By the time all three were fully suited, they were led to the briefing chamber. Leonti stepped aside, waving the men inside. Holo-maps of the world shimmered across walls, tracking Kaiju movements, energy readings, and Jaeger deployment zones. Pentecost stood at the head of the large metal table in the center of the room, arms folded, blue eyes sharp. Price was beside him, leaning slightly on a console, cap low, his presence a quiet anchor.

“This is your world now,” Pentecost said once Simon, Soap, and Gaz were all sitting at the table. “Learn it. Respect it. That’s the only way to survive it. When you step into the Drift, your past experiences, whatever they were, won’t save you. Only your team will.”

Simon felt the weight of the words. Drift synchronization wasn’t just a test of physical skill. It was mental, emotional, psychological. His memories, the ghosts of past missions, past torture, past abuse, could surface at the worst possible moment. He had seen men break under far less pressure, in far less vulnerable positions.

Soap leaned close, whispering, “Guess we’re really in the shit now.”

Gaz didn’t laugh. Simon didn’t reply. They simply absorbed the enormity of the holographic projections before them. Kaiju spawn locations, probable attack vectors, and Jaeger tactical overlays flashed in three-dimensional clarity. Every detail screamed danger and consequence.

Pentecost nodded towards Leonti, who was still standing by the door. She nodded back, a quick thing of affirmation of whatever silent communication just occurred between them. Pentecost’s gaze swept back over the three men. “Other recruits will be joining shortly. Some are new, some have experience. A handful of them are soldiers, just like you three. A group from the United States, some from Italy, Germany, Spain, and one from Greece.”

Simon swallowed thickly. This was quickly becoming something much bigger than he had originally thought it was. From the sound of things, it sounded like a large group of recruits, but from what little he knew about Jaegers and the Shatterdome from the little bits and pieces he could remember from the news on slow days at base, there was a limited number of Jaegers. Twenty, if he could remember correctly.  

Slowly, the room began to fill with other recruits. The first group in was the Americans, loudly joking and jostling each other, as if this was just another day for them. Which, from Simon’s limited experience with American soldiers, it just might be. There were eight of them, three women and five men, and they sat at the other corner of the table, away from Simon, Soap, and Gaz. Next came the group from Germany. Precise. Quiet. Three men, all business, movements economical as they took their seats. They acknowledged Pentecost with a sharp nod from each, while the eldest of the three men gave Price a slower nod, one full of recognition and respect. 

A few moments later, two women from Italy walked in, their accents thick and smooth as they muttered lowly to each other, their gazes darting over the rest of the soldiers in the room. It was calculating, the way the two women’s gazes analyzed each person as they walked over to their seats. It was almost like they were looking for weaknesses throughout the room. Finally, the Spaniards arrived, a mix of energy and nerves. Two men, one woman. They spoke softly amongst themselves before settling into their own chairs, eyes darting up to the holograms that surrounded the group, as if trying to memorize everything at once. 

The briefing room felt crowded now, charged in a way that felt as familiar as a pre-op briefing. However, this time, instead of the room being filled with men and women that Simon had spent years working side-by-side with, it was filled with different languages, different cultures, and different histories. As Simon glanced around the room, taking in the people he was now supposed to work with (compete against?) for the foreseeable future, one truth pressed down onto him: the Shatterdome didn’t care who you were, or where you came from, it only cared if you could survive. 

Pentecost hadn’t moved from his position at the head of the table, his hands now clasped in front of him as he waited for the murmurs to die down. As soon as it was quiet, Pentecost glanced back at Captain Price, a knowing look passing between them that made the hair on the back of Simon’s neck stand on end. 

“There’s one more,” Pentecost stated as he turned back to look at the new group of recruits in front of him. 

The door slid open again, the hydraulics hissing. 

She entered alone. 

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t joke. But, she didn’t hesitate either. 

Arya Vlahos stepped in with the measured stride of someone who knew exactly who she was and why she was there. Her neural suit bore subtle signs of wear, with scuffs along the arms and faint discoloration around the joints that proved real use, not anything like the still-pristine black neural fabric that every other recruit around the room was wearing. Her red hair was pulled back into dual braids that fell down her back parallel to each other, and her expression was calm in a way that only came from experience. She stopped moving as she came to the opposite head of the table, nearest to Simon, Soap, and Gaz. She didn’t sit, instead mirroring Pentecost’s own position. 

Gaz shot Simon a look, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as his lips pulled down in a frown. Simon didn’t reply, but he felt the shift in the room. Even the Americans went quiet as she stopped moving, their gazes stuck on her. 

Pentecost’s voice softened, just a fraction, as his cold blue gaze met Arya’s unwavering green. “Arya Vlahos. Former Airman First Class of the Hellenic Air Force’s spec-ops unit, 31st Squadron. AFC Vlahos has been with the Jaeger Pilot program for the last two years, piloting a Mark-4 named Sirensong.” 

One of the American men pushed at his buddy’s shoulder, snickering and muttering something under his breath. His buddy, grinning stupidly at the one who had just pushed at his shoulder, raised his hand. Pentecost looked at him, raising his eyebrows slightly. 

The American put his hand down, that stupid grin still on his lips as his eyes slid between Arya and Pentecost. “Hi, PFC Ellison, American Army out of Fort Hood. Last I checked, Jaegers could only be piloted with two people.” He paused, smirking at Arya as his gaze ran up and down her body. “So, where’s your partner, pretty girl?” 

Arya’s bright green eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. But, before she could retaliate, Pentecost raised his hand in a silent gesture to stop. 

“Her copilot, Eleni Markou,” Pentecost paused, looking at Arya. She had turned her head, looking down at the steel flooring of the briefing room, her jaw working. Pentecost sighed and looked back at the group of soldiers. “AFC Markou died three months ago in a category IV Kaiju breach in the Aegean.” Simon’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t dare look over at Arya. Instead, he glanced over at Soap and Gaz, his gaze running over both men as he tried to imagine what that would do to him. Gaz’s head was bowed as Pentecost’s revelation washed over the room, and Soap, brave or stupid as ever, was staring at Arya. 

