Chapter Text
Because Blue had only sustained minor damage, and they were on shore, Pidge and Lance trudged back to the sea and marched Blue through the shallows to the Shatterdome. The surf, though sloshing no higher than Blue’s knees, pulled against the feedback emulators, and Pidge’s legs, growing shaky with the slow flow of adrenaline from muscles, ached dully.
“Take it from a vet,” said Lance. “A nice walk in your jaeger helps get rid of the after-combat jitters.”
Pidge nodded. “It’s probably a good way to wash kaiju gore off Blue.”
“Nature’s car wash,” agreed Lance. They reached into the sea, splashing water on Blue’s Conn-Pod, her face as it were, and laughed.
Laughter was a catharsis, battle tension ebbing from her body. Unfortunately, the euphoria of triumph couldn’t quite mask another growing emotion: grumpiness. Beneath the giddy thrill of a successful mission, amplified by Lance’s good cheer, the inevitable irritable blowback from too much stimulation was rising like hot magma. She had learned over the years to master her spikey moods, or, failing that, to remove herself from the company of other people. But what had just transpired wasn’t merely a particularly stressful day at work. She and Lance had just taken on two kaijus, having just met and Drifted a day before.
Pidge really needed some quiet Pidge time, but that wasn’t going to be an option anytime soon.
Their team was waiting, Blue’s motorized transport in a hanger doorway. Blue’s left leg shook a little as they stepped onto the transport. Lance smiled reassuringly at her. “You did great, kid.”
“Don’t call me kid, noodle-boy,” she said with a wry grin.
Back in the Drivesuit room, Juli and Robin helped them remove their dual-layered gear. As he and Pidge dressed, Lance said, conversationally, to the pair. “How long have you been on Drivesuit duty?”
“Five decaphoebs,” said Juli. “Most in Sidney Shatterdome.”
“Three years,” said Robin as she stored Lance’s battle armour in its case.
“So, you folks know that what goes on here, stays in here, right? Confidential?” He flicked a look at Pidge who was lacing her boots.
“Yes, sir,” they both agreed.
“Thanks for that,” said Pidge. “I think Robin and Juli are too experienced, though, to out me. Dad handpicked them for Blue’s team. If he trusts them, they’re probably solid.”
The hallway leading to the command center was thick with people, many whom, spotting Pidge and Lance, offered congratulations on their first successful Drift and mission. As Marshal Holt’s chief of staff, Pidge was usually center-stage, but rarely in the spotlight. Unaccustomed to this sort of attention, Pidge smiled, and muttered, “Just doing my job.”
Lance, however, was in his element, the brash kid she remembered resurfacing as he exchanged fist-bumps, high-fives and shook hands and basked in the limelight. They moved through the jam-packed hall and into Command’s ready room. The screens were back to normal readings, the garish crimson of an open Breach gone from the screen, the War Clock reset to zero. Lotor, Acxa, Romelle, Bandor, Zethrid and Ezor were already there, but Pidge’s eyes went to the person standing by her father. Colleen Holt.
Dressed in a pink tunic shirt and gray pants, she stood out in the crowd of PPDC blue and black. Lance was already several steps ahead of Pidge, before Pidge realized her feet weren’t moving, immobilized under the intensity of her mother’s hazel eyes.
Lance clasped hands with Lotor then Acxa, but Pidge didn’t hear what they said, her ears roaring with nervousness. Her mother nodded slowly, a little smile on her lips that grew to a broad smile of pride. Relief poured through her limbs and Pidge grinned back.
“Good,” said her father. “Everyone’s here.”
Out of habit, Pidge hurried to stand at the Marshal’s side, her hands grasping the hem of her shirt, unsure what to do with her hands. Turning, she scooped her datapad off Shiro’s desk where she’d left it in the hurry to get suited up. Guided by routine, she began to pull mission data into her analysis app, though her thoughts were too scattered to make sense of the information on the screen.
“All in all, it was a good day, or should I say night,” said Marshal Holt. A nervous flutter of laughter moved throughout the room. “One Jumphawk was taken down by Blights, but the crew survived.”
Lance’s head turned side-to-side, obviously noting absences.
