elysiumae

[elysiumae]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 15k

synopsis: pacrim!au. how did it get longer. it was supposed to be one part but it got too long and now i have to split it into two. truly the hydra of fanfics...

chapters: one | two | three | four | five

III. FISSION

Phainon snores.

It’s a fact — or a memory — that you haven’t had to recall for a long time. You thought you’d buried all of them years ago, under the blackened sand of a beach razed to ash, together with the decaying remains of your childhood. But now you’re lying in a bed, too aware of the fact that Phainon is fast asleep in the bunk just above yours. Separated by nothing but metal frames and a mattress that’s not quite thick enough for your liking.

It’s been years since you’ve last shared a space with someone like this, and the proximity sets something in you on the edge. It’s almost too intimate. But it’s Phainon. 

Things could be worse, you suppose.

Just like yesterday night. It’d been… a lot, to put things lightly. Your admission of fear (ugh), the tears that had escaped your eyes somehow (straight up embarrassing). But you don’t think anything had quite unraveled you as much as the gentleness in Phainon’s hands, when he’d wiped the tears from your eyes. 

You don’t remember how long the two of you had simply sat there, until the exhaustion had won out. He’d climbed back into his bunk after a while, you think, though not before pulling the covers over you first as you'd desperately pretended to be asleep. Yet something else that you’re not emotionally prepared to unpack at the moment, you think.

And now, at exactly seven o’clock, the Shatterdome’s claxon blares through the ranger wing. You groan and bury your face in the pillow, as though that can somehow drown out the banshee wailing over the speakers.

Above you, you can hear Phainon rousing slowly, the bunk creaking as he stretches in his bed. It’s followed by the soft thud of his feet hitting the floor, then the rustle of fabric — digging through the closet, maybe. Then there’s a pause, long enough that you peek over the edge of your blanket.

Only to find his face hovering inches away from yours.

The two of you lock eyes, and you spot it — his white hair is hopelessly mussed from sleep, sticking up at the back like the tail of a disgruntled duckling. Looks like that hasn’t changed, at least. But when you would have teased him and attempted to help him flatten it down years ago, now you’re not sure how to react. Do you say good morning? Ask him if he slept well? Ignore him, maybe? Even after all the words that had been said yesterday night, you can still feel a strange tension lingering in the air between the two of you.

Or maybe that’s just you?

Your spiralling is interrupted, thankfully, when Phainon suddenly yawns. “Morning,” he rasps, voice an octave lower than usual and rough with sleep. And then he just turns around and heads off into the shower like nothing’s happened.

The door clicks shut behind him, and you stare at it for a few seconds before flopping onto your mattress hopelessly again. Gods. It’s too much, too fast, too ordinary after all those years of silence and distance. You suppose you should try to act normal? What even is considered normal between the two of you, now?

You’re about a third of the way through your second existential crisis of the morning when the bathroom door opens again. Phainon leans out, sweatpants riding low on his hips and a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. And he’s shirtless.

“Wh’f ‘re you ‘oin?” he mumbles around the toothbrush, eyelids still drooping with sleep. Oh, and did you mention that he’s shirtless?

You sit up so fast you nearly crack your head open on the upper bunk. “What am I doing? What are you doing?”

Phainon blinks and pulls the toothbrush from his mouth with a wet pop. “Oh, right. I forgot to tell you yesterday.” He gestures vaguely at the handle of the bathroom door. “The lock on this thing is broken.” He pauses, glances at you again. “Just in case you wanted to know.”

“You couldn’t wait until after your shower to tell me that?”

He shrugs, hip balanced against the doorframe. Why is he not going back inside? “Was afraid I’d forget.”

You stare back at him — or somewhere between his ear and the bathroom wall behind him. Definitely not anywhere beneath his chin. “Well, I won’t peek.” And when he still doesn’t react, you add, slowly, “Scout’s honour…?”

Phainon simply looks at you for a few more seconds, before his lips suddenly twitch. 

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t be anything you haven’t seen before,” he says with a shrug, before disappearing back into the bathroom. You’re left gaping at the closed door for a beat, bemused. Why’s he making you out to be some kind of pervert? Then a long forgotten memory of rubber ducks and a red-faced, sniffling Phainon surfaces from the recesses of your mind and your mouth drops open.

How does he even still remember that!?

You reach for a pillow — your only pillow, thank you very much — and hurl it at the bathroom door. “That wasn’t on purpose!” You yell back before you can help yourself, indignant. “And you were in diapers!”

His laughter echoes off the tile walls, muffled by the door separating the two of you. You shake your head, running a hand through your hair in exasperation. Insufferable bastard…

The shower turns on a moment later. Against your better judgment, you find your gaze drifting back to the door. The brief glimpse that you’d gotten of him lingers stubbornly in your mind — the sharp definition of his shoulders, the lean taper of his waist. 

His teasing comment hadn’t been entirely accurate, either: neither the thin golden line circling his chest nor the sun tattoo at the side of his neck had been there the last time you’d seen him topless. Gods, that had been six years ago. Back when he was still made out of scrawny limbs, when your mother would heap another helping onto his plate and tell him to eat more before the sea breeze carried him off. But he’s not a boy anymore — hasn’t been for a long time, you suppose. But it’s not something that you’ve had to confront before.

Not like this, at least.

You press your palms to your eyelids and inhale deeply. Maybe it’s not something you actually need to confront! Objectively, he’s fit and has muscles! That doesn’t have to mean anything.

By the time Phainon steps out of the shower, you’ve successfully regained your composure somewhat and dart into the bathroom as soon as he exits, brushing your teeth with mechanical efficiency. You keep your eyes fixed on the sink. If you glance up, you might just catch his reflection in the mirror. You’ve had quite enough of him for one morning.

When you emerge, however, Phainon is still there. Leaning against the wall next to the door, arms crossed, dressed in camo pants and a military sweatshirt with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows. There’s still a faint flush clinging to his skin from the heat of the shower.

You shift your weight onto one foot then the other, suddenly awkward. Phainon must feel the same, because his head dips slightly, gaze skirting away as one hand comes up to rest on the back of his neck, before he glances back at you.

“Breakfast?” he asks. You can hear the tentative hope in those words, like he’s extending a truce.

It’s a simple question, but it feels loaded. Breakfast means sitting together in the mess hall, where people will undoubtedly stare. Where they’ll whisper, question your identity, your origins, how you’re worthy to stand next to the saviour of Amphoreus. It will mean navigating whatever this is between you now — this fragile, awkward thing that’s neither friendship nor hatred nor whatever you used to be.

You hesitate. Phainon’s expression flickers, a quiet tension in his shoulders, like he’s bracing himself to be rejected again.

“Yeah,” you say finally. “Okay.”

His eyes light up, and for a moment it’s like seeing the sun rise over the horizon of Aedes Elysiae again. He lets out a quiet breath, almost like a sigh of relief, and you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close.

“Let’s go, then,” he says, pushing off the wall, and you follow.

The news must have spread overnight. Like a wildfire in the dry season, apparently, because you can feel the eyes of every single person you pass by on you the second you step out of the ranger wing. Catch the whispers, of those who aren’t quite quiet enough, of which there are many — the legendary Deliverer finally has a co-pilot again.

They follow you through the mess hall, all the way down to the chow line. Their gazes are sticky, like sweat clinging uncomfortably to the back of your neck. Your fingers tighten on the metal of your tray. Should have known this would be a bad idea. But before you can tell Phainon that you’ve maybe, perhaps, just so happened to have lost your appetite, you feel a warm hand at the small of your back, ushering you in front of him.

“Don’t worry about them,” Phainon murmurs, leaning down so only you can hear. You don’t miss the way he subtly positions himself to shield you from the stares. “They’re just jealous that you get to share a bunk with me.”

You elbow him lightly in the ribs, but he only laughs — that bright, effortless sound that turns head — and redirects his charm towards the serving staff, flashing them a megawatt grin. Within moments, he’s got the cafeteria ladies smiling, and one even slips an extra piece of chicken pie onto your tray with the same indulgent fondness the beach vendors back in Aedes Elysiae used to show him.

And it’s not just them. It’s dizzying to watch, this confident ease with which Phainon moves. A table of junior cadets straighten in their seats when he walks by. Some older J-Techs call out a brief greeting, clasping him on the shoulder — how does he know all of them by name? Even a stern faced officer gives him a slight nod as he passes by. This is a man who’s never known what it means to be invisible — a sun around which the entire Shatterdome orbits.

You try to sidle towards one of the quieter corners, but Phainon steers you by the shoulders towards a table, where familiar faces look up in greeting. For a moment, you see surprise flicker across some of their expressions — they must have heard about your outburst, yesterday — but then Stelle just grins, and kicks out an empty chair with her boot. For you. 

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” she drawls, grinning at you. 

Dan Heng offers you a silent nod across the table, where he’s using a knife to methodically dismantle his breakfast. Next to him, March practically vibrates in her seat with what must be enough energy to power a Jaeger. “Ohmygosh, congratulations!” She claps her hands, eyes wide with glee. “Official welcome to the cool kids’ table! Do we do hazing? I’ve always wanted to try hazing!”

Caelus salutes you with his fork. There’s an entire… baked potato speared on its end, wobbling precariously. “Took you guys long enough. We were about to start betting whether Phainon’s snoring had made you take off into the night.”

“He was so loud we thought an earthquake had hit Okhema,” March whisper-shouts across the table, almost conspiratorially.

A flush creeps up Phainon’s neck as he slides into the cramped space next to you. The table’s a little too small, and his thigh presses warm against yours under the steel surface. “That was one time,” he grumbles, insistent. “And I’d spent four hours sparring with Mydei after taking down a Cat 3 in Styxia. Cut me some slack.”

“Uh huh,” Caelus says, around a mouthful of potato. “Whatever you say, Eggman.”

March giggles into her hands while Dan Heng’s lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile. Phainon exhales through his nose, looking like a man who’s endured this particular brand of torment for far too long, and reaches for his coffee like it’s the only thing standing between him and homicide.

“Anyways,” he turns to you with an exasperated shake of the head, “you’ve met these clowns already.” There’s warmth flickering in his eyes that betrays his amusement as he gestures vaguely at the table, before nodding to the two rangers sitting opposite you. “And this is Mydei and Castorice. They’re pilots of Nikador.”

You glance at them. Mydei sits in his chair with the casual confidence of a giant predatory cat, all broad shoulders and languid muscle. The sleeveless military tank top exposes the red tattoos crawling over his arms, strange yet oddly beautiful. There’s a jagged scar running from his collarbone to his right bicep, too — the kind of injury that would have ended any normal man’s career.

Next to him, Castorice offers you a polite smile. Her purple eyes flicker with some sort of recognition. “We’ve met before.” Her soft voice belies the firm grip she has when she shakes your hand. “I didn’t know that you were Phainon’s new co-pilot.”

Her lilac braid drapes over the shoulder of a white lab coat. The little tag above her pocket reads: Neuroscience Division.