Arya, her gaze still locked on the floor, finally spoke. “I piloted that Jaeger alone for seven minutes,” she stated before her gaze locked onto PFC Ellison, her eyes full of a quiet fire. “I survived. They didn’t.” 

Her voice was steady, accented but clear. There were no dramatics, no visible grief in her eyes or in her voice. But, Simon could feel it anyways, a thread beneath the iron-clad control she held. It hit him, with unwavering certainty, that the Drift had a way of carving losses worse than any battlefield he had ever set foot on possibly could. 

Pentecost let the silence sit for a moment as he looked at every new recruit, letting Arya’s words settle into everyone’s soul.  

“Arya is here because she chose to be,” he said. “She understands the Drift. She understands what it costs. And, she’s agreed to attempt re-pairing in a new Jaeger.” 

Simon leaned back in his chair slightly, finally allowing himself to study the Greek soldier who was standing beside him. She was short, but she had to be if she was an Airman. Simon knew what kind of planes the 31st Squadron had, from before the Kaijus, as he had worked with them in a Joint Command mission almost ten years ago. He wondered briefly if she had been there. She looked to be about his age, but he couldn’t place her face. However, that wasn’t too surprising. That Joint Command op had been a decade ago, and she had spent the last two years in a Jaeger, which Simon could only imagine how that could change a person. 

Two years in a Jaeger meant two years of shared memories, neural overlap, and trust so complete that it bordered on surrender. On top of that, losing a co-pilot wasn’t just losing a partner, especially if the copilot was lost in the drift like Eleni was. It was losing half of yourself.

Price cleared his throat, stepping forward. Simon’s gaze snapped to Price as he sat up straighter. “This isn’t a competition. You’re not here to prove who’s toughest or most experienced. You’re here because the world is running out of time, and you carry the singular gift that can be the world’s salvation. You are able to Drift.” Price tapped the console in front of him and Pentecost. The holograms shifted, highlighting active breach zones. “You’ll be assessed for pairing compatibility over the coming days. Some of you will wash out. Some of you will be reassigned. And some of you,” his gaze lingered on Arya, then swept the room, “will step into a Jaeger again.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time, ladies and gentlemen,” Pentecost added as his hand raised to gesture at the active breach zones. 5 glowing red dots blinked like warning alarms in the holograms. “The breaches are activating faster and faster, and we need pilots.” 

“Starting tomorrow, you will begin Drift simulations. We have your drift compatibility scores. There are twenty of you, and each of you are compatible with at least one other person in this room,” Pentecost paused, his gaze meeting Simon’s for a moment before it swept back across the room. “Observe each other carefully. Evaluate your reactions. Control yourselves.”

Simon’s throat tightened. This was no longer a drill. This was the next step: the first true test of whether they could operate as a part of a Jaeger team, whether they could survive when the world itself was being torn apart.

Price’s voice broke the tension, low and gravelly. “Stick together. Don’t try to outshine each other. Trust will keep you alive where training alone won’t.”

Simon nodded. Soap’s grin softened slightly, and even Gaz allowed himself a single, steadying breath. Arya didn’t move, her gaze stuck forward, locked on Pentecost. Simon looked around the room, trying to gauge the others' reactions. The Americans were back to joking with each other lowly, shoving at each other’s shoulders like this was all one big game. The Spaniards, who had seemed so nervous when they walked in, were now conversing quietly between each other, their hands moving with emphasis through their words. The Germans were stonefaced, staring at the blinking Breach zones as if they could hold answers to unknown questions. The two women from Italy looked almost shellshocked, and Simon found himself wondering how much they had been told prior to coming here. 

“You’re dismissed,” Pentecost announced as he turned away. Arya was the first soldier to turn away and, without looking at anyone else, she strode out of the briefing room, disappearing as she turned the corner. The other recruits followed soon after, dispersing out to their own rooms. 

Soap sighed and slammed his head down onto the briefing room table. Gaz grimaced and looked over at Simon. “Please tell me you caught whatever that was, because I feel like we were just volunteered to die in a massive metal coffin.”

Soap let out a breath, something close to a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so shellshocked. “Did you see her?” He asked, his voice muffled by the tabletop until he tilted his head just enough for one blue eye to peek up at Simon. “The Greek pilot. Vlahos.”

Before Simon could answer, a familiar, gravelly voice cut in. “You three planning on sitting in this briefing room all night, or are you gonna come with me?” 

All three of the men turned to find Price lingering by the doorway, his arms across his chest with an unreadable expression. Simon straightened instinctively, while Gaz and Soap turned to look at their captain. 

Price jerked his head towards the open door. “Walk,” Price demanded as he turned on his heel, starting out of the briefing room. 

They followed him out, boots echoing against the steel floor of the Shatterdome as Price led them through the twisting halls of the base. For a few moments, the only sound was the distant hum of the Shatterdome and their boots against the steel flooring. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Price started as he led the men. “Don’t.” 

Soap frowned. “With respect, sir, thinking is kind of unavoidable after that.”

The corner of Price’s mouth twitched as he looked back at his three soldiers. “You’re not wrong,” he conceded as he turned back around. “But, this isn’t the Task Force. Your instincts will get you killed out there if you treat this like a deployment.” 

Gaz spoke up as he crossed his arms over his chest. “And what if we don’t like what the Drift dregs up?”

Price chuckled lowly and shook his head. “Then you deal with it. With your copilot. That’s where most people fail.”

Simon stepped up beside Price. “And… what about Vlahos? 

Price turned his head to meet Simon’s eyes and held his stare for a long moment. “What about her?” 

“She’s already been in a Jaeger. She’s already lost a copilot. Is she… safe to go back into the Drift?” 