“Cherno-Alpha sustained significant damage to her right-side neural relay. Sasha is recovering from the blowback from the overload induced by the damage but the prognosis is good.”
“Red Wolf?” blurted Lance.
“Red Wolf also sustained damage. Keith and James are in the infirmary getting patched up.”
Her indifferent mask crumbling, Pidge puffed out an audible sigh. Keith and James were two of her closest friends, but she was also fond of the Russian team. The pair kept to themselves, but had always been kind to her. Most recently, they’d gifted her with a set of nesting dolls in the shape of an owl, her favorite animal, for her birthday. Or rather, Pidge Gunderson’s birthday.
“This was a good outcome. No loss of life and reparable damage to all our jaegers.” The Marshal tipped his face slightly downward, eyeing all over his glasses. “But we cannot rest on our laurels. The War Clock is reset to zero and will, unfortunately, probably be reset again soon. Too soon.”
Marshal Holt drew himself tall, and though she was tired and cranky, a strong stab of pride straightened Pidge’s spine.
“The last three Breach openings have thrown kaijus at us, here at Shatterdome Hong Kong.” Holt’s pronouncement, though spoken in his smooth tenor, was heavy with the threat to come. “This trend is likely to continue.”
A trend indeed. Though the Breach was located in Challenger Deep, in the Marriana’s Trench, its opening generated a secondary portal, a mini-wormhole a few miles offshore of differing Pacific coastlines, hence the need for multiple Shatterdomes through the Rim. Of the last ten Breach dilations, six had spawned wormholes off the coast of Hong Kong.
“Why are they so focused on us?” asked a man in the crowd, his lavender and blue coveralls denoting him as one of Komar Dancer’s crew.
“Hong Kong is home to one of four of the generator hubs for Earth’s force field,” said Pidge. “It’s the closest to the shoreline. All the others, like the one at the Sonoran Galaxy Garrison, are farther inland.”
“Perhaps,” said Romelle, “Zarkon’s focus lies on particular targets. His son, for instance. Or those who once served him.”
“Sincline and Komar Dancer aren’t the only jaegers crewed by Galra. There’s SteelServal piloted by Narti and Groft at Australia Shatterdome,” said Marshal Holt. “Thace and Tetra pilot KillStroke. They are the only remaining team left at the Alaska Shatterdome. If Zarkon were driven entirely by vindictiveness, Alaska would be a logical point of attack.”
Lance looked at Pidge, a question in his blue eyes.
“Thace was one of warlord Prorok’s captains, a double agent working for the Blade of Marmora,” whispered Pidge. “Zarkon’s probably not too thrilled with him,”
“Ah,” he whispered back. “You need a flowchart to keep track of all the complicated Galra politics.”
“Perhaps it is time to consolidate all the jaegers, here, at this Shatterdome,” said Lotor. Pidge knew Lotor had been advocating for this for some time.
Marshal Holt shook his head. “I don’t want to leave any of the remaining operational Shatterdomes without a jaeger.” He gestured at those assembled, particularly the pilots. “It’s possible our greater numbers are why we are being targeted. Adding more could just slap a bigger target on our backs.”
Lotor gave the Marshal a respectful nod, but even Pidge could see, from the arch of silver eyebrows, that he would continue to press for the consolidation of all jaegers at Hong Kong Shatterdome.
“Good job, everyone.” Marshal Holt smiled a genuine smile. Just as quickly as the expression had transformed him to genial father figure, his face turned stern. “Now everyone back to work. I want all jaegers operational within 24 hours.”
“Yes, sir,” came the collected affirmation from the crowd, which hurriedly dispersed.
“Jaeger pilots.” Holt took in those present. “Debriefing in my office starting with Sincline’s crew. Then Komar Dancer, Goshawk, and last but not least, Blue.” His gaze swept over all except Sincline’s pilots. “The rest of you, go get something to eat.”
Pidge started after him, but he shook his head. “You too, Gunderson. Get some food. That’s an order.”
Romelle and Bandor were emerging from Marshal Holt’s office when Lance and Pidge arrived and Lance felt an odd sense of déjà vu. He smiled cheerfully and said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Instead of her usual ignore and flounce right by routine, Romelle marched up to Lance. “This is not funny. Nothing about this is funny. Why is everything a joke to you?”