“So, you’re the unlucky soul who tested drift compatible with this disaster, huh?” Mydei’s eyes, sharp and gold, look you up and down with a sort of… intense curiosity. It’s like making eye contact with a panther. “So what’s the secret? Blackmail? Hypnosis? Ancient blood ritual?”

“Don’t be too discouraged if your NeuroSync scores with him aren’t that great,” March chimes in, vibrating in her seat like a hummingbird on espresso. Her rapid blinking suggests whatever’s in her coffee shouldn’t be legally classified as caffeine. “Half the Shatterdome’s tried and failed, so it’s already a miracle that you managed to sync with him! Drift compatibility can grow over time, like a friendship garden. With enough neural watering and tender loving care—”

“This is breakfast, not an interrogation session,” Phainon cuts in with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, although the upward twitch of his lips gives his amusement away. He nudges your tray closer to you, a silent reminder to eat. “But for the record, I think eighty-six is a good enough number for now.”

The clatter of cutlery at the table ceases. Even Dan Heng’s knife freezes mid-incision, his egg yolk bleeding slowly across the tray.

Mydei’s fork clatters to the table with a metallic ping. “Eighty-six?” He looks between the two of you as though you’ve just announced you’ve gotten Phainon pregnant or something. “You’re joking. With this guy?”

Phainon straightens up in his seat so fast it squeaks. “Hey. Hey.” He waves a hand at Mydei’s shell-shocked face. “What does that mean, huh? What’s wrong with me?”

Stelle raises a hand, grinning. “You want the list ordered by category? Or in alphabetical order—”

“Ooh, ooh!” March claps excitedly. “Let’s do—”

“March,” Phainon groans, rubbing at his temples. “Not helping.”

“That’s higher than what Mydei and Castorice scored the last time they synced, if I remember correctly,” Caelus remarks with the tone of someone who most definitely remembers. There’s a little gleam in his eyes, like a pyromaniac dumping kerosene onto a fire.

“Which was last year,” Mydei grinds out, his jaw tightening as he folds his arms across his chest. The red tattoos on his biceps almost look like they’re pulsing with annoyance. “We haven’t needed testing since.”

Castorice sips at her early grey, completely unbothered. “Eighty-two was perfectly adequate,” she comments, mildly.

“Maybe it’s the childhood friends trope!” March gasps dramatically. She clasps her hands together, pink-blue eyes sparkling with either excitement or insanity as she looks between you and Phainon. “Like in those romance dramas, where the lead couple always ends up—”

Phainon inhales his coffee wrong and you reach over to slap his back as he chokes. Dan Heng, bless his heart, leans over and shoves a bread roll into March’s mouth before she can continue.

“W’t? Mght be st'tclly sgnfcn't!" she protests indignantly, spraying crumbs across the table. "Sh'rd h'story an’ all t’at—"

“Eat,” Dan Heng deadpans, before returning his attention to his half-dissected eggs.

The chaos and noise is almost a little too overwhelming, but there’s a sort of warmth that you don’t quite… hate. You find yourself glancing at Phainon, only to see him already looking at you, cheek propped up on his palm. He meets your gaze with a defeated shrug, the corner of his mouth curling up in a lopsided grin as though to say you see what I have to put up with?

“You should eat too,” he hums, nudging your tray closer. “Before it gets cold. Or March starts diagramming neural pathways with the ketchup.”

A question burns in the back of your throat: just how much do they know about us? And then, how much do they know about me? How many stories has Phainon told over late-night drinks or sparring sessions, and how did he speak of you in them? 

You push your fork through the flaky crust of your pie, lost in your thoughts, before you become suddenly hyperaware of Mydei’s golden eyes tracking the motion like a predator assessing prey. The competitive tension radiates off him in waves, like heat from a burning brazier.

“Eighty-six,” he mutters again, shaking his head like the universe has personally offended him. 

Castorice pats his arm. “It’s not a competition. Don’t be bothered by it.”

“I’m not bothered by it,” he grumbles, and stabs at his omelettes with an unnecessary amount of force. Stelle just snickers.

“Could have fooled me.”

Phainon leans back in his chair, the picture of smug confidence. “You could always retest. See if you’ve gotten less insufferably stubborn.”

“You’re one to talk,” he snipes back, but his gaze snaps to Castorice. She doesn’t even look up from her tea. 

“No, Mydeimos.”

As the table erupts into laughter, you feel Phainon's shoulder press against yours — warm and solid. Around you, the conversation flows effortlessly. Stelle is arguing with March about the superior drama trope, while Caelus picks out all the cucumbers in his sandwich and slides them onto Dan Heng’s plate. Castorice explains to Mydei that no, another NeuroSync is unnecessary, we already function perfectly fine without it and—

And for the first time since arriving at the Shatterdome, you don’t feel like an outsider looking in.

Phainon takes you to the Kwoon combat room after breakfast.

You grimace the second you see the familiar set of doors, already guessing what’s lying in wait. No more idle time or Shatterdome tours with Tribbie anymore, because this is the damn military and you’ve become part of this circus whether you like it or not. Guess this is your life, now. Until Phainon tests drift compatible with someone else, at least.

“No candles or roses, unfortunately,” Phainon announces, as he holds the door open for you with an exaggerated flourish. “But I can promise bruises and existential dread.”

“Well, you definitely know how to make a girl swoon,” you mutter, but step inside regardless, the sharp tang of antiseptic and stale sweat hitting your nose. The training mats look a little damp under the fluorescent lights, presumably from some poor recruits’ training sessions before dawn. Along the far wall, a row of practice dummies stand at attention, their padded bodies bearing the scars of countless beatings. You run a hand along one’s stitching, feel where the material has worn thin.

“Hey, why does the combat room only have—” you turn around to ask, and immediately freeze.

Phainon is in the middle of peeling off his sweatshirt, the fabric dragging up over his torso before he pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. Underneath, a fitted black tank clings to the lean planes of his torso, sleeves cutting off just where the curve of his shoulders meets his arms. Your throat tightens.

Look away.

You do — too late, probably — pretending desperately to focus on whatever’s closest to you. A loose thread on your sleeve. But not before spotting the way the light catches on the golden ink curling over his collarbone.

“See something interesting?” he teases, tossing the sweatshirt onto a nearby bench. Fuck. 

“Just wondering how much you paid for that tacky tattoo,” you shoot back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. What is going on with you today? Phainon presses a dramatic hand to his chest. 

“You wound me,” he says, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays his amusement. “The artist who did this guaranteed it'd increase my drift effectiveness by at least… four percent.”

“Four percent? Should have cashed out for the ten percent model instead.”

He laughs as he stretches, both arms overhead. The movement pulls the fabric taut across his shoulders. Is this guy doing this on purpose? And when he turns to set his phone at the edge of the mat, you catch more of the tattoo trailing down the exposed line of his spine. It’s more elaborate that you’d first thought, fine lines shimmering like sunbeams across his tan skin.

Bad, you scold yourself like a dog that’s just been caught nibbling at chocolate. Stop looking.

“So,” you say, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to distract yourself, “what fresh torture are you ready to serve up this fine morning? Waterboarding? Bed of nails? Or are we jumping straight into medieval rack stretching?”

“I heard that does wonders for flexibility.” Phainon grins. An infuriating, lopsided smile that always meant trouble when you were kids. “But sadly, no. Ever heard of judo?” he asks, far too innocently.

“If I say no, can I leave?”

“Nice try.” He tosses you a towel from the supply shelf. “But unless you’ve suddenly developed the ability to teleport out of the Shatterdome, you’re stuck here with me. The General asked me to…”

He pauses mid-sentence, rubs at the back of his neck. “I think Aglaea might have a soft spot for you, actually.”

“What?” The admission catches you off guard enough that you nearly drop the towel. “She looks at me like I’m a stain on her favourite uniform.”

Phainon snorts out a laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. “She usually doesn’t involve herself in such personal matters.” That’s because of you, idiot… “Maybe you remind her of Cifera.” 

The name is unfamiliar to you. “Cifera?”

He rotates his wrist in a slow, deliberate circle as he warms up, and you mirror him without thinking. Phainon’s fingers are dotted with old callouses and new bruises, the hands of a man who hasn’t stopped fighting for a long, long time. “Another stray I heard Aglaea took in years ago, even before I became a ranger. Had a…  complicated background, too.” He hesitates a little, glances over at you. “She disappeared, a while after. No one’s heard from her since.”

You’re about to press further when he claps his hands together. “Anyway! Basic hand-to-hand is non-negotiable. Let’s start with some—”

“Right,” you grip the hem of your shirt. “I wanted to ask why no one here seems to use a gun, huh? Surely you don’t beat the kaiju up with big sticks?”

Phainon shrugs. “I mean, Stelle and Caelus did almost knock a kaiju out with a cargo ship when they were stationed in Belobog.” Intergalactic Baseballer, alright. “But no, we don’t. The staff training is just a means of building up reflexes in close combat and increasing overall physical fitness.”

“Aren’t I going to be in a big metal monster?” you ask, frowning. “Why do I need to increase my overall physical fitness?”

Phainon’s lips twitch. “Someone’s not too enthusiastic,” he teases lightly, which is an… understatement, to say the least. “The reason is that we’ll be in suits.”

“Not the Hugo Boss kind, I’m assuming?”

A laugh bursts from his mouth at that. “Unfortunately. When you’re piloting, they’ll put you in a suit with neural relay gel, so that the Jaeger can pick up on your thoughts and movements in real time. It’s like being stuffed into a sausage casing, but half as appetising and three times as sweaty.” He makes a face at the thought and then sighs. “Moving in those things is exhausting. Trust me, you’ll need the endurance.”

“Yay…” you respond, staring mournfully at the mats. Don’t really have a choice now, do you…

Phainon runs you through what must be a step-by-step military mandated torture routine. Warm up starts with basic push ups, if an infinite number of push ups could be considered basic. And Phainon, unfairly, knocks them out with military precision that makes you question his humanity, form perfect even as the muscles in his arms and back strain against that goddamn tank top. 

You’re no slouch yourself, but by the thirtieth rep, your arms are already trembling. Gods, what circle of hell did you sign your soul away to?

“Elbows in,” Phainon reminds you, reaching up to poke at your arm — is he planking with one arm, now? It has the opposite effect, however, because you just collapse face first onto the mat, breath escaping your lungs just like your will to live. After a few seconds, you feel the gentle nudge of his foot against your ribs.

“These were supposed to be push ups.” He sounds like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “Not naptime.”

“I’m conserving energy.”

He laughs at that. “I hope it’s for the next exercise.”

The sit ups are somehow worse. You barely make it through half the set before flopping back onto the mat, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish. You’re gasping like a fish out of water. You’re feeling muscles in your abdomen that you didn’t even know existed. 

As you attempt to catch your breath, Phainon drops down cross-legged next to you. His hair, slightly damp from the workout, is pushed back, a few white strands sticking to his forehead. The slight sheen of sweat makes the gold of his tattoos stand out even more. Annoying, smug, attractive bastard…

He smacks your shoulder lightly. “You know sit-ups consist of actually sitting up, right? Not just lying down indefinitely.”