Price’s expression shuttered, and he turned away from Simon. “AFC Vlahos has already earned her place ten times over in this program. If you end up paired with her, or with anyone else in that room for that matter, you give them everything. No walls. No secrets.” 

Simon swallowed. His entire life was made up of walls and secrets, of hiding. The closest he had ever come to being open with another human being was with the three men that currently surrounded him. But, even they didn’t know everything. 

Soap sighed and ran a hand over his face before he cut in. “That’s a tall order, sir.”

Price nodded once. “That’s why not everyone makes it.” 

Silence fell between the four men as they continued to walk through the corridors. Simon’s mind kept wandering back to Arya Vlahos.

Seven minutes alone in the Drift.

He’d been briefed on the theory of the Drift: the neural load of a Jaeger was designed for two minds, two anchors to distribute the strain. Piloting solo wasn’t just dangerous, it was damn near suicidal. The fact that she’d survived at all spoke volumes. But, the fact that she’d volunteered to do it again spoke louder. Simon’s fingers flexed at his sides. He knew about echoes. He knew what it was like to carry voices that weren’t there anymore, memories that surfaced uninvited. The idea of sharing those memories, of having someone else see them, feel them, made his stomach tighten. 

Price stopped in front of a door and he turned to face his three soldiers. “Here are your barracks. They’re temporary until you’re placed with your copilot. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll all find out what you’re really made of.”

As Price walked away, Gaz let out a breath. “Well. That was comforting.”

Simon didn’t answer. His thoughts were already looking ahead, towards neural handshakes, shared memories, and a Greek pilot who had survived losing half of herself. 

Simon swallowed, heavily, as his gaze fell on the two men. He felt Soap and Gaz stiffen next to him as recognition flared through the other two. The first man was tall, posture rigid, his uniform immaculate despite the wind tugging at the hem of his coat. Simon recognized him instantly, everyone did. Stacker Pentecost, Marshall of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. The man who once held the line alone in a Mark-1 Jaeger and lived to command the world’s last line of defense.

Beside him stood a familiar figure. Weathered and unmistakably out of place in this new metallic world, stood Captain John Price, arms crossed loosely over his chest, cap pulled low, jaw working around the edge of a well-chewed toothpick. He looked like he’d been born on a battlefield and simply wandered into a world of Kaiju afterward.

Soap let out a low, quiet “Huh.” Gaz shot him a warning look, but Soap just grinned, even as an anxious tick belied his own internal conflict. “Just didn’t know Price was gonna be here. Lt, did you know?”

Simon shook his head, little more than a twist of his chin as he felt something else twist low in his gut. Not exactly nerves, not exactly dread, but something weighty. Final. Like stepping off a cliff and trusting the fall to be worth it. “No,” he murmured lowly, the word almost lost beneath the slowing roar of the engines. “I didn’t.” 

Before either of the sergeants could respond, could question, Pentecost’s voice cut clear across the tarmac, firm and resonant. “Lieutenant Riley. Sergeants MacTavish and Garrick.” Not a question. Not a greeting. A recognition. As if he’d expected them down to the minute.

The three soldiers descended the ramp, following the call from Pentecost, their training as soldiers kicking in before thought could scream at them to hesitate. Each footstep thudded on metal as one, echoing like a drumbeat.

When they reached the bottom, Pentecost’s gaze swept over them, sharp and measuring. It lingered half a second longer on Simon. Just long enough for Simon to feel it, like a knife pressed directly into bone. It made Simon’s spine tingle, forcing him to wonder what, if anything, Pentecost had read in his file. How much of that dark, unflinching history was sitting behind the Marshall’s calculating stare.

Price, in contrast, gave a slow, easy nod, though Simon caught the flicker of appraisal in his eyes. “Welcome to the Shatterdome,” Price said, voice low, rough around the edges, but still carrying through the din of the base. “Hope you lads got some rest. You won’t be getting much for a while.”

Soap shot Gaz a pointed look, an I told you so written all over his expression.

Pentecost stepped closer, boots clicking sharply against concrete. “You’ve passed your drift compatibility testing. That alone puts you above ninety percent of the candidates we see.” His gaze flicked between the three of them. “But compatibility is only the first step. What you do here determines whether you will become effective pilots… or just another tragic name on a memorial wall.”

Gaz swallowed.

Soap straightened almost instinctively.

Simon stood unmoving, but his pulse kicked once, hard, then steadied.

Pentecost uncrossed his arms, but kept his gaze fixed on the three men in front of him. “We’ve been tracking your unit for a while. Your operational history. Psych evaluations. Casualty rates.” He said it without judgment, without accusation, just fact. Pentecost shifted his head just enough to glance at Price for a moment before turning back to look at Simon, Soap, and Gaz. “PPDC thinks you have potential. I think you have grit. But the Drift will tear that all open, one way or another.” His blue eyes then slid to Simon, cool and steady. “Especially you, Lieutenant.”

Simon felt as if ice had been poured down his back.

Soap’s head snapped toward Simon, as concern flickered beneath his own sharp blue gaze. Gaz shifted subtly closer, not touching but present. Protective, in a way that was bred only through years of working side by side in TaskForce 141. 

Pentecost didn’t miss the movement. “Good. You stand together,” he said with a curt nod. “You’ll need to. Your acclimation starts immediately. You’ll meet your prospective Drift partners within the hour.”

Prospective partners.

Simon almost frowned. He, Soap, and Gaz had passed the test separately, sure, but they had always worked together. Why would they–

Pentecost must’ve seen the confusion cross Simon’s eyes, because he added calmly, “Teams of three are rare. But not impossible. Shatterdome leadership wants to observe all potential configurations. You’ll be run through individual pairing simulations as well as trios.”

Simon felt something cold and sharp lodge in his chest.

Soap muttered under his breath, “Brilliant.”

Gaz didn’t say anything at all, jaw tight.

Pentecost gestured sharply to a waiting aide. “You’ll be processed, outfitted, and briefed. Captain Price will oversee your integration. I expect professionalism. Efficiency. And above all, trust.”