“Uh, because, life sucks and then you die. Because I’m hiding my deep pain under a wisecracking façade.”
Pidge made a little snorting noise.
Romelle shot Pidge a heated glance but kept her angry blond elf stare on Lance. “Bandor and I were nearly killed out there. We were overwhelmed and outnumbered.”
“How is that my fault? I didn’t send a flock of angry, mechanized seagulls at you guys. That was Haggar.”
“If we had been at full strength, if the blue jaeger had pilots who were ready to do their jobs, we would have had backup sooner.” She poked a finger at Lance. “But instead, we have you.”
“Hey,” said Pidge. “We did our job.”
“You arrived late because Marshal Holt was afraid to put you both in a jaeger again.”
“That’s on Holt, then, isn’t it?” snapped Lance.
“Until three days ago, Blue was still under reconstruction,” said Pidge. “We’ve been understaffed for months.”
“This facility had several ready candidates on hand,” said Romelle. “Candidates that Pidge supposedly trained. Yet, when the moment arrives, Holt’s pet somehow puts himself on the mat against Lance.”
“Pidge has been at the Shatterdome for six years,” noted Lance. “He’s earned the right to be on the mat.”
“Pidge is a lab rat, not a pilot.” Romelle glared at Lance. “You are the man whose ineptitude got Princess Allura killed.”
Lance started to speak, but there was truth in Romelle’s words. It should have been me. A small crowd was starting to gather around them, including enormous Zethrid and Ezor.
“Take it back,” said Pidge. “Apologize to him.” She had put herself between Lance and Romelle. Hands fisted at her side, she glared up at the taller woman.
“No.” Romelle leaned down into her space.
“Apologize. Now!”
“Make me.”
Pidge’s roundhouse punch, fist impacting Romelle’s face with a decisive thud, came as a total surprise to Lance as well as Romelle. The Altean woman’s head whipped to the side and her body followed. Pidge, apparently was equally surprised, big brown eyes blinking slowly as she looked at her own fist, as though it had acted without her permission.
“Romelle,” cried Bandor.
Unfortunately, Romelle could take a punch. She quickly steadied herself and came at Pidge, her hands falling on Pidge’s shoulders, a leg whipping Pidge’s legs out from under her with dazzling speed. Although Romelle looked like a prom queen, she was Altean, her strength and speed superior to most humans.
Pidge flailed, for a moment nearly staying on her feet. Lance reached to stop her fall, but she fell sideways out of his grasp, and let out a pained grunt as she hit the floor.
Romelle immediately pounced on Pidge, but Pidge countered, lifted a leg and got a hard knee into Romelle’s side. Once, twice, driving the Altean off her. Romelle fell to the hard floor and Pidge scrambled up. For a second their positions were reversed, Pidge on top, her fists punching Romelle in the face, the dull slap of fists impacting flesh the only sound in the hallway.
Romelle, however, swung an arm in a clumsy punch that unfortunately connected with the side of Pidge’s head. Lance winced, his ears ringing in sympathy.
Pidge fell forward and the two women wrestled, rolling on the floor in an awkward snarl of arms and legs.
“Ooo, a fight,” someone in the crowd said. Knowing Shatterdome culture, bets were already being made regarding the outcome. Lance circled the two battling women, looking for a way to pull them apart.
“Ow!” shrieked Romelle. She pushed herself up, rising to a crouch, hand on her cheek, blood oozing energetically from a weird, ragged, crescent-shaped wound. “You little beast!”
Pidge lay on the floor, eyes fogged, blood running from her nose and a split lip.
“Pidge.” Lance hurried toward her, but Romelle moved too fast, fisting two handfuls of her shaggy, chestnut hair. She lifted Pidge’s head and banged it down on the floor with skull-cracking force. From the assembled crowd came gasps of shock and groans of sympathy.