“Ha ha, you’re so funny” you deadpan in response, too tired to even process what is leaving your mouth. “Hilarious, even. Have you ever considered stand-up comedy instead of Jaeger piloting?”

He ignores your sarcasm. “How many do you have left?” 

“Six,” you lie through your teeth, blatantly.

“Good try,” Phainon raises an eyebrow at you, almost amused. “You have another sixteen to go.”

“You were counting? Gods, some people would call you obsessed.” You throw an arm over your eyes in despair. “How about you just tell me to lie down on some train tracks and sing the Funeral March instead?”

He blinks, looking surprised. “It’s a vocal piece?”

It’s not. “You’re missing the point here,” you grumble, staring up at the ceiling, the flickering overhead lights. Every part of your body aches. “The point is, if I die, you have no more partner to get into a Jaeger with. Think of all the drift testing you’ll have to do.”

“I already have to. The General’s got me scheduled with another batch of recruits in a couple of days.” He gives you that infuriatingly amused look — the one that says he's enjoying this far too much. "Alright," he relents, after a bit. “You do eight, and I’ll do the other eight.”

Eight is pushing it, but you groan and force yourself up again. The burn in your abs is vicious. "One..."

Phainon, the overachiever, finishes all eight in the time it takes you to struggle through three. When you finally collapse back into the embrace of gravity, you see Phainon grinning down at you. You don’t know whether it’s sweat or tears stinging your eyes. “Think I’ll become fitter after we drift in a Jaeger?”

A snort escapes him at that. “Drifting isn’t magic, unfortunately.”

“Damn it…” You roll onto your side, studying Phainon for a moment. “Then, do you think I’ll understand why you want to be in a Jaeger so badly?”

Phainon’s expression shifts, surprise flickering across his features like sunlight fracturing through leaves. “Didn’t you ask this before? Like I said, everyone has a responsibility—” 

That word again. Everyone. You tilt your head, studying his expression, the way a few strands of his white hair falls into his eyes. "I know why Aglaea wants you in a Jaeger and why the PPDC needs their precious Deliverer. But that's not what I asked."

They say the drift isn’t just about syncing movements in the Jaeger. It’s a melding of thoughts, memories, impulses. A neural bridge where two minds blur into one. 

Hyacine had told you that the NeuroSync had been a pale imitation of what actual Drifting would be like. You wonder if his dreams will bleed into yours, if you’ll wake up knowing how it feels to have sunlight course through your veins. Maybe you’ll see the war through his eyes, feel the heat of the fire that drives him headfirst towards this insanity. 

Will you be less afraid, once he’s in your head? Or will the drift just make the terror twice as loud?

Phainon looks away, throat working as he swallows. The golden tattoo at the side catches the light as he turns. Will you find out why he got that, too? “I’m not that great,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, tinged with something more rueful, melancholic. “Just some guy that got lucky. And this Deliverer nonsense…” He shakes his head, a deprecating, bitter twist to his lips. “I’m not who they think I am. But people put their hopes in me. And I can’t just… walk away from that.” He exhales. “So I have no choice but to live up to it.”

You can feel the pressure on his shoulders as he speaks, almost as if it’s pressing onto yours as well. You wonder what it must feel like, to bear the weight of the world on your back. 

But that’s still not the question you wanted to ask.

“Let me rephrase,” you sit up, leaning closer. “Why did you want to become a Ranger in the first place? Before the titles and expectations.” You gesture around the training room. “You could’ve been LOCCENT. J-Tech. Even a janitor. Anything else.”

Phainon blinks, thrown off by the question. His fingers flex absently at his sides. "I don't have the brains for J-Tech," he jokes, but the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes. For a moment, he looks almost lost, as if he's never truly considered the question himself. “Guess it’s because I.. remember.”

You frown. “Remember?”

He nods, absently. His eyes are faraway now, as though looking at something that only he can see. “I remember what it feels like to be helpless in front of a kaiju.” His hand tightens on his knee, fingers curling in the fabric of his pants. “That moment, when the world goes dark under its shadow, and you realise there’s nothing — nothing — you can do to stop it.”

The air between the two of you grows heavy with his admission. Somewhere beyond the training room walls, the Shatterdome hums with its usual activity, but time here seems to slow.

“And I was angry,” he admits, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Nothing quite beats being able to look the thing you hate in the eye and punch it back.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips, but there's no joy in it. "Childish, maybe."

It’s not. “Even if it meant dying?”

“Even then.”

You study him — the tension in his jaw, the way he unconsciously rubs at the tattoo on his neck. The pieces click together suddenly, sharply. This isn't just about duty or responsibility. For him, this is something far more personal.

Before you can respond, Phainon shakes his head. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back into that familiar, easy confidence. “Besides,” he adds, forcing lightness into his tone, “have you seen the LOCCENT uniforms? The colour would look terrible on me.”

The deflection is obvious, but you let it pass. “So… vanity and spite,” you summarise for him, raising a brow.

“Yup,” Phainon pops the ‘p’ as he hauls you to your feet. His fingers linger on yours for a brief moment before releasing you, callouses catching against your skin. His eyes crinkle with amusement. “Had to slay both the kaiju and the runway. Multitalented, really.”

You make a sound of disgust in the back of your throat, like a gag. “I don’t want to hear that from someone who once wore a mustard-yellow button up shirt and purple dromas pants and genuinely thought that he was at the peak of fashion.”

Phainon reels back as though you’ve struck him. “It was avant-garde,” he hisses defensively in response, though the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. “How do you still even remember that? It was like a decade ago!”

“Trauma leaves permanent psychological scars,” you deadpan, delighting in the way his scowl deepens. He’s not the only one who can remember things from years ago, is he?

With a grumble, Phainon snatches up a practice staff and chucks another at you with just enough force to make you scramble. He sinks into a low stance, muscles coiling beneath that sweat-damp tank top. “Enough reminiscing,” he demands, spinning his staff with unnecessary flourish. “I want to beat your ass again.”

“Oooh, kinky—” The staff smacks into your calf. “Ow!”

The confrontation sneaks up on you like a bad hangover.

It’s about sometime early in the morning, and Phainon has another round of drift tests to get to. You, on the other hand, are enroute to your first neural relay suit fitting when you pass by a group of recruits who look vaguely familiar. Might be the same group that you’d seen that day speaking to Phainon at the maintenance ledge, you think absently as you continue to walk. But before you can leave the corridor, you hear a voice call out from behind you.

“Hey, newbie. Got a second?”

You turn to see four recruits leaning against the bulkhead. One of them — a wiry girl with short dark hair — pushes off the wall with deliberate slowness. You recognise her, the one who’d sworn to match up to Cyrene. And you recognise the air hanging about her, too, one that screams confrontational and looking for trouble all over it. 

Which you aren’t. “I have somewhere else to be,” you say. Before you can start walking again, however, a tall, broad-shouldered guy steps into your path. 

"Aw, come on," he says. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "We're just trying to welcome you properly. Show you how things work around here."

It smells like a whole crockpot of bullshit. But you don’t want to cause a scene, so you have little choice but to let them herd you toward a dim maintenance corridor, their bodies forming an unsubtle barrier. Inside, the lights flicker intermittently, casting jagged shadows across their faces.

The lead girl crosses her arms. “So. Where’d you come from, anyway? No one’s seen you before the compatibility testing.”

Straight to the point, you see. You shrug, slipping your hands into your pockets. “Around.”

The girl’s expression twists into something ugly. “‘Around,’” she mimics. It’s amusing, how she doesn’t even bother hiding the hostility on her face. The guy next to her — lanky, thin and with a permanent scar sneer — snorts. 

“Real specific,” he says, taking a step closer. You can smell his breakfast on his breath. Ugh. “Why so secretive, huh? You part of the black ops program or something?”

If only they knew how wildly off mark they are, here. “Or something,” you respond, tilting your head to look at them. “Wow, guys. With all these questions, I’d almost say that you were unnecessarily interested in me or something.” You shake your head mildly and move to step past him. “Unfortunately, I’m not really looking for a foursome right now—”

The girl’s expression darkens. “Enough of this bullshit.” She snaps, slamming her hand against the supply closet behind you. The metal clangs loudly, and you have to force yourself to remain expressionless. “See, here’s the thing. We’ve been grinding like crazy for months just to get into the Jaeger program… and then you show up out of nowhere.” She leans in closer. “And suddenly, you’re compatible with the lieutenant?”

She’s talking about Phainon. The thought almost makes you laugh. You’d braced for many things, when Aglaea had first brought you to the Okhema Shatterdome, but for some reason, petty hazing from jealous recruits just hadn’t crossed your mind. But this is a good sign, you think to yourself. They still don’t know who you are — which means the world doesn’t yet know that the Deliverer’s childhood friend turned petty criminal has tested drift compatible with him. That secret still remains safely hidden, by Aglaea, no doubt.

The lanky one leans in, very deliberately invading your personal space. "What, cat got your tongue now? Or you just playing dumb?"

“Maybe,” you say slowly, “I just don't see the point in this conversation.” Your voice stays deliberately flat, devoid of the anger they're trying to provoke. They don’t seem to like that.

The broad guy's chuckle is low and unpleasant. “Oh, there's a point.” He crowds into your space, the scent of cheap aftershave sharp in your nose. “See, we think there's something funny about how you got here.”

The girl's smile turns razor-thin. "Yeah. Funny how someone with no record, no training..." Her eyes rake over you. “Just happens to be the only person who’s good enough to be compatible with the Deliverer.”

You scoff. For gods’ sakes, they’re really treating drift compatibility like some sort of dating service. It’s ridiculous, really.

“Maybe she's just too good for the likes of us.” The broad recruit’s hand lands heavy on your shoulder, fingers digging in just shy of painful. "What's your secret, huh? Special favors from command? Or..." He leans in. “... are you just real good at networking, hmm?”

The implication hangs like a live wire between the two of you. Your eyes narrow. 

“Why,” you ask coolly. “Did you?”

The recruit’s face turns red, like a ripening tomato. Then his meaty hand shoves you backward with enough force to make the supply closet doors rattle behind you. One shoulder blade impacts with it and pain blooms across the area. Definitely going to have a bruise there, you think.

The beginnings of panic curl in your throat, but you force it down like a bad tasting whiskey — with gritted teeth and years of practice. Four against one. You’re sorely missing your gun, now, but you've faced worse odds before and made it out alive. Maybe not in one piece, but still...

Your fingers curl around the handle of the mop behind you when the guy steps forward, eyes burning. “Now listen here, you little fuck—”

The door at the end of the hallway swings open with no warning.

A familiar face — Mydei — strides inside, arms crossed over his chest. Each footfall rings out with the certainty of a gunshot. He glances at you, over the recruits surrounding you, to the fist one of them has raised. 

He doesn’t look at all surprised to see you here.

“Well, well, well,” Mydei says, voice dripping with false cheer. “Isn’t this cozy.”