He paused.

“Dismissed, gentlemen.”

As Pentecost turned away, Price stayed, unmoving as his gaze ran over the three men that he had once, years ago, handpicked to protect the world from an entirely different threat. Price’s heart clenched in his chest, just for a moment, as he took in the sight of his three most prized soldiers now in a unit so foreign to what they had been trained for. Even then, his gaze was warm, approval coating the warning falling from his lips. “Stick close,” he said. “Shatterdome’s a beast of its own. It’ll eat you alive if you try to take it on alone.”

Then, before Simon, Gaz, or Soap could reply, let alone ask what he was doing here, Price turned on his heel, following Pentecost through the labyrinth of the Shatterdome, away from them. The three men stood there, watching Pentecost and Price walk away, their boots striking the ground with the assured rhythm of men who had weathered more wars than most people had years.

Simon exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for the entire descent.

Soap nudged him gently with his elbow. “Well,” he murmured, “nothing like jumpin’ headfirst into the deep end.”

Gaz huffed out a humorless laugh. “Deep end? Mate, we’re in the bloody Mariana Trench,” he muttered back in reply. 

In the space where Price and Pentecost had just been, an aide stepped up. She was much shorter than the three men, blonde hair cropped short, brushing just past her ears as she looked up at them. She shifted slightly, looking down at her clipboard for a moment. Without a word, but not without an appraising glance, she waved them forward. A silent command to follow as she turned on her heel and started to walk. 

Simon glanced once at the retreating figures of Price and Pentecost.

Then he looked at Soap and Gaz. His sergeants, his unit, his last tether to anything familiar.

The Shatterdome loomed ahead, humming with metal and promise and danger.

Simon took a step forward, towards the aide’s retreating form. Always the point, the leader. “Let’s get to it.”

As the three men fell into step behind her, the aide finally glanced over her shoulder. “My name is Leonti Roza. I am the head integration officer, and will be overseeing your acclimation along with your commander, Captain John Price.” Simon blinked as the words washed over him. The Russian tilt of her words was a shock, but he tried not to show it. This wasn’t a battlefield, or a dingy warehouse where he had been tasked with taking down an arms trafficking ring. This was different than anything he had ever had to do, so he forced the hard-bred instincts down. She was Russian, didn’t mean she was a threat. Soap, instead, piped up. Always the charismatic one, always with something to say to try and lighten the mood. He leaned forward, a grin coating his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, this is it, lads. First stop, mechasoldier boot camp. Sounds cozy.” 

Leonti’s eyes flickered over him, unamused. “Do not speak. Move.” 

Soap’s blue eyes flashed with surprise, but his jaw clicked shut. Gaz smirked, knocking his shoulder against Soap’s goodnaturedly. 

Leonti stopped in front of a hulking metal door, quickly pressing a badge to a small black box before deftly typing in a code. The door to the underbelly of the Shatterdome opened, the screeching movement vibrating the ground beneath their feet. Once it opened fully, Leonti stepped through, the three men following behind her. The corridor leading from the tarmac twisted into the bowels of the Shatterdome, lit by cool, sterile lights that reflected off polished steel. The hum of machinery was constant, like some living engine beneath the concrete and metal. Simon’s boots echoed as he followed Leonti, and he felt the familiar tug of his training: eyes scanning, senses alert, mind running through contingencies even though the threat here didn’t seem to be immediately lethal. Soap and Gaz were still behind him, and Simon could feel the nerves radiating off of them each. 

“First, processing,” Leonti stated as she stopped in front of a desk. She quickly handed each man a packet of paperwork. It appeared to be standard issue, asking for things like name, nationality, next of kin, chain of command. Simon paused over the next of kin box, his heart thudding against his chest uncomfortably. Just once, but enough that he had to force the pain back down. 

Once Simon, Soap, and Gaz were all done with their paperwork, Leonti wordlessly ushered them over to sleek pods that looked like something that would be more at home in those shitty science fiction films Gaz insisted they watch on off-nights back at base. A faint blue glow bathed the interior, which made a shiver race down Simon’s spine. 

Leonti stepped up to each man, gently smearing some warm gel on each of their foreheads. “Helps the neural interface nodes attach,” she told them as she finished. She then motioned to the pods, one for each man. “Get in and stand still,” Leonti instructed.

Simon obeyed instinctively, the slight hesitation in his chest ignored. Soap rolled his eyes and muttered, “Bloody brilliant. First stop: full-body brain scan.”

Leonti shot Soap a glare as he muttered, obviously already tired of his constant quips. “This is still part of your processing. The drift comparability test only tells us if you are capable of drifting. This,” she paused, her hand gesturing at the pods again, “tells us how likely you are to survive a drift inside of a Jaeger.” 

Soap swallowed thickly as his gaze darted away from Leonti. He glanced at Gaz as he stepped into his own pod, looking almost like a wounded puppy. “Gaz, I’ve got a feelin’ we aren’t in Kansas anymore,” he tried to joke, but it fell flat. 

Gaz didn’t reply, jaw tight as he stepped into his own pod. The hum of the machine started as soon as each man was situated, the buzz pressing into their skull, their skin, like it was something physical. Simon could almost feel the pods analyzing them: heart rate, neurological response, stress markers. Tiny sensors tapped against his temples, sending mild tingles down his spine, the neural probes humming faintly as they scanned every synapse for compatibility with the Jaeger systems.

Leonti’s words cut through the whirring like a scalpel, as her voice rang through the machines, modulated and calm, counting down in Russian. Simon felt a flicker of unease as the machine continued to whir around him, tracking and testing. He had never trained for this, never encountered anything like this, but the familiarity of standing shoulder to shoulder with Soap and Gaz, even with metal walls and too-bright blue lights, steadied him.

Seconds became minutes. When it ended, the pods hissed open, and the three men stepped out, skin prickling, hair sticking up slightly from the static. Soap slapped at his uniform as though it might restore some sense of normalcy. “Feels like I’ve just been molested by a dryer,” he complained under his breath. 

