then says, “I was badly damaged, close to my datacore, by an Ion.”
“...Fuck’n’ failed.” Cooper mutters, and Sarah rocks him slightly. Like her mom used to.
“What did you fail, Pilot?”
A pause, while Cooper gathers himself.
“...Lastimosa.” He finally chokes out, crying slightly again and turning his face into Sarah’s shoulder. She can feel his entire little sinuous, new-Pilot body shaking with the force of withheld sobs. “H-he said… he said to t-take care…” He continues into her shoulder, after a while of crying silently. “'Take c-care of him'.”
Sarah glances up at BT. His optic, always crystalline gemstone blue, narrows slightly on her, then on Cooper.
She nods to him. Titans are great, and he can sooth a lot through a link, but sometimes a good old-fashioned hug, maybe a Pilot Pile if it’s around, sometimes human contact is really needed.
Cooper cries himself to sleep on her shoulder, snoring softly into her jacket and against her neck. He’s pretty cute while he’s asleep - the same way a puppy is - and she quietly settles back, onto the cot.
“Are you alright in that position, Commander?” BT asks, because he’s not an idiot and is aware of how this looks. Cooper, laid out unconscious (barely sleep anymore, he’s out out) next to her, on a tiny cot.
“Yeah, I’m good.” She sighs, leaning back. It’s like, nearly five AM. First shift would be coming in soon. She had maybe another hour for sleep. Maybe. “I’ll stick around.”
At least Cooper was warm. Personal heat pack.
Jack wakes up to light on his face. Very natural light. Very non-fake-fluorescent light.
He wakes up in the Titan bay, with a headache from stuffy sinuses (the specific feeling of stuffiness that only comes from crying) and his eyes half glued shut.
He also wakes up cuddling his Commander.
He yelps, flails, and falls off the cot he had not realized he was on.
“C'per?” Briggs groans out, sitting up blearily. “Jesus fuck, avoid the kicking in the shins…” She mutters, twisting to stand.
“Was… were…”
“Don’t overthink things. Once I finally induct you to the rest of the SRS properly, you’ll get used to this.”
Getting used to cuddling my superior officer? He wants to scream.
“C’mon, up.” She calls, offering him a hand. He takes it and stands. “You feelin’ better? Do you remember last night?”
That’s two questions, and neither of which answer his own. Feeling better compared to what? What happened-
The memories (or at least the ones he actually has. Those begin with the flop-sweat and end with throwing up in the shower) come back, and he slumps slightly.
Briggs grabs his shoulder and pulls him into a firm hug. “You know you didn’t fail, yeah?”
“...Kinda did.”
“Bullshit. Tell me who’s bay we’re standing in.”
He glances back and spots BT, optic smiling at them. He’s perfectly clean, perfectly buffed, and fixed.
“...BT’s.”
“Yeah. He’s cleaned up, right? All fixed up?”
Jack nods into her shoulder.
“Good. Then you didn’t fail. BT’s taken care of.” She says, and pats his back. He pulls back a second later. “Take the day off training. We’re in transit anyway.” She murmurs and lightly pushes him so he’s forced to sit back on the cot. “Get some extra sleep in. And uh…” She pauses, then looks around the busy Titan bay. It has to be well past 7, Jack realizes. “...we’ll get the SRS together soon. It’s past damn time, to be honest. Got a new member. Some old members to drink to.” She nods, like she’s mentally confirming these facts to herself. “Yeah. Talk to your Titan. Sleep.”
Then she gives him a two-finger wave and picks an abandoned towel off the floor before slipping out of the room like she wasn’t even there.
Jack stares after her for a minute, then turns toward BT. He feels a little silly when he reaches up to the Titan, asking to come in, but he fortunately doesn’t hesitate to scoop Jack inside.
It’s warm, easy, to just exist in BT’s space. Mentally, he’s reviewing the last… however many hours of memory. None of it’s very clear or pleasant, especially through the lens of a headache.
”If it makes you feel any better, I miss Lastimosa as well.” BT says quietly, and Jack scoffs.
“You probably miss him more, if I’m being honest.” He replies, then rocks his head against the side of the cockpit. “...Is it stupid to get hung up on that?” He asks, leaning back slightly. He’s got one knee hooked over an armrest, sitting like an asshole, and asking vague questions.
At least BT seems to understand. ”No, Cooper. I don’t believe it’s ‘stupid’.”
“Gotcha.” He sighs, shutting his eyes.
“...The cot would likely be more comfortable.” BT reminds.
Jack inhales deeply and takes in the feeling of BT, the warmth of the cockpit, and the distant, faded scent of Lastimosa’s damn cigars (he’s never getting rid of that smell), and shakes his head. “...It’s just fine in here, BT.”
A pause, then BT settles comfortably in the link, like a bird fluffing all the feathers and sitting down. ”If you say so, Cooper.”
And Jack relaxes, presses back into the link, and rests.