The recruits all freeze like prey animals. The grip on your jacket slackens considerably. Mydei takes a single step forward, the harsh fluorescent lights catching on his tattoos, the scar at his collarbone. “Someone want to explain why my morning walk includes finding you lot playing grab-ass in a maintenance corridor?”

The broad recruit swallows hard enough that you can see his Adam's apple bob. “I was, uh-” His voice cracks. “Just helping get... something off her shirt, sir.”

It’s the worst excuse ever. A ten year old would have been more creative. You try, you really do, but the snort escapes you anyway, and the guy’s face twists uncomfortably in response. 

Mydei’s golden eyes flicker up to you. “Is that so.” His voice is so dry it could turn an ocean into a desert overnight. But then his voice drops. “Look. Normally I’d let you idiots sort out your own pissing contests. But if the General finds out that you’re messing with the Deliverer’s only viable co-pilot—”

Something strange turns in your chest at the designation.

“—I assure you that you’ll be begging to be court martialed.” He bares his teeth in something that isn't quite a smile. “Am I understood?”

The chorus of "Yes sir!" would be comical if not for the genuine fear in their eyes. They scatter like leaves in a hurricane, one recruit nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to escape.

The moment the door shuts behind them, you barely dissolve into fits of laughter. “Did you see his face?” you wheeze, leaning against some pipes for support. “I thought he was gonna piss himself when you materialised out of nowhere. These are the people you want to put into Jaegers?”

Mydei crosses his arms over his chest with a low sigh. “Most soldiers are egomaniacal little freaks. Comes with the testosterone.” He pauses, makes a face. “Well, most of them, at least.” His golden eyes track your movement as you try to rotate your shoulder. “You’re injured.”

You wave him off. “Just a love tap from the supply closet.” But when you tug your collar aside to check, Mydei’s expression darkens — there’s the beginnings of a bruise, an exact imprint of the metal grating, now tattooed across your shoulder blade in a shade of angry, inflamed pink.

“Medical.” Mydei says flatly, in a voice that brookes no argument. “Now.” You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off with a withering look. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Wow,” you mutter, pushing off the wall. “Remind me never to vote for you in any 'Most Approachable Ranger' competitions.”

He scoffs, holds the door open for you. “I’m not the Deliverer,” he deadpans, as if that explains everything.

You pass through the doorway, throwing one last glance at the dented supply closet. “Remind me to thank it later. The imprint’s almost artistic.”

Mydei sighs and follows you down the corridor like a particularly disgruntled shadow. After a few paces, something occurs to you.

“Oh, yeah.” You glance at him as the two of you walk through the Shatterdome. “How’d you know I was in there? It’s not actually on route for your morning walk, is it?”

He looks at you like you’re an idiot. “Of course not. I just happened to be heading to the combat room and saw you getting in there with those four.” His eyes narrow. “When you didn’t come out after a while, I got suspicious.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s… nice, to know that he was looking out for you. You’re not even his co-pilot. “Good thing you came when you did. Things were about to get messy.”

Mydei eyes you from the side. “Why didn’t you shout for help?” The question hangs between the two of you, heavier than he probably intended. You frown. You suppose that, from his point of view, that would be the most logical course of action to take. It’s simply just that from the back alley scraps to the warehouse shootouts, there’s never been a person to call for help. Shouting would have drawn more trouble. And if you didn’t make it, well… there wouldn’t be anyone to call, either.

“It… didn’t cross my mind,” you admit, somewhat lamely. Mydei raises an eyebrow, eyes narrowing. 

He looks like he wants to respond, but eventually refrains from doing so. “Well, next time, make sure it does.” He shakes his head with a sign. “Phainon would go absolutely crazy if something happened to you.”

You snort, amused by how seriously he’s taking this. “That exaggeration is nuts.”

Mydei stops to look at you. His expression is flat. “You’re the one who’s nuts,” he says bluntly, pressing his palm against a biometric scanner, and doesn’t elaborate. You frown. Before you can ask what he means by that, the doors swing open and Mydei steps through, leaving you to jog after him to catch up.

The familiar smell of formaldehyde and entrails hits your nose. This… isn’t any sort of medbay. You squint at the chunk of Terravox’s secondary brain floating in its suspension, before glancing at Mydei. The K-Science biolab again? Why did he bring you here—

“(Name)!” The pink hair biologist rushes out, sea green eyes darting between the two of you curiously. “And hello to you too, Mydei.” She turns to blink at him, gloved hands stained with suspiciously blue liquid. “What brings the two of you here this fine morning? Is your shoulder acting up again?”

“I’m fine. No need to worry about me, Doctor.” You don’t miss the way his voice drops to something more polite, shoulders relaxing — his entire demeanour shifts, actually. Ho? He gestures at you. “This one got herself injured. Could you take a look at her back?”

“Oh!” Hyacine’s brows furrow as she glances over at you, gloved fingers fluttering. “Of course. Take a seat, please.” You follow the doctor’s orders, seating yourself between two bubbling tanks — one containing some cultured skin tissue and the other something distinctly less identifiable. As Hyacine bustles off in search of supplies, you turn to level Mydei with the most insufferable grin you can muster.

He looks like he’s suddenly found the stack of papers on a nearby desk very interesting.

“So…” you let your voice drip with implication. “You and her, huh? No wonder why you were so insistent on… looking after my well-being.”

Mydei shoots you a glare, but even that seems somewhat half-hearted. “There is nothing going on between the doctor and I. She’s just the one who patched up my shoulder when I injured it during a mission.” He shrugs and crosses his arm, leaning against the table. “Trust her more than any surgeon in the whole Shatterdome.”

You open your mouth to respond when Hyacine returns with fresh gloves and a first aid kid. “Now, let’s see this masterpiece of yours,” she chirps, peeling back your collar with a gentle precision. You lean forward so that she can manoeuvre more easily.

Mydei pointedly examines the ceiling vent as she works, but you notice the way his eyes dart over to her every so often. You file that information away for future blackmail purposes.

Hyacine winces when she pulls down your collar. “Oh. Oh dear. That…”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to twist your neck to see. Unsuccessfully, by the way. “That bad?”

“On a scale from ‘oof’ to ‘oh my god’? This is a solid yikes. Let me know what you feel when I touch it.” Her fingers press over your bare skin, and then harder and you suck in a breath through your teeth. “Any kind of sharp pain?”

“Nope, just kind of an ache…  ow! Maybe don’t poke the center so hard.”

The doctor breathes out a sigh of relief. “Looks like it’s not a fracture, at least. We should take care of the swelling first.” She rummages through the kit, producing an instant cold pack that crackles as she activates it. “Mydei, would you help me hold it to her shoulder?” Mydei slides next to you, pressing it against the bruised area. “Thank you. How did this happen?”

You laugh, scratch at your head. “Tripped over my own feet at the gear locker. I’m just clumsy like that,” you lie, easily. Mydei glances at you, eyes narrowing, but lets it go.

“Hmm.” Hyacine studies the bruise for a few more seconds before she hums. “I’ll get you some ointment you can apply after the bruise turns dark. I’ll need to dig for it though…”

“Why did you lie?” Mydei asks, after Hyacine moves over to look through the supply shelves at the back of the lab. His tone isn’t accusatory, but there’s an unfamiliar weight to it.

You shrug and immediately regret it when pain throbs through your shoulder. Ouch… “Easier to just avoid unnecessary conversation. Explaining what happened would just be troublesome.”

“Stop fidgeting.” Mydei clicks his tongue as the ice pack slips. “Look, the only ones who’ll get into trouble are those guys, not you. And it might happen again.”

“I can handle it.”

 He exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing. He seems… irritated? But not angry. “You should tell Phainon, at least.”

You blink up at him, confused. “Why? It’s just a bruise. Not the first or last or worst I’ll get.”

“Why?” Mydei repeats after you, looks like he wants to say something more. He shakes his head. “He might cry if he finds out you’re hiding something like this from him.”

You almost snort at that mental image. “I’m not deliberately hiding it. I just find it unnecessary to tell him.”

“And maybe that’s the problem.” Mydei shifts to stare you straight in the eye, golden gaze gleaming with a heavy intensity that makes you feel as though you’re pinned to your chair. “You seem to think that pain is something that you’re just supposed to swallow. And help is something that needs to be earned.” And once again, you wonder: why does Mydei care so much about this, anyway? It’s not like you’re his co-pilot. When you continue to stare up at him, not quite understanding, Mydei just… sort of sighs, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple as though you’re giving him a headache. “Just… just tell him, okay?”

If he asks, you want to reply, but Hyacine returns then, holding a small tube of ointment in her hands and looking very pleased with herself.

“Thank god for all the labelling I did when I first came to this lab… here!” She hands you the tube, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering between the two of you. “Apply this twice daily and try not to use that arm too much. Oh, and no more wrestling any more gear lockers, alright?”

You take it, the medication cool in your palm. “Of course, Doctor.” You slip it into your pocket and get to your feet, flash both Mydei and Hyacine a smile. “Then, I’ll be going first. Still got that fitting to get to.”

Hyacine smiles and gives you a wave as you walk away. But Mydei…

You can still feel his eyes on you, even after the doors to the K-Science lab have swung closed behind you. 

The neural suit fitting doesn’t take your mind off things.

You leave the tech lab with your skin buzzing from phantom sensors, the feeling of latex and rubber still clinging to your skin. As you walk the corridors back to your room, Mydei’s words echo in your head again.

“He might cry if he finds out you’re hiding this from him.”

Briefly, you wonder how Phainon’s drift tests with that new batch of recruits is going, if he’s found someone better yet, and then, whether you should tell him. You probably won’t be here long, anyway, and the Deliverer has bigger things to worry about than some childish attempt at bullying from jealous recruits. 

The concept of reporting pain still feels foreign. On the streets, vulnerability was a currency for predators that you’d quickly learned not to give away. Here, Mydei regards it like a language that you’ve never known but should learn to speak.

Aglaea’s gambit haunts you, uncomfortably. You wonder just how much dirt she has on you, and if so, how much she’s told Phainon. If he and the rest of the rangers knew the extent of the things you have done — the bodies you’ve left dead under Lygus’ orders, the kind of people you’ve made unthinkable deals with… would they still treat you like someone deserving of kindness? 

You grasp at the ointment tube in your pocket, letting the edges dig into your skin. It’s like you’re living on borrowed time, a stay of execution before the truth comes to light sooner or later and renders you untouchable again.

You hope Phainon tests compatible with someone else soon. Because this fragile truce between the two of you feels like holding your breath underwater, and you’d rather let go first than to watch him realise that he should have never reached for you at all.

You’re still lost in your thoughts when someone bumps into you.

For a second, you’re almost worried that you might be experiencing deja vu from this morning’s incident, but when you look up, you’re relieved to see it’s just a janitor, their mop on the ground.

“Shit, sorry.” You bend down to pick up the mop, hand it back to her. “Wasn’t looking at where I was going—”

The janitor’s fingers curl around yours on the mop, keeping you in place. Your head jerks up in alarm.