Gaz, for once, didn’t smile. Simon simply shook out his shoulders, muscles coiling and releasing, mind already moving ahead to the next step. Leonti stepped in front of the men again, holding a clipboard against her chest. “Well,” she started, brushing a loose strand of her short blonde hair back behind her ear. “The neural link test said you all have a decent chance of survival.” A pause as her cool brown gaze ran over Simon. It felt like ice as she looked at him, but he refused to look away. Without a word or any other indication, she turned on her heel and started walking down another corridor. “Outfitting room is this way.”

As she turned, Simon forced himself to take a breath. He didn’t like the way Leonti had looked at him. Didn’t know what it had meant, and that made all of the alarms go off in his mind. He was still standing outside of his pod when Leonti started to walk away. Soap noticed, and put his hand on Simon’s shoulder, clapping it softly against the silky material of Simon’s tactical undershirt. Simon jolted at the contact, his head whipping towards Soap. 

Soap gave him something close to a smile, and jerked his head toward the hallway where Leonti had disappeared down. “C’mon, Lt. It’s gonna take a while to find a suit that’ll fit you, anyways.” 

Simon huffed out something that could have been a laugh in different circumstances, but he followed Soap’s sure bootfalls as they walked towards the outfitting room, whatever the hell that was. 

The outfitting room was vast, racks of sleek pilot suits lining the walls, each piece humming faintly. They were single pieces, lightweight but reinforced, and each suit’s interface nodes glimmered softly like tiny gems under the harsh fluorescents that seemed to invade this entire base.

“These suits are neural-linked,” Leonti said, voice clipped as she watched the three men study the lines of suits. “Once fitted, your Jaeger will feel like an extension of your body. Any hesitation, mistrust, or fear will reduce synchronization efficiency. Painful experiences can… bleed into the Drift. You must control your minds when in the suit. Trust the bond between you, your partner, and the Jaeger.”

Simon’s pulse kicked at the words. Trust. It was the one thing that had kept him alive through every firefight in Task Force 141. He glanced at Soap, who was already sliding into a suit that Leonti had handed him, grinning even as the nervous twitch of his fingers as they brushed over interfaces betrayed him. Gaz was handed a suit next, and Simon watched as his hands moved methodically, tightening straps, checking connections, his focus absolute.

Leonti handed Simon his suit last, that same icy stare from before running over him. Simon felt his back bristle as he took the suit from her fingers. He quickly stripped down, not caring about the audience, and stepped inside of the suit. Electrodes pressed against his spine, tingling as if the suit was learning him, memorizing every muscle twitch, every heartbeat, every scar. A soft hum filled his ears, faint and almost alive. He swallowed. 

This was alien. Terrifying. And yet… he could feel the potential. He didn’t like how it made his heart pound in anticipation. 

The walk through the base out to the tarmac was dark, lit only by the cool, soft light of a low-hanging sliver of moon that filtered through the windows. It was getting ever closer to his deadline to 0300, and the faint hum of the military cargo plane idling on the tarmac echoed through the empty base hallways. Of course it was empty. It was damn near 3 o’clock in the morning. However, that didn’t stop the unease from curling tight in the base of Simon’s spine. He had spent his whole life becoming an immovable, unshakable soldier, but the last twelve hours had shaken him in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe, let alone comprehend. 

As Simon stepped into the hangar, his eyes were drawn to the small, jet black cargo plane that was idling on the runway in front of him. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. He hitched up the duffel, trying to alleviate some of the pressure as the canvas strap bit into the muscle of his right trapezius. As his eyes roved over his surroundings, his left fingers came up to adjust his signature skull print balaclava, a small gesture that betrayed his ever growing nerves. 

“Lt!” 

The sound rang out in the mostly empty hangar, and Simon froze. His heart pounded in his chest, a cold blanket of shock settling over his shoulders. He knew that voice. Had heard it for years at his side, over coms, across the blackhawk aisle. He hadn’t dared to let himself hope. A small flicker of concern whispered in his mind: look at that, Riley. You’re already going crazy. Your father was right. 

Slowly, Simon turned his head. And, instead of being met with a ghost, like he was half-expecting, he was met head on by the familiar body of John ‘Soap’ MacTavish sauntering towards him, with Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick following close behind. Simon had never been more grateful for his mask as his cheeks flamed with shock and gratitude. 

Soap reached Simon first, clapping a gloved hand on Simon’s shoulder. Soap gave it one firm, grounding squeeze before it dropped back to the strap of his own duffel. “Thought you were gonna sneak off without us,” Soap said, grin bright even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hangar. “Hell of a way to say goodbye, Lt.” 

Gaz snorted as he came up beside them, his breath misting in the cold almost-morning air. “More like hell of a way to say good morning. You were moving through this base like you were chasin’ ghosts.” A beat passed as Gaz looked away for a moment, his gaze surveying the cargo plane they were all expected to board in the next few minutes to ship off to god knows where before it slid back to Simon, a smirk pulling the corner of his lips up. “You walk bloody fast when you’re brooding, Ghost.” Simon’s shoulders pulled up, just slightly, as Gaz’s teasing words washed over him. It was so familiar in a way that was almost comforting, but after he had spent the hours since the test convincing himself that he was going to be forced to go at this alone, it felt almost… dangerous. “I wasn’t brooding,” Simon replied as he gave Gaz a glare that lacked any sort of heat. “Just following orders.”

Soap’s grinned softened into something far quieter, far more perceptive. “Yeah. We figured.” Soap jerked his chin towards the cargo plane humming patiently thirty feet away from them. “So. Hong Kong. Shatterdome. No big deal, right?”

Simon huffed out a breath, something that could have almost been a laugh if the weight of everything that had happened in the last twelve hours wasn’t suffocating him. “Right.”