Lance lost any semblance of cool, reaching down for Romelle’s collar and yanking her off Pidge. “Don’t you touch her!” Livid with rage, he punched Romelle in the nose, following that with another knuckle-bruising bash to the jaw. Hands grabbed him from behind, but he swung out a leg, booted foot hitting Romelle’s knee, which crumbled satisfyingly.
“Lance,” a gruff voice said. “Calm down.” The arms that held him were covered in a thick leather shirt, the big hands clawed and purple. Someone else darted to Pidge, bending over and helping her sit up.
Lance, still enraged, struggled in the huge person’s arms, eyes on Pidge, but shooting Romelle, who leaned on her brother, malevolent glares.
“You okay, Pidgey?” said Ezor in her weirdly syrupy voice.
Pidge nodded, but her eyes were glazed. Her hands went to her face. “Where muh-my glasses?”
Lance glanced over his shoulder, and tried to nod reassuringly at his captor, Zethrid. “I’m good.”
“You still look angry, little man,” the hulking woman said dryly.
Sinna, one of the fight’s audience, slipped from the crowd and picked Pidge’s glasses from the floor. “Here they are.”
As Ezor helped Pidge to her feet, Pidge replaced her eyewear, though they sat crookedly on her nose, earpieces badly bent. Lance’s heart panged sadly. Those glasses, once her older brother Matt’s, were dear to her, a good luck charm. He shrugged off Zethrid. “I’m good. Really.”
He went to Pidge, and giving Ezor a polite nod—the alien woman’s kindness to his partner raising her in his esteem—pulled Pidge gently against his chest. She leaned against him, her body trembling.
The door to Marshal Holt’s office opened. Holt surveyed the scene, confusion and then anger on his lean, bearded face.
“What’s going on here!”
“He attacked me,” said Romelle, glaring at Pidge than at Lance. “He did as well.” She pointed at her face, the bite mark, broken nose and other darkening bruises.
Bandor looked as though he wanted to interject, but at his sister’s sharp look, stared at his boots.
“She was c-cruel to Lance,” said Pidge. “She started...it. She de-de..served it.” Her voice was small, words slurred.
“You two,” Marshal Holt pointed at two Shatterdome guards who’d arrived on scene. “Take them all down to the Icebox to cool off.”
“No!” said Lance. “Uh, no…sir?” He tilted his head at Pidge. “It’s not Pidge’s fault.”
“Really?” Marshal Holt arched an eyebrow and pointed a finger at Romelle’s face, at the bloody bite mark on her cheek. “Did you bite her?” Apparently, Holt knew his daughter all too well.
Lance shook his head. “That was Pidge, but sh-he was defending me. And Romelle had him pinned down. It wasn’t a fair fight.”
“‘A fair fight?’” The Marshal said incredulously. “You’re all Rangers. The only fighting you should be doing is in a jaeger, against kaijus.” He took the three in. “You’re all a disgrace.”
The guards advanced and Pidge wobbled in his arms. Lance’s eyes tracked to his chest, moved there by the hot, wet trickle of blood dripping from Pidge’s hair.
“Sir,” pleaded Lance, holding up a hand. “I’ll take Pidge’s time in the Icebox. I’ll take his punishment.”
Holt’s brown eyes met his and Lance shrank a little under the hard scrutiny. “Pidge is badly hurt, bleeding. Look at him. Probably a concussion or worse. Needs to be in the infirmary, not the Icebox.” Romelle had taken a several clonks to the head too, but at the moment Lance didn’t give a shit about her because she’d nearly bashed Pidge’s skull in. Lance had thrown his fair share of punches, but he knew, at the end of the day, you don’t go for lethal force against teammates.
Colleen Holt took a hesitant step from the office, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as her gaze fell on her daughter’s bruised and bloodied face, clearly torn between love for her child and the need not to show obvious bias. “Both Gunderson and Romelle need medical care,” she said.
Marshal Holt cut a quick glance at his wife.
“Fine. Take Gunderson and Romelle to the infirmary. If they aren’t serious injured, Icebox.”
When the guards didn’t immediately move, Marshal Holt barked, “Are your feet glued to the floor?” He pointed at Lance, then Romelle and Pidge. “Put him on ice. Get those two to the infirmary.”
“Yes, sir,” they said, hurrying toward the three combatants.