“And I wasn’t expecting to find you here, of all places.” A familiar voice purrs, amused. You blink, scarcely able to believe your eyes. Cipher is standing in front of you, dressed in a janitor’s uniform and that familiar alley-cat grin. You don’t have any friends in the city’s underbelly — the streets have taught you know better than that — but she would be the closest thing you have to one. “The boss sent me looking for you, after you missed that drop in Marmoreal.”

Lygus. That strange, familiar fear settles in the pit of your belly. “I practically got abducted. The General wanted me for… reasons.”

“Aww, you poor thing.” Cipher’s blue eyes flash with amusement. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Time’s a little short now, but I’ll be back to getcha out of here in a jiffy.” She flashes you a wink. “Cat-ch you later.”

One moment she’s there, and the next — nothing but an empty corridor stretching before you. You’d almost think you’d hallucinated that whole conversation if not for the faint scent of industrial cleaner and the water from the mop still on the floor.

When it comes to the art of disappearing, Cipher is the best of the best. The two of you have worked together before, and you’ve seen her slip through security grids tighter than this, vanish from maximum security vaults, disappear right under enforcers’ noses. If there’s someone who could extract you from under Aglaea’s all seeing eyes, it’s her.

The corridor stretches endlessly in both directions, and you realize, with a quiet sort of horror, that you're not sure which way you want to go.

You’ve developed a new habit of checking shadows.

It’s almost like you’ve been transported back into the alleys of Marmoreal’s undercity, back when your hands were cleaner and less calloused and guilt still gnaws at the cavity of your chest. Your nerves hum like live wires, every shadow in the corridors stretching too long. Every unfamiliar footstep could be Cipher, materialising out of nowhere with that feline grin and an outstretched hand.

I’ll getcha out of here. Her promise coils in your gut, both a lifeline and a guillotine hanging over your neck.

Part of you knows you should be relieved. The rules of the underworld are brutal, but simpler: survive, profit, run and don’t look back. You’ve already spent your whole life running: from the law, your own morals, from Phainon and Cyrene. What’s one more little escape added to it? It makes sense: you don’t want to step into a Jaeger, to walk out there to an almost certain death, don’t want to die crushed between metal and drowning beneath those cold waves. Body bloated and picked at by crabs at the bottom of the seabed. You don’t want—

(Phantom disappointment curls in your chest.)

You swallow, clench your hands so tight that your fingernails dig into your palms, stare out at the sun rising over the sea as though you’ll find your answers on the horizon. You would never have thought that the drift fallout would be so damn inconvenient — the lingering whisper of Phainon’s emotions still curling beneath your skin. It would be so easy to miss, blinded by the brightness of his smile and that easy laugh. The silent way he bites into his own cheek rather than bring up all the ways you’ve hurt him in the past. The terrible, baseless, hopeless trust he still has in you.

Gods, you can’t break that again.

The waves crash against the Shatterdome’s foundational pillars, seawater swirling up a storm beneath your feet just like the emotions in your chest. You’re sure that Phainon has noticed how more on edge you’ve been the last few days, the way his gaze lingers on how your fingers tap restlessly against the tabletops, how you startle at the sudden footsteps in the corridor.

He must notice, yet he says nothing. Waiting for you to come to him first, wanting you to give him that trust. Your trust. 

You’re just not sure if you remember how.

You’re contemplating your decisions — so many decisions, so few options — when suddenly, you hear a familiar voice from above your head. “Hey.”

You jerk forward and Phainon yelps in horror, reaching out to grab you by the arm. It’s like deja vu all over again. “You know,” you mutter, as he hauls you back to safety, “if I had a nickel for every time you’ve surprised me while sitting dangerously close to a body of water, I would have two nickels, which isn’t a lot but it’s strange that it’s happened twice.” You don’t even bother asking how he found you here.

The joys of drift fallout, you suppose…

“How about not sitting dangerously close to the body of water in the first place?” Phainon huffs, eyes the way one of your legs are still dangling over the ledge and then glares at the railing. “I should really talk to Aglaea about getting these rusty things fixed. And the door locked behind a keycard.”

“I’ll jump,” you threaten, pointing down at the water below.

The grip he has on your arm tightens. “If you die, I’ll kill you myself,” Phainon grumbles, shakes his head. He still looks nervous, glancing down at the water beneath you, and so you shuffle away from the edge until you’re safely behind the railing and his shoulders lose some of their tension. 

“So? Why did Okhema’s hotshot ranger come searching for little old me?”

“Oh!” Phainon’s expression brightens at that, like a kid’s who’s just been promised candy. “Right. Let’s go out into the city.”

You blink at him. A hundred questions crowd your tongue — why now? How much have you noticed? Do you know just how close I am to running? Instead, you settle with the safest: “The Saviour of Humanity gets something as ordinary as leave?”

“He does, and he’s just spent one day on you. Come on.” He grasps your hand to pull you to his feet, palm warm against yours. “Already cleared it with the General.”

“She thinks it’s a good idea to have me wandering around unsupervised?”

“There’s me.” Phainon shrugs, when you open your mouth to argue. “Besides, I can be very convincing when I want to be. The more time spent together, the better we bond, the higher our neural compatibility, the better we punch kaiju in the Jaeger.” He spreads his arms out with a flourish. “Brilliant argument, no?”

You can barely hide your snort behind your hand. “So this is, what? Bonding for the sake of the world? Should we hold hands to improve drift compatibility, too?”

“Well, if you’re suggesting…” Your eyes widen when he really does grab your hand, fingers slipping between yours with practiced ease as if your time apart had never happened. “Maybe we’ll even have time to get some matching friendship bracelets, too. Sound good to you?”

You should pull away. But his grip is firm and his smile is brighter than the sun and how much longer do you have with him like this?

“As long as you’re paying,” you say, and let Phainon tug you along towards the Shatterdome. “So, where do you have in mind?”

The place that Phainon has in mind turns out to be a small city, not more than an hour’s drive from base. It’s not too crowded, but still has that lively hustle and bustle, people chattering and walking around at a leisurely pace. Different from the endless, marching heartbeat of the Shatterdome. And the town unfolds around you like a postcard come to life — the sea salt on the air, the brightly coloured storefronts. You wonder if this place has ever been touched by a kaiju before. 

Phainon navigates the winding cobblestone streets with an easy familiarity, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. He’s dressed in his civvies, jeans and black leather jacket over a white shirt. It’s simple, but he looks good, you think to yourself sourly. So much for clothes maketh man… this man maketh the clothes.

Once again, just an objective observation. And you know it’s objective this time, because he’s getting stared at. A group of girls seated at a cafe whisper and point at him, then giggle behind their hands. Your mouth twitches.

“So, anything you want to do first?” Phainon asks, looking completely oblivious to all the appreciative looks that he’s getting. And as if on cue, your stomach rumbles and Phainon laughs.

“Got it. Food first.” Before you can protest, he takes your wrist and pulls you down the bustling street. He takes a few turns — left, left, right and then right again, until the two of you emerge in what appears to be a little square of some sort, filled with food vendors. The market sprawls outwards like a living organism, steam rising from the dumpling baskets, grills sizzling as vendors call out deals in singsong voices. People wander among them, holding skewers or little disposable cups as they peruse the stalls.

“Anything catch your fancy?” Phainon leans in to ask over the chatter, his breath warm on your cheek. You glance around, letting your eyes drift until you suddenly catch sight of a sign, swinging above a particularly busy stall.

KAJU BALLS! TRY OUR SPECIALTY TODAY!

You elbow Phainon sharply. “Please tell me that’s a typo.”

Phainon’s eyes follow the direction of your gaze before he squints, and then his face cycles through a mixture of horror, disbelief and reluctant curiosity. “How about we don’t find out?” he suggests, the hand on your shoulder tentatively steering you towards a fried rice stall. “I’m like, ninety eight percent sure it isn’t actually kaiju meat. But I still don’t like the odds.”

You snort. “And here you are betting your chances in a Jaeger on an eighty six, so it can’t be all that bad. I thought they might be selling kaiju testicles, actually.” You drag him forward by his jacket sleeve, and he stumbles after you. The crowd presses close, bodies jostling as you weave through. “They’re considered aphrodisiacs in other cuisines. Don’t smack it till you’ve tried it.”

Phainon makes a sound like a dying engine behind you. “What horrors have you seen during all those years we spent apart?”

“The dark side had questionable street meat. But I was starving and beggars can’t be choosers,” you shrug, and flag down the vendor. He’s a burly man in a disposable plastic apron, the tattoo of a Jaeger — is that Georios? — on his bicep. “One stick with extra sauce, please.”

Behind you, Phainon mutters something about hazard pay but slides a note over the counter regardless. The ‘kaju balls’ arrive a few minutes later, piping hot and golden-brown and glistening, drizzled with a radioactive green sauce. You press the skewer into Phainon’s hand with a flourish.

His nose wrinkles as he eyes it suspiciously. “Thought you believed in ‘don’t knock it till you try it’?”

“I have tried something like this before,” you tell him sweetly, before pushing the food toward his face. “And that’s exactly why I’m knocking it. Now eat up, hero, while it’s still hot.”

With the resignation of a man walking the plank, Phainon lowers his head and takes a tentative bite. You watch his expression carefully. After a few bites, it morphs from dread to surprise and then to relief. “It’s just really good takoyaki.” He holds out the skewer to your lips, the remaining balls glistening innocently. “Your turn.”

The first bite is good. Crispy outside, still warm inside, the savory sweet octopus flavour bursting across your tongue. Then the wasabi hits like a Cat V to your sinuses, and your eyes water instantly, a cough escaping you as ice cold fire rockets up your nasal passages.

Phainon’s laughter rings out across the market as you desperately try not to sneeze. “That’s for being a bully,” he grins, already flagging down a drinks vendor. You swat at his shoulder and he presses an ice cold lemonade into your hands. “Here, drink up.”

And just like in the Shatterdome, the people here seem to recognise him, too. An old lady running a fruit stall presses two peeled tangerines into his hands for free, because how could I let someone who’s saved all our lives pay for something as cheap as fruit? Phainon stops and chats with a bearded backpacking tourist about kaiju, pretends to chase after a couple of kids with his hands out in claws and teeth bared in a fake growl as their parents laugh in delight. You stand at the side and wonder what it must like to be so loved.

But then you remember what he’d said, back then in the combat room. I have no choice but to live up to it. You wonder if he ever feels weary, being under the constant scrutiny of it all. Having to bear everyone’s hopes and dreams like this.

The afternoon melts away in a haze of finger foods and greasy fingers. Phainon insists on buying you seafood pancakes from a stall that smells of chili oil and nostalgia — “almost as good as the ones we used to make,” he teases, and you remind him how he’d almost given you sodium poisoning with the amount of salt he’d put into some of them. 

The arcade’s blinking lights find you next, where you spend all of your loose change and then some more attempting to win a plush of the kaiju Cerces. He laughs when you fail to free it from its plastic prison after what must be a hundred attempts, and then proceeds to fail himself. “This game is rigged,” Phainon grumbles, shaking the joystick as he leaves. “Fighting actual kaijus is easier.”

