Ask the Freelancers

York had expected to get partnered with Carolina. 

Well. Maybe expected is the wrong word. Wanted. He likes her, and, as far as he can tell, the feeling is mutual. Or she’s really good at tolerating him.

Then neural handshake simulation stats come back and he wilts. Their connection is shaky at best. She gets partnered with someone else.

North is the next best thing, but he’s more compatible with his twin, and that takes priority.

So York is just… partnerless for awhile. 

And then Texas arrives.

He doesn’t really know what to make of her, at first. She certainly doesn’t act like a rookie. Maybe they picked her up from some other branch of the military, because she doesn’t seem the slightest bit discomforted by life in the Mother of Invention. She’s got this dry, easy humor—not quite the jokester York is, but she goes along with his bits more often than not, and it feels like she’s joining more than tolerating.

They run a sim together.  And they crush it. 

— 

Theta Sanguinea sings.

South loves it. She loves the strength, the invincibility of it all, the knowledge that she’ll never be powerless again.

North is slightly more… measured in his admiration. She can tell he nearly as obsessed as she is—doesn’t even need the drift to tell, not when she’s had a lifetime of experience reading him. 

There are days, though, where he shows it.

Like when they react on instinct, throwing up their dome shield and blocking acid spit, and then open a gap just wide enough to slam their blade into the belly of a Kaiju, and North howls.

Their expressions are mirrored, teeth bared and eyes wide, and they feel powerful.

— 

According to official records, Gamma Sinensis rarely sees combat. It is, supposedly, largely defunct and outdated.

Its pilots would disagree.

“Good morning, Reggie!” Florida chirps. “You’re looking absolutely peachy on this fine day.”

“Butch,” Wyoming says dryly. “Energetic as ever.” Florida is awfully chipper for someone who’s probably sweat through his undersuit three times over, and also holding a trainee in a chokehold with his legs. 

Wyoming drums his fingers against his thigh, and his partner’s eyes brighten. 

“I’ll be right along,” Florida says, finally releasing the wheezing cadet and letting them crawl to join the ranks of a dozen other red-faced rookies.

He’s halfway down the hall by the time Butch catches up, tugging his hair loose from the long braid as his eyes crinkle.

“Where to?” he asks, running his hands through his hair, and Wyoming hands a datapad.

Florida’s smile turns sharp.

— 

Proditor Delta, they call it. 

“It’s equipped with self-repairing nano-tech that will patch any superficial to moderate damage to the hull,” the Counselor explains calmly. He pauses. “Perhaps,” he says, “nanotech is misleading. Bots, perhaps.”

York watches as geometric bots scuttle across the Jaeger, the shape shifting as it sets itself in place to fill a misshapen hole. Neat. 

“So why us, specifically?” he asks. “I mean, wouldn’t be more useful for one of the more active teams?” “Proditor Delta has a… unique weapon loadout,” Price replies delicately.

“Explosive whip-flail,” 479’er supplies helpfully. “And rocket punches.”

Tex lets out a low whistle. Price makes a faint, vaguely displeased sound, and Niner winces and fades into the background.

—

Holo Striker is… different. “Ran outta Greek letters,” York comments jokingly, and CT shakes her head. 

Beside her, Wash tilts his head, looking pensive. “It’s… kinda small?” he manages. 

“It’s not the size that matters,” North quips, “it’s how you—”

He only barely dodges the kick that South sends his way, chuckling softly. 

— 

Felix stares up at the Jaeger, head cocked contemplatively.

“We could steal it,” he offers, and Locus scoffs.

But then Felix turns to face him, and he’s got that look in his eyes. “I want to steal it,” he declares.

Within the hour, Disgraziata Fortuna is theirs.

—

Maine is acutely aware of the moment Carolina falls unconscious. He knows because, at that very moment, every ounce of the Jaeger’s control falls on him, and the weight is crushing.

They had been doing fine—better than fine, they were winning—and then the second fucking Kaiju tore out of the water and buried its claws in the cockpit, ripping out half the cabling and exposing the pilots, and Carolina had gotten flung against the wall. She slides down, limp, blood dripping down her temple and she’s not piloting anymore.

His head feels like it’s splitting open, but he needs to get them out of here, get them someplace safe, far enough that they can get out of the Jaeger and run. 

One step. One of the Kaiju screeches, and there’s a horrible, awful, wrenching sensation and there’s a vacuum where his left arm should be. Good thing, maybe. Less for him to control. 

Another step. A blow to the side sends him careening into a skyscraper, Carolina’s body rolling lifelessly, dangerously close to the hole in the cockpit, and Maine wrenches then upright. 

Another step. 

He can’t fail. Not now.

—

The Kaiju that comes next is only barely not a level five, possibly for the reason that no one wants to admit that things are bad enough for fives to be showing up. 

They call for backup.

479’er reports that they’re dropping in Sigma Inferno to assist, and Wash calls an affirmative and— 

There’s an ear-splitting crash. The Kaiju’s bladed tail cleaves through metal, cuts through to the Jaeger's core— 

Pain. Searing pain, lancing through his temples, and he doesn’t realize he’s screaming until his throat is hoarse and CT is—

CT is impaled on the Kaiju’s tail. Blood drips from her mouth, the end of the spike protruding from her back. 

He’s mouthing her name as the Kaiju roars and wrenches it’s tail out of the Jaeger. Metal screeches and bends, cables snapping—

CT is gone. There’s a gaping hole where his copilot should be. 

He’s still screaming. 

—

Tex crosses her arms, contemplating the Jaeger.

“It needs a name change, I think,” York comments. “Nice change of pace. Defecting and all that.” 

Tex makes a low, thoughtful sound. “...Omega,” she says. Her eyes are bright. “Renegade Omega.”

York grins crookedly, the raggedly line of his scar twisting over his cheek. “Catchy,” he says. “I like it.” Then, “We should paint it black.”

—

Carolina looks up. “Are you sure?”

Wash is staring at his hands. “No. But I want to.” He looks up, meets her eyes. “If it’s you, then I want to try.”

She sighs. The shadows under his eyes mirror hers. “Okay.”

The neural handshake connects—but just barely.