For a moment, the three of them simply stood there, a small island of familiar warmth and camaraderie in the cavernous, almost-empty hangar. The hum of the engines vibrated faintly through the floor, a low, steady reminder that everything was about to change the moment they stepped on that ramp. That they would be leaving everything they had ever known behind. Drift compatibility testing was one thing; being shipped out to the Shatterdome was another beast entirely. 

Gaz shifted his weight and sighed softly before glancing over at Simon. “You look like someone read your unredacted file in public. Twice.”

“Long day,” Simon stated, keeping his gaze glued to the hulking black body of the cargo plane. It was the barest sliver of truth and nowhere near the whole of it. 

“Longer ones ahead, I’d wager,” Gaz replied, but his tone carried a kind of steady assurance, one that could only be forged in the deepest pits of ops-based hell. “Good thing we’re all in this together. Would’ve sucked if we all got split up after all that testing.” Soap nudged Simon’s elbow with his own. “Unfortunately, you’re not gettin’ rid of us that easily, mate.” The words hit Simon harder than he was expecting. Less than an hour ago, he had been sitting in his own barracks, trying to convince himself that he would be okay alone. He felt himself swallow. Once. Twice. An instinctual attempt to force back the sudden tightening in his throat. Simon had trained himself his whole life to not rely on people. Trained himself not to want to. And yet, here they were. Soap and Gaz, the two men who had seen him through hell and back and around again, were here, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Simon cleared his throat, forcing the wave of gratitude down. He shifted his weight and tore his gaze away from the awaiting plane to look at the two sergeants standing beside him. “Didn’t expect you two to pass the drift.” 

“Oi,” Soap feigned offense, but the lopsided grin pulling up one corner of his mouth betrayed him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gaz chuckled. “Means he's shocked you’re compatible with anyone, Soap.” 

“Damn right,” Simon muttered. Soap punched him in the arm playfully in reply. 

The easy bickering, something so familiar and mundane, eased the tightness in Simon’s chest, some knotted coil wound too far. For the first time since the test, he felt grounded, even if he would never admit to it. 

Steps rang out from the ramp, pulling all three of the men’s attention. A uniformed tech waved a clipboard in their direction. “Riley! MacTavish! Garrick! Wheels up in five!” 

Soap exhaled sharply. “That’s our cue, then.” 

Gaz lifted the strap of his duffel, adjusting it higher on his shoulder. “Guess it is.”

Simon looked toward the plane, toward Hong Kong, toward the Shatterdome, toward a future none of them were prepared for but were already hurtling toward all the same. The engines growled, the smell of jet fuel mixing with cold night air, and for a moment everything felt suspended: fear, anticipation, uncertainty, hope.

He drew in a slow breath.

Then he nodded once, decisive, falling back easily into his role as the lieutenant, the man the others looked to for guidance. “Let’s go.”

Soap grinned. Gaz mirrored it, subdued but steady.

The three of them walked up the ramp together.

And for the first time in twelve hours, maybe the first time in years, Simon didn’t feel like he was walking into the unknown alone.

----------

The night sky had passed in a blur outside the plane, inky blackness turning into the mottled pink and yellow of a new sunrise before shifting to the bright yellow and orange of the afternoon. The flight was long, thirteen hours in air, but it passed by quickly. Soap, even with all of his seemingly-endless amounts of energy, was quickly lulled to sleep by the din of the roar of the engines within the first hour. Gaz had set up camp in one of the corner jumpseats, and had fallen asleep an hour or two ago, the book he had brought with him for entertainment left open by his feet where it had fallen out of his hands. There was no paperwork, no last minute briefings, no gear checks. 

So, what does a soldier do? They get sleep where they can. 

But, sleep had never come easy to Simon. He stayed awake, ever watchful and careful, even as he let his head fall back against the cold fuselage behind his jumpseat. He tried to keep his mind carefully blank, to keep the gnawing uncertainty and fear of the future from biting at his already frayed nerves. Knew that if he fell asleep, the only thing that would meet him would be adrenaline-fueled nightmares with faceless adversaries. 

So, he stayed awake while the other two slept. 

He felt it before the pilot’s voice even clicked on to crackle through the comms system. They were starting their descent. It was rocky, and, for once, Simon was grateful for the lack of windows as the tight chatter of the pilots echoed through the cavernous body of the plane through the comms. The plane bounced slightly as it came down on the tarmac, skidding to a complete stop as the arresting cable finally caught on the tailhook. Simon sighed as he stood up, his joints aching in protest after being locked in one position for far too long. He rolled his shoulders out as he twisted his neck from side to side, his gaze falling to the two sergeants. He crossed the body of the plane, his steps shaky from lack of movement and the trembling vibration of a jet cooling down. 

Simon’s foot nudged Gaz’s as he leaned down to pick up the book that had slipped from the sergeant’s fingers. Gaz stirred, hands coming up to rub at his eyes and squinting against the low red light of the interior of the cargo plane. Simon held the book out wordlessly, and Gaz took it back with a small nod as he stretched. “Bloody hell,” Gaz muttered as he ran a hand down his face. “Flew halfway across the world and still feel like I got hit by a tank.”

Soap groaned as Gaz’s complaint filtered through the cabin, rubbing his hand down his own face as he blinked blearily against the low light. “We there?” Soap asked, his voice thick with sleep-heavy Scottish brogue. 

Simon took a step back from Gaz, shifting his gaze to Soap. He nodded once. Deliberate. Tactical. “Touchdown. Hong Kong.” Soap let out a quiet whistle as he stood up, twisting his body to release the tension and ache that no doubt lingered from the way he had curled up in that jumpseat for the last twelve hours. “Right then. Time to meet the big leagues.” 

Gaz snorted as he also stood up before bending down to grab his duffel bag out from under his seat. He shoved the book haphazardly back into the bag before zipping it back up and glancing at Soap, his expression deadpan. “Big leagues? More like big robots and bigger deaths if we fuck this up.” 