As the sun dips towards the horizon, the two of you follow its path. You end up at the beach, the city noise fading to distant static behind you, replaced by the hush of rolling waves. It’s more deserted than you’d expect, especially with how beautiful the view is, the sun painting the waves in strokes of molten gold. Phainon steps onto the sand first, kicking off his shoes so that his bare feet can sink into the sand.

“Come on,” he gestures with a hand, grinning up at where you’re standing on the boardwalk. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little sand, now.”

You roll your eyes but tug off your own shoes before joining him. The fine grains slip between your toes, sand still holding the day’s warmth. For a moment, you simply stand there, watching the sun sink towards the waves, a gigantic ball of orange fire turning the sky red.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” When you glance at Phainon, he’s staring out at the waves. The golden light slants over him, softening his edges. It makes him look younger, more like the boy you once knew.

You barely have a second to appreciate this moment, however, because Phainon suddenly snatches your shoes without warning — huh? — and proceeds to take off down the shoreline like his life depends on it.

“What the—”  He turns around mid job, with an expression on his face that can only be described as gleeful, before he sticks his tongue out as he waves your hostage shoes about. You gape at this overgrown manchild, before you launch yourself after him. “Phainon, get back here, you little bastard—”

The chase is ridiculous and delightfully absurd. The PPDC’s best pilot splashing through the shallows with your shoes held aloft like trophies as you run after him, his laughter trailer behind him like the ribbons of the kites you used to fly together. It’s clear he isn’t taking this too seriously either, pausing a few times to let you catch up and holding the shoes high over his head — which with his height advantage, is a seriously unfair move. 

His comeuppance, however, arrives with poetic timing. Just as he turns around to gloat, a retreating wave undermines his footing, and he goes under with a spectacular splash just as the incoming wave crashes over him. You arrive in time just to see him sit up, white hair plastered to his forehead and a disgruntled sand crab clinging to his jacket.

You try not to laugh and fail at once. “Gods, what are you doing?” You shake your head, leaning down to offer him a hand. “Looks like the ocean has some sense of justice, at least.”

Phainon blinks up at you, water droplets clinging to his pale lashes like liquid diamonds in the sunset light. His fingers close around yours, warm despite the cool water, and you’re about to pull him up when his grin suddenly turns wicked.

The world tilts on its axis, and then you’re hitting the water with a shout of surprise. The cold shock of the ocean steals your breath even as Phainon’s laughter — bright and unguarded — wraps around you, warmer than the fading sunlight.  You're still sputtering salty curses when he points to the crab now making a break for freedom across your shoulder.

Dripping and exhausted, you collapse onto the dry sand as the sky bleeds orange and pink. Phainon stretches out beside you, close enough that his damp sleeve brushes your arm.

“Cyrene loved coming to this spot, when we were still trainees,” he says softly, all of a sudden. The fading light softens his eyes, as he stares up at the sky with a wistful look on his face. “Said the tide pools were the closest to those back home.” His fingers trace idle patterns in the sand. “I think she’d be glad to know that you’re here.”

There’s a… fondness, in his voice, whenever he speaks about her, worn smooth by time and grief. For a second, you’re almost envious at how much closer they must have grown without you. Three children the world had become two, and then two had become… this. Phainon keeping her memory alive in the spaces between words. Of course they would have had to rely on each other.

The silence between the two of you stretches like the fading light across the water. You pull your knees up to your chest, and silently remember all the things you’d said to Phainon in Aglaea’s office. Hesitantly, you speak up. “I’m sorry. About what I said about Cyrene.”

Phainon glances at you for a moment, as though he’s carefully weighing your words, before he turns to look at the sky once more. “Is alright,” he says at last, turning back to the darkening sky. “She wouldn’t have gotten upset at you.”

You make a quiet noise, a humourless laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything. Cyrene never got upset, not even after you lost those divination cards her parents got her for the New Year’s.” You shake your head, remember scouring the beach for those pink plastic cards. “Did that change, after the…” You let your words trail off, but Phainon seems to catch your drift.

“No,” he laughs quietly. “She was always the same. Perhaps a little… sadder, quieter. But only in the drift.” His fingers bury themselves in the sand. “Everyone at the base loved her. She would always say—”

“Pretty girls can do anything?” You finish for him, and can’t help the smile when he nods. “Heard she developed the Jaeger AIs, too. A pity, really…”

“An idealist to the very end,” Phainon agrees. He’s still looking up at the sky. “She missed you.” And somehow you hear the so did I, that goes unsaid.

“Well, I’m here now,” you murmur, glancing over at the waves. “If that makes any difference.”

Phainon smiles. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It does.”

The beach empties slowly as darkness begins to settle the shoreline, and before you know it, it’s time for the two of you to leave as well. You’re brushing sand from your now dry clothes when Phainon nudges your shoulder, lifting one boot to show you the sandy mess inside. 

“Gonna go rinse these off,” he says, nodding toward the public restrooms near the boardwalk. “Be right back.” He takes a few steps back, before calling over his shoulder. “Don’t go wandering off, okay?”

You watch him go, silhouette disappearing inside the building. The evening air carries with it the last warmth of the day, sea salt mingling with the sounds of water lapping at the shore. It’s peaceful. Too peaceful.

And that’s when you feel it — the prickle of eyes on your back. Your hand stills, right above a patch of sand on your shirt. The sensation is unmistakable, you know it, an instinct honed from years in back alleys and shady warehouses. Someone is watching you, and you need to find out who.

Casually, you bend down to tie your shoe, using the movement to scan the area around you. Families packing up towels. Lovers strolling through the town, holding hands. Nothing out of place. And then—

Movement. A dark shadow detaches itself from a narrow alley between two shuttered shops. Just a flicker, one moment there and gone the other, but you’ve picked up on their body language. The too still posture, the deliberate positioning just beyond reach of the flickering streetlight right before they disappear into the alley’s mouth.

An invitation. Or a trap.

You glance back at the restrooms. Phainon is still inside. You have maybe three minutes — four, if you’re generous — before he comes looking.

You’ll have to handle this quickly.

The sand crunches under the soles of your shoes as you turn toward the alley, fingers brushing the folded steel against your spine. The cheerful sounds of the beach fade behind you, replaced by the drip of a broken pipe and the skitter of rats in the growing dark.

The moment you step into the alley’s mouth, the world narrows to two brick walls and a creeping sense of dread crawling up your spine. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the gloom, but once they do, you recognise them almost at once.

“Took you long enough,” the hulking and sour faced one — Rhys, if you remember correctly — steps forward. “We expected you to notice us sooner, to be honest.”

“But I guess you went soft playing house with the PPDC’s golden boy, huh?” The other one, Vesper, raises an eyebrow over shadowed eyes. The jewels on her teeth glint when she grins. “The boss won’t be too happy when he hears about this about his favourite pet, will he?”

You force down your frustration. It would have been easier, if they had just been pickpockets or even straight up lunatics out for your life. But these guys? They might not be the brightest bulb or be particularly good at fighting, but they know you, they hate you, and they work under Lygus, and that’s what makes them so dangerous. It’s enough to make fear crawl over your flesh, cold like the fingers of a dead man. 

“You’re my best, dear,” he’d told you once, pouring you a double shot of obscenely expensive whiskey while the others had seethed in the corner.You hadn’t even been legal drinking age. “Only one with any brains in this whole damn operation.”

They called it favouritism. Well, Lygus’ favour had kept you alive, that’s for sure. But it had also painted a giant fucking target on your back.

Vesper’s grin widens when she sees the tension in your jaw. “Notice you? Please. Just didn’t you donkeys messing up my job,” you lie smoothly, rolling your shoulders back to hide the nerves. “Since that’s all you guys are ever good for, isn’t it? Do I have to remind you about that botched exchange in Styxia? Embarrassing, honestly. The circle was talking about it for weeks.”

Rhys lunges forward, his meaty face flushing an ugly red, but Vesper pulls him back. Damn. A step closer and you could have cut his throat open and left him to bleed dry on the ground. “A job, huh?” Her green eyes glitter with malice. “Mind telling us what kind of job involves cozying up to the damn fucking military? Everyone knows the boss would never touch them with a fifty foot pole.”

You sigh loudly, dramatically. “The kind that pays a shit load of money, that’s what.” You take a step forward, hand slipping beneath the back of your shirt. Your thumb rubs over the folded blade there, its unlocking mechanism. “So… why would I tell you anything? I’m a greedy bastard, after all — this whole damn cake is mine, and I’ve no intention of sharing.”

Vesper barks out a laugh, crossing her arms in a move that leaves her entire front unprotected. Stupid, really… This is why Lygus had always called them a circus of cheap fools. “You know what?” she hums, sounding far too smug for your liking. “This smells like bullshit. What, are you trying to cut ties now? Go legit? Clean up your act after all that you’ve done?” She bares her teeth in a grin. “And I have a feeling that that PPDC saviour boy doesn’t even have the slightest inkling of some of the things you’ve done.” When your eyes narrow, she just laughs, the sound high and mocking. “Why, I mean some of the things you’ve done horrify even us! That’s why the boss likes you so much, isn’t it?”

Your mouth pulls into a thin line. “He likes me because I’m competent and you lot can’t tell your left sock from your right,” you reply sharply, but your eyes are already at her neck. One clean slash through the carotid artery, and then a quick pivot to catch Rhys off guard. It shouldn’t be too difficult. The troublesome part is, as always, cleaning up the mess.

But before you can do anything, when a familiar voice suddenly echoes down the alley. “Hey,” Phainon calls from the entrance, voice deliberately casual. “You good?”

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Rhys hisses, “this isn’t over” with a final glare before the two of them melt into the shadows. You stare after them, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Shit.

“Hey,” Phainon calls, closer now. His boots scuff against the wet asphalt as he approaches you at a light jog, looking slightly out of breath. “Thought I told you not to go wandering off.” He tries to smile, but there’s a worry in his eyes as he glances over you, hand hovering at your elbow, not quite touching. “Everything okay?”

The concern in his voice makes your stomach twist. Not yet.

You force a laugh, pulling the back of your shirt back over your concealed knife. “Just some locals getting the wrong idea,” the lie slips out smoother than it should. “They thought I was looking for company.”

Phainon’s eyes narrow slightly. And you’re not sure whether he believes your words. He scans the empty alley, then your face, his gaze lingering on the tension in your jaw. You find yourself unable to meet his gaze. “They hurt you?”

“Just assaulted my nose with bad knock-off Dior Sauvage.” You wave him off, stepping back into the street. The sudden brightness is almost dizzying. Not yet. “Not my type.”

“Hm.” Phainon doesn’t press, but his silence speaks volumes as you walk back toward the beach. And as you walk, you find yourself struggling. You should tell him. You know this. It’s the right thing to do, to come clean and face his disappointment when he finds out about the things you’ve done, like the person he seems to believe you are. But you’re a coward, and so you remain silent and let this delusion continue running its doomed course. 

(Just a bit longer. Let me have just a bit longer.)

And so, the two of you return to the Shatterdome in silence. But the weight of Vesper’s words linger like a noose around your neck, a ticking time bomb pulsing in the cavity in your chest.

Because Lygus always finds out everything, eventually.

Your phone buzzes on your mattress like a live wire. 

You stare at it for a moment, screen glowing ominously in the dark of your room. Slowly, you pick it up. Unknown number, it says, but the tone — polite, almost affectionate in a twisted, paternal way — is more than familiar to you. Cold terror curls its fingers around your throat. You can almost feel him standing behind you, smiling over your shoulder.

For one cowardly moment, you consider smashing the device against the wall. But Lygus will find another way. He always has.

Unknown Number: Hope you’re enjoying your little military vacation, my dear. How’s the sea view?

Unknown Number: I must say, I’m a little disappointed by your lack of communication. But I suppose the excitement of something new must have distracted you. Don’t worry, I understand.

Unknown Number: Since you might be occupied, I thought I should update you about the progress we’ve made together!

Unknown Number: You remember the kaiju secondary brain we procured from Cerces? Imagine this: a bio-weapon not just for destruction, but for chaos. The scientists down at the Maw have found a way to connect it to an intelligent weapons system. They’re thinking of calling it IRONTOMB.

Unknown Number: Think about it: an alien brain, wired to destroy humanity, equipped with some of the best weapons money can buy. Not as quite as good as having a kaiju on a leash of course, but we take what we can get. And that’s all thanks to you, dear.

Unknown Number: Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Lygus, darling, that sounds terribly illegal and diabolical.’ And you’re right! We always work so well as a team.

Unknown Number: Which is why I’d hate for you to have to be cut loose. Can’t have you getting too chummy with your military pals, now.

Unknown Number: So here’s my offer, sweetheart. Come home by the end of this week, and we’ll keep our dirty laundry between us. I'll even send someone to fetch you. Refuse, and well… let’s just say that not even that Marshal herself will be able to keep you out of an electric chair. In fact, she might be the one to flip the switch herself.

Unknown Number: With love, as always

Unknown Number: Lygus

Attached is a schematic that you tap on with shaking fingers. It glows on your screen like a living wound — pulsing veins of circuitry feeding into the grotesque, floating mass of the kaiju secondary brain you’d pulled from the wreckage. At that point, it’d been your greatest work — the largest intact preserved piece of kaiju brain ever — and sold for close to half a billion dollars. Now, it’s IRONTOMB. The name alone makes your throat constrict.

What was once gray matter is now covered in electrodes, suspended in a tank of amber fluid. Wires snake into its folds like parasitic worms. Your fingerprints are all over this nightmare.

The phone slips from your numb fingers as Lygus’ voice echoes in your skull. Bad child, he’d used to say. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You press them between your knees, but the tremors only travel up your spine. But your mind, strangely, is brutally clear. The show is finished, the game is over. You can’t stay here any longer. 

You lean over the bed, nausea suddenly building in your stomach. Distantly, you think you want to scream, but it lodges itself in the back of your throat, a hard, tight knot that just constricts tighter, and tighter, and tighter…

The door swings open. 

You don’t turn. Don’t breathe. You know who it is. You can’t—

“(Name)?” Phainon calls out, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. He comes to sit beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. Close but not quite touching. That’s good, because if he did, maybe he would feel the way your entire body is shaking. Is it shaking? “I just… got back from testing. They ran some numbers on me and a new recruit. Glykon, I think his name is.”

You know where this is going.

“They say it’s an acceptable number,” he continues, too carefully. “Fifty-four. We’re considered drift compatible. Aglaea wants us to start some tandem drills, keep our options open.” Phainon pauses, hesitates, licking his lips — a habit he only does when he’s nervous. His hands twist in front of him, before clenching into fists. “Look, I know the agreement you have with Aglaea. I know you don’t want to be here. But I just… I wanted to ask, if you would…”

For a second, the words don’t quite register. Then, like a slow-rolling detonation, the meaning hits.

Compatible. 

That should be your salvation. It is your salvation. A clean exit, a reason to back out. Lygus’ mouth stays shut, Phainon saves the world again, and everybody is happy. 

Instead, something wild and frantic cracks open in your chest.  You laugh — a sharp, humourless sound — because if you don’t, you think you might scream instead.

“That’s great.” The words taste like rust in your mouth. “Finally, someone else wants you. Guess I get to wash my hands of this kaiju mess at last.”

Phainon goes very still. You can feel his stare like a physical weight, but you don’t look up. Can’t look up. If you meet his eyes, he’ll see it — the tremor in your hands, the terror stalking behind your ribs. That pale, sinister smile reflected in your mind’s eye.

“I thought…” He begins, voice quieter now, something soft and vulnerable. You cut him off before he can finish.

“What? That we were finally getting chummy?” You force a laugh, jagged at the edges. You think it might leave bloody gashes along your throat. “I mean, yeah, I guess we don’t hate each other anymore. Congrats.” You clap. “But I’m still not strapping myself into a death trap for you, seriously.”

You can’t stand it — the weight of his stare, the unspoken words clotting the air between you. So you risk a glance up, just for a second, and regret it instantly.

Phainon’s face is raw, unguarded. And his eyes—

They’re wet. Not with anger. Not even frustration. Just hurt, bright and bleeding, like you’ve shoved a knife between his ribs and twisted the blade. His lips part — just slightly — as if he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a quiet, pained noise that goes straight to your heart.

Before you can speak (to take it back, to comfort him somehow, to lie better), he’s already on his feet. The mattress shifts under his weight, the springs groaning softly, like even the bed is protesting his departure. He turns on his heel, strides toward the door. 

You expect a slam. A crash. Something violent, something final. But the door just shuts quietly behind him.

Somehow, that feels worse.

You don’t follow after him. Instead, you collapse forward, elbows on your knees, fingers knotting in your hair. A choked sound claws its way out of your throat — half sob, half scream — and then the tears come, hot and relentless, slipping between your fingers like traitors. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. 

You don’t know if it’s the remnants of the Drift still humming under your skin, or if you just know him after all these years, but the certainty settles in your chest like a stone:

Somewhere, in the dark of the Shatterdome, Phainon is crying too.

[elysiumae]

i am so sorry i lied.

need my crash out king phainon to absolutely crash the fuck out the next time he sees lycurgus after he learns more about the reader's past with him

its me im phainon LET ME AT HIM I GOTTA DEFEND MY DAWG (the reader)

you'll get to see phainon beat some non-kaiju ass in this chapter 🥴🤙🏻

[elysiumae]

Pls tell me phainon shouts at us more (in an angry way) plspslspslslslsl

no but what if we make him cry in the next chapter <3

[elysiumae]

I'VE SAID THIS IN MY REBLOG OF YOUR PACRIM AU (outing myself argh) BUT THANKYOUTHANKTHANKYOUTHANKYOU. on my LIFE. I love kaijus (mostly godzilla but also just megafauna in general) and I love Phainon and finding this fic felt like getting my favorite dish at a fancy restaurant for free... ANYWAYS sorry for screaming into your ask box xjebjwjxbeje but it's been a while since I've been this invested in a series <3 lovely day/night to you!!

my dear anon ******* thank you thank you thank you for your lovely reblog!!! interaction always makes me swoon hehe im glad i've managed to combined your two greatest loves into this feast (i'm eating phainon) your investment in this long ass fic is the greatest compliment this chef could receive!!

[elysiumae]

i read your fic on ao3... it wasn't enough

somehow i found this blog and read through it... it wasn't enough

i read a bit about Pacific Rim (2013)... it wasn't enough

on my way to watch the movie, somehow (greed knows no bounds)

I'M DOING GOD'S WORK ON THIS BLOG HELLLL YEAHHHH

[elysiumae]

What was phainon and cyrene’s score?

it was 92!! but the neurosync was only developed by cyrene a while after she and phainon had already been deemed drift compatible and had piloted together for a while

[elysiumae]

dw my spirit will be there holding lycurgus down while phainon beats the shit out of him and then will help him pick out a cute lil outfit for his date with the reader hehehehe

the way the reader and phainon have already gone on a completely platonic date in the upcoming chapter with no strings attached purely for the sake of building their drift compatibility <3

[elysiumae]

need my crash out king phainon to absolutely crash the fuck out the next time he sees lycurgus after he learns more about the reader's past with him

its me im phainon LET ME AT HIM I GOTTA DEFEND MY DAWG (the reader)

you'll get to see phainon beat some non-kaiju ass in this chapter 🥴🤙🏻

[elysiumae]

The snippet u posted … too cute but i know we aren’t safe yet… milk out the angst in this au 🙏🙏🙏

what do you mean this is a fluffy au where only good things happen and phainon and reader will make up (out) and live happily ever after!!!

[elysiumae]

Will there be polyamory in your story? I am down BAD for Mydei and Phainon and would LOVE to be sandwiched by these two big-titted husbandos!

sorry no polyamory in this fic 😭😭 but i MIGHT write a mydei fic soon just because i've been rewatching "THE SON OF GORGO WILL BE CROWNED IN BLOOD" scenes and i've been redevastated over this hot walking piece of gentlemanly angst

[elysiumae]

omg omg what do you think about the reader having a matching moon tattoo??? like something like the moon phases on their spine or on their shoulder/back like phainon's???

oooo that would be so cute but i've always seen cyrene as the moon foil to phainon's sun... but if reader had a tattoo it would probably be of a shooting star (because that's what phainon is to her </3)

[elysiumae]

[elysiumae]

phainon😭💦

[elysiumae]

like gravity.

pairing: phainon x f!reader

word count: 13k

synopsis: pacrim!au. wahhhh writing this almost made me tear. i can't believe i've become the shaoji of this universe. also how are the snippets getting more attention than the actual fic LMAO

chapters: part one | part two | part three

II. FRICTION

For the second morning in a row, you hear Tribbie’s rapid fire knocking on your door. You glance at the clock and groan. It’s seven in the morning again. Does the military run on some deranged circadian rhythm designed by sadomasochists or what?

It doesn’t help that you’d spent the night tossing and turning. The cot wasn’t particularly comfortable, but the real culprit had been the memory replaying behind your eyelids every time you closed them: Phainon’s expression in that corridor outside Aglaea’s office, the flash of quiet vulnerability you’d seen in his eyes.

It matters to me, he’d said. Those words had haunted you more than any nightmare ever could.

The knocking intensifies, “Coming, coming,” you grumble, shrugging on your jacket.

Tribbie beams up at you when the door opens, looking energetic enough to singlehandedly power a Jaeger’s core. “Morning! You sleep okay? The beds here are kinda terrible, right?” She doesn’t wait for a response before thrusting a steaming mug into your hands. Ouch. Hot. “Coffee! Thought it might help wake you up.”

You stare down blearily into its contents. It smells like a three-in-one mix: engine oil, battery acid and maybe a death wish. Tribbie smiles proudly up at you. “I even added sugar! Figured you might need it after what happened yesterday…” She rocks on her heels, grips the straps of her overalls. “So, are you ready for another fun filled day of—”

You slam the mug back like it's a shot of whiskey and sigh. “Lead the way.”