“Cheery way to start the day,” Simon muttered as he copied Gaz’s movements, grabbing his own duffel and slinging it over his own shoulder. The weight of it was familiar, grounding, but it did little to help ease the coil of nerves that had grown as the plane had taken them further and further away from the TaskForce 141 base, the only true home that Simon had ever known. 

Gaz shrugged, one shoulder coming up higher than the other due to the weight of his own duffel. “Just bein’ realistic.” 

Before Soap could fire back with something equally irreverent, the hydraulics of the cargo ramp whined, gears clanking as the massive door began to lower. A flood of bright light and humid air surged inward, the warmth immediately clashing with the cool chill inside the plane. The scent of sea salt and jet fuel mingled so sharply that Simon felt it scrape along the inside of his skull.

The Hong Kong Shatterdome stretched out before them like a metal city unto itself. Even from inside the plane, Simon could sense the scale of it: massive hangars, towering cranes, stacked shipping containers, catwalks like spiderwebs suspended over yawning maintenance bays. There was chatter from the PA system, unintelligible from where they stood inside of the plane. His gaze tripped over the exposed body of one of the Jaegers. Even not moving, the sight was impressive.  He had seen the pictures, the video clips from the news . None of them came close to standing in its shadow.

Figures moved across the tarmac in disciplined, purposeful lines. Engineers in yellow vests, techs in grease-stained coveralls, officers in crisp uniforms that stood stark against the morning’s first pale light, all moving with purpose and efficiency. It seemed to work like any other military base, which brought a sort of comfort and familiarity to the three men. 

A year ago, the first monsters arrived, appearing from deep within the Pacific Ocean. Towering, vicious alien entities that seemed to be hellbent on destroying as much human life and property as they could. The first attack was off the coast of Japan, and the monsters were soon named Kaiju, a fitting name that instantly conjured images straight out of classic Japanese monster films. With their slick, grey-scaled hides and the glowing blue acid pulsing through their bodies, these beasts looked like something more at home in a Godzilla film than real life. Unfortunately, real life is not like the movies, and these were no actors in rubber suits. No, these beasts were meaner, louder, and very much alive. And they were here to kill. 

The first Kaiju took seven days to take down. The fighter jets, the missiles, bullets, nothing that was in the current arsenal worked until a fighter pilot got one lucky shot with a hellfire missile. After that attack, more Kaiju came bursting through what was now known as the Breach, found 304 kilometers away from Guam in the deepest section of the Mariana Trench. The attacks, at this point, were still months apart, and the militaries of the world started to adapt to this newfound threat, but the economic and humanitarian loss was catastrophic. Thankfully, science and technology had been quietly innovating in the background for years, pushed forward by the evermoving military industrial complex, and had already begun testing mechsuits. Giant, hulking suits of metal with offensive and defensive capabilities that had only been seen before in science fiction. After UN decree, the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps was formed, and with it came the mechs from the Jaeger program. 

With the formation of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps, the focus of the world’s militaries went from intercontinental battles to the Kaijus, making regular, run of the mill missions pretty much non-existent. Therefore, every military personnel was required to take a compatibility test. At first, no one was told what this test was. An officer or an enlisted would be quietly taken out of formation one day, and half of the people who were pulled out were never seen again. 

The test was itself wasn’t a secret. However, what happened in the test was. And when a bored platoon is given uncertainty and disappearing brothers, rumors are bound to follow quickly after. It was a pretty unanimous agreement that the personnel who were now mysteriously missing from rosters and barracks rooms had failed the test. Some whispered that the flunkees were quietly removed from military service, as they were incapable of performing at the level that they were required to. Others, the more pessimistic of the rumors, argued that the people who had failed the tests were killed. But, even the other soldiers, the ones who were seen after their test, they disappeared shortly after too. Something about reassignment, whatever that meant. 

Simon Riley, the battle-hardened lieutenant of Task Force 141, didn’t realize the truth until it was too late. He’d been told, like the others, that this test was just a new kind of combat readiness assessment, something routine. No one questioned it. It was the military, there was always new tests and paperwork and other bureaucratic hoops to jump through. But, when he was brought into a quiet, sterile room, there were no obstacle courses, no marksmanship tests, and no shouting instructors. Instead, he was met with white walls, the gentle hum of various machines, and rows of stiff medical beds. Three other soldiers were already there, men and women he didn’t recognize, sitting silently, each with their own impersonal orderly. 

One of the men, a younger soldier with close-cropped red hair and a kind, freckled expression, gave Simon a small wave, the barest flicker of human connection in this cold, clinical space. An orderly quickly shut down the gesture with a sharp glare, as if even that tiny movement was against some sort of unspoken rule. That’s when Simon knew, deep in his gut, that something wasn’t right. 

However, a soldier follows orders, no matter their gut feelings. It’s not worth it to rock the boat. This was probably just some sort of new medical testing for airborne contaminants from the Kaiju or something. So, when the orderly that had brought Simon in gestured towards one of the medical beds, he sat. As the orderly started to place a metallic contraption on his head, Simon stole one last glance at the red-headed soldier that was seated next to him. The kid was barely old enough to shave, let alone wear a uniform. Simon watched as the red-head’s hands trembled slightly in his lap. Must be fresh out of training, Simon figured. Probably just got assigned to the base. 

The contraption was snug, cold metal pressing into his skull with clinical precision. Simon mentally ticked off each contact point (frontal, temporal, occipital) as if checking off boxes on a form. Great, he thought. Another fuckin’ psych test. 

The click of the machine being turned on reverberated through his head like the knell of a death bell, but he barely had time to register it before images rapidly started flashing in his own mind - sharp, fast, relentless. They exploded behind his eyes like flashes of lightning. It was dizzying, like falling through a psychedelic kaleidoscope of memories that weren’t quite his. By the time the contraption was lifted from his head, it felt like hours had passed, but the clock on the wall across from him hadn’t moved more than a minute. Simon’s skull throbbed with dull pain, and a high-pitched ringing screamed through his ears like the aftermath of a blast. Blinking through the haze of the bright, clinical light Simon turned his head slightly to glance at the red-headed soldier who had been sitting beside him. A cold wave snaked down his spine as his gaze met a bloodied white sheet being pulled over the last visible tufts of red fuzz on the top of the soldier's head. Simon never even knew his name. 

Simon opened his mouth slightly to try and speak, but his tongue felt heavy and useless, like it no longer belonged in his mouth. Before he could muster a sound, the orderly who had been scribbling down Simon’s results quickly grabbed onto his jaw and yanked his head back to force his gaze away from the body and back up towards the ceiling. She leaned over him and looked down, her blue eyes cold and emotionless. “Lieutenant Riley,” she said flatly. “You passed the drift compatibility test. Congratulations. You will be shipped out to the Hong Kong Shatterdome on the next flight out. You have until 0300 to gather your belongings and pack what you will need.”

Simon’s head was spinning. Drift compatibility? He had never heard of it. His ears were still ringing, even if it had dulled slightly. He blinked again, trying to piece together what was happening. This felt like the beginning of a bad psychological horror movie. He swallowed thickly, trying to fight past the nausea that was bubbling up his throat. “What about… the rest of my squad?” he croaked. His voice scraped out, rough and weak, and he hated the way that it trembled in the air. 

The orderly sighed and rolled her eyes. “They are to be tested later. It was deemed… inadvisable for a squad as tightly knit as yours to test together. It would have caused problems with the synaptic wave formations. If they pass, they should be on the same flight out as you. Now, you need to get up and go pack. Do not speak of this.”

----------

Simon sat on the edge of his bunk for what felt like hours after the test. His elbows were resting on his knees, the rough camouflaged cotton of his cargos biting into his tattooed skin. He had a private room, same as everyone in TaskForce 141, but it all still felt too quiet. Usually, there would be low jazz playing from the commons while Captain Price smoked on a cigar, Soap laughing loudly at a shitty joke, or just the clink of boots on tile. But now, their barracks felt as if they had long since been abandoned. And maybe they had. 

Simon’s gaze slowly drifted to the standard-issue duffel bag that sat open, the dusty brown canvas yawning open like the dirt around an empty grave. 

His hands were moving before his brain caught up. Shirts. Socks. Pants. Underwear. Sidearm. Toothbrush. All packed away neatly into the duffel with hard bred military precision. He picked up his combat knife, checking the edge against the meat of his thumb like he always did before a mission. But this was no routine mission, and the way his abdomen had been tied in knots ever since the test was a stark reminder of that very truth. 

Simon paused at his locker. There was a photo taped to the inside, the edges tanned and curled from years of deployment heat. TaskForce 141, grinning like idiots in the middle of the desert. Dirt-smeared and sunburnt, Gaz holding up a half-melted popsicle like it was a trophy. Simon couldn’t even remember where this photo had come from, only that they had laughed about it for days afterwards. He reached for the photo, but hesitated. His fingers hovered over the age-worn photograph, almost as if it was a livewire, something that could send a devastating shock right through his soul. 

Part of him wanted to leave it there, taped to the cool, grey metal of that locker. If he brought it, it meant he was hopeful that they would all make it to the other side. If he left it, it meant he’d already given up. 

He carefully peeled the photo down, folded it once, and tucked it into the inner pocket of the duffel bag. 

The clock on his wall read 0230. He still had thirty minutes before he was supposed to leave. 

He sat back down on the edge of his bunk. He ran a hand down his face as his head tilted up to the ceiling. The flourescent light overhead flickered once, buzzing like the drone of a half-dead insect. It was eerily similar to the hum that had filled that white testing room, too sterile and too bright, and it ricocheted against the walls of his mind. He could still feel the cold press of metal against his scalp like the fingers of a vengeful ghost. Could still hear the machine whirring on, but he couldn’t remember any of what he had seen. 

The room felt colder now. Emptier. Almost as if the test itself had stripped something away from him and tossed it into that same body bag that they had wrapped that red-headed kid in. A pang of guilt kicked Simon square in the chest. He was no stranger to death. Far from it. He had taken many lives himself, his hands had long since been stained a permanent shade of red. But this? This was different. That kid was dead now, all because some machine said he didn’t “fit”, and there was nothing Simon could’ve done to stop it. 

Drift compatibility.

He still didn’t know what it meant. But the way his stomach had been in knots since he had gotten back to his barracks told him enough. 

His fingers found the edge of his dog tags, the sturdy metal warm against his skin as he rubbed the edge of his thumb against the raised indentation of his identifying information. 

“Do not speak of this.”

The orderly’s voice echoed like it was carved into the inside of his skull. Her words had been so flat and emotionless, and had left no room for disobedience. Orders were orders. But, Simon had followed enough of them to know that the ones they told you not to speak of were always the ones that came back to bite you in the ass. 

He sighed and stood up, pacing around his room for what he knew would be the last time. He was a soldier, a transient by both past and nature, but this was the only place he had truly considered home. And now, his home was being ripped away from him all over again. His gaze flicked back to the duffel bag where the picture of him and his squad laid tucked away neatly inside of the inner pocket. 

They wouldn’t test the squad together. Too tightly knit. 

He hated how clinical it sounded, as if the bond that Simon, Soap, Gaz, and Price had forged through the blood, sweat, and loss that had been a constant in their lives was nothing more than a liability. 

He leaned down and zipped the bag shut, the sound sharp and final. He pulled a hoodie on before he slung the duffel over his shoulder. It felt heavier then it should have, considering what was inside of it, almost as if something in this room, in this base, was trying to hold him back. 

As his fingers met the cold handle of his barrack’s door, he paused. Hesitation was new to him. Then again, everything that was happening right now was new to him. Part of him wanted to say something, anything, just to remember that he was still human. But, the words didn’t come. 

Simon twisted the handle and glanced around at his room one last time, then flipped the light off behind him.