Jaeger: Jaegers ([ˈjɛːɡɐ], Jäger, Hunter) are a special type of mobile weapon created by the Jaeger Program. The Jaegers were the most effective first and last line of defense against the kaiju during the Kaiju War.

Tribbie leads you through the maze of interconnected corridors in the Shatterdome, walking backwards without tripping as she does. You’ll never get used to the size, you think, the sheer scale of it all. It’d take you a map and a compass not to get lost in this place. Back in Marmoreal, you knew every back alley and escape route like the back of your hand. Here, there’s nowhere to hide, just endless corridors branching into more corridors. People here and there and everywhere, and their eyes…

Tribbie slows down to walk properly beside you, her tiny hand gripping yours. “You okay?” she asks, too perceptive for her age. “You’re all…” She slouches her shoulders and screws her face into an exaggerated scowl that would be comical if it weren’t so accurate.

That gets a suppressed snort out of you. “Just not used to…” you gesture at a passing security team, “...having so many people around.”

Tribbie blinks at you, blue eyes big and innocent. “Why?” she asks curiously, as though it’s normal to live surrounded by thousands of soldiers and the most advanced war machines ever built in a giant military facility. “Did you live alone before coming to the Shatterdome?”

You never stayed in one place for long. Work — wow, that’s what you’re calling it now? — had always forced you to stay on the move. You could be sleeping in the bed of a five star luxury hotel provided by a client one night and be bleeding out in some dark, dirty alleyway the next. But one thing had always stayed constant — the kind of silence that comes with being alone. 

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Were you lonely?”

Perhaps it’s because the question takes you by surprise. Or the way that she asks — no pity, just simple curiosity. Or maybe it’s the warmth of her small hand in yours that reminds you of times long past, running along the beach with the salty sea breeze in your hair, pulling along a boy with the brightest blue eyes after a pink haired girl to chase the planes flying overhead…

“... maybe,” you mutter, immediately regretting the vulnerability. Since when do you trauma-dump on children? “I mean, not really. I liked the peace. And quiet.”

But Tribbie just squeezes your fingers tighter. “Good thing you’re here now, then,” she declares, as if that settles everything, and pulls you along.

The first place she shows you to is the mess hall, which is, according to her, the most important place in the Shatterdome. No organisation can run on an empty stomach, and hangry soldiers are scary. The next stop on your tour are the K-Science labs, which you make an effort to avoid. You’ve already formed more than enough traumatic memories in there, thank you very much.

After that, Tribbie brings you to the hangar. It requires another biometric scan of her palm to authorise, which almost fails because the scanner is too high up for her to reach, but then the gates open, hydraulics hissing, so massive that they’re barely open a crack and you could still fit a bus through sideways with ease.

“The Jaegers are all stationed inside,” Tribbie explains as the two of you walk through. “Roof’s fully mechanized, it can retract fully within three minutes for the jumphawks to lift the Jaegers out. The other gate,” she gestures at the giant gate on the other side of the hangar, just as massive as the one you’d walked through, “leads to launch bays overlooking the ocean. Saves twelve minutes on deployment when the alarms go off.”

For the tenth, no, hundredth time since coming here, you decide to bury the question of is a kid supposed to know all of these things and glance around the hangar instead, neck craning backwards to take it all in.

It’s by far the busiest place you’ve seen in the Shatterdome. Metallic clangs and the whirring of electrical tools echo throughout the vast space. People — engineers, technicians, operators — rush around the hangar with a sort of calm, laser focused urgency, looking like they’ve had three tasks due since yesterday.

But all that still pales in comparison to the Jaegers.

Towering monuments to human ingenuity and desperation, the Jaegers dwarf everything in the hangar like mechanical gods. Catwalks swing high above your head, small teams perched on gondolas like birds as they work on the monstrous hunks of metal. It's hard to believe these things can move, let alone fight. But you've seen the videos. You know what they're capable of.

Someone had once looked at the kaiju, after several nuclear resolutions had proved unsustainable, and said, “we’ll build our own monsters.” And against all odds, it had worked.

You’re still staring when a sudden alarm blares — short, sharp bursts of sound. You freeze when everyone around you does, heart thumping in your chest. Half a second passes before a tired voice crackles over the PA.

“False alarm, people. Just Professor Anaxa testing the Mark-4’s systems again.”

Groans echo through the hangar as work resumes. Tribbie just laughs. “Happens like twice a week, nowadays. It’s a good sign, though — means Naxy’s almost finished.” A new Mark-4? “He’s been driving Aggy crazy about the budget for the past year.” She takes your hand, pulls you along. “Come on, I wanna show you—”

“Hey, Tribbie! Oh, who’s this?”

The sudden voice makes you turn. Two people are standing to the side. They look young, maybe in their mid-twenties, if you’d had to guess. Identical silver-gray hair, the same golden eyes. Even their clothes are matching, even if their body language couldn’t be more different. The woman stands with one hip cocked, arms crossed, while the man fiddles lazily with a tool crate, looking like he’d rather be somewhere else napping.

Tribbie brightens when she sees them. “Aggy’s trying to recruit her,” the young girl chirps. She turns to you. “This is Stelle,” the young woman grins, gives you a mock salute, “and this is Caelus.” The man lifts two fingers in a half-hearted wave. “They’re the twins who pilot Trailblazer.”

“Intergalactic Baseballer,” Stelle corrects automatically. She glances over at her brother, quirks an eyebrow. “Because someone thought it’d be funny to program our Conn-Pod with baseball commentary during our first drop.”

Caelus shrugs, evidently unrepentant. “Worth the disciplinary hearing.”

You look at the two of them. There’s something about their accent that’s distinctively non-native, even though their standard Amphorean is near perfect. Stelle catches your look and laughs. “We transferred here from the Herta Science Station a couple of years back. The Okheman Shatterdome was short on Jaegers ever since… you know.”

Since Kephale fell. That loss had marked the beginning of the end — Janus had fallen in less than six months after that, together with the city it’d been named after. Two months later, Georios had self-destructed its core to bring down Terravox, a kaiju rampaging through Aidonia. Three Jaegers lost in less than a year.

Caelus clears his throat, deliberately lightening his tone. “It’s nice here,” he shrugs. “Better funding there, but way more paperwork. The food’s worse there, too.” He makes a face, sticks out his tongue. “I hope I never have to eat diet fried rice again.”

Rangers from the HSS… Recognition clicks in you. “Wait — you’re the Jarilo Rangers.” The words come out before you can stop them. “I watched your takedown of that Cat III near Belobog’s geomarrow plant—”

“Noooo.” Stelle’s face crumples in exaggerated despair. “Why does everyone remember us from the Cocolia incident?” She throws her arms up. “We slipped on ice! On live broadcast! Do you know how many memes it spawned?”

Tribbie just smiles. “You guys were #1 trending on the World Wound Web for weeks.” 

Caelus pats his sister solemnly on the shoulder. “But we looked damn good doing it, at least.” He points out one of the Jaegers — a sharp, brutal thing built for the singular purpose of beating the crap out of kaiju. Its armour, forged from reinforced carbon-plated alloys, shimmers with a gunmetal grey sheen. An empty space rests where the Conn-Pod should be, nestled between angular shoulder plates.

“That’s our baby. Mark-2 with an experimental Stellaron core… Mister Screwllum said that if anything went wrong, it would be like having the sun crash land on earth.” He thinks about this for a moment and then shrugs, scratching at his head. “It’s safe though. Been five years and nothing’s happened…”

“Yet,” Stelle adds, unhelpfully. Are all rangers just born without any sense of self-preservation or is it an occupational hazard? You glance down at Tribbie. Unlike you, she doesn’t look particularly fazed by the possibility of being eviscerated by the equivalent of a small sun imploding. 

Good god, you’re surrounded by lunatics.

“That one,” Tribbie points to a sleeker model with angular armour, “is Akivili. Also from the HSS. And the one over there…”

Your attention snags on the massive form behind them. “Nikador,” you breathe.

The last remaining Jaeger from the Titan line looms like a slumbering god of war, casting a shadow over the hangar. Its armour, once pure white and gold, has dulled to the colour of old bones. There are long scratches in the plates across its chest, where kaiju claws failed to penetrate.

Even powered down and completely still, its presence is overwhelming. After Kephale, it’s responsible for the most kaiju takedowns in Amphorean waters.

“Old Nikky.” Stelle looks at it. “Last of Professor Anaxa’s original five still standing. We call it the Undying.” She snorts to herself. “Just as stubborn as its pilots.”

“The Titans,” you murmur, running through the list of names in your head. “Phagousa, Janus, Georios, Nikador and…”

Caelus must guess what’s on your mind, because he shakes his head. “Kephale’s in pieces down in Bay 9. Anaxa’s cannibalising him for parts — building that top-secret Mark-4 prototype of his.” He shakes his head. “Still a shame, though. He was a real fighter.”

Kephale. The Jaeger that Phainon and Cyrene had piloted. You remember watching the replays of the battle footage in internet cafes, hunched over instant noodles between jobs. Studied every frame — the way it moved, the distinct step forward of its right foot during combat manoeuvres, even the slight delay in firing its Plasmacaster. You could probably still recite its technical specs from memory.

Now it’s just another ghost in the Shatterdome’s graveyard. One of its pilots is gone, ashes scattered into the warm, sunlit waters of a familiar sea. And the other…

Stelle’s sudden clap jolts you from your thoughts. “So!” She grins, all mischief in the edges of her smile. “Since the General is trying to recruit you…” She jerks a thumb at Trailblazer’s — sorry, Intergalactic Baseballer’s — Conn-Pod, suspended high above its body by rigs. Right, since the Mark-2s are nuclear powered… “Want the full VIP tour? Nothing sells the Ranger life quite like seeing the inside of a real Jaeger.” Her eyes gleam gold. “Okay, I guess the fat paycheck helps too.”

You should say no. These are weapons of war, not toys — each one costs more than the GDPs of some small nations. You don’t even have any intention of becoming a ranger. But standing here in their shadow… you feel like a teen again, pressing your nose to the shop windows to stare at the Jaeger models on display. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

When Aglaea cuts you loose — and she will — this chance won’t come again.

“... just a quick look,” you find yourself saying, and Stelle’s triumphant whoop echoes through the hangar.

J-Tech: J-Tech (or Jaeger-Tech) is an occupation given to officers in charge of the maintenance of the Jaeger systems and robotics.

Tribbie leaves first, citing that the GM has something for her to do. You follow Stelle and Caelus into one of the many elevators in the hangar, wires screeching as it ascends.

The metal catwalk vibrates underfoot as you step into the Conn-Pod — the Jaeger’s head. It’s bigger than you expect — wow, that’s what she said — but that goes for everything associated with the Jaegers, so. The lights are dimmed, windows curved like a visor. Two rigs hang like dormant sentinels in the center, awaiting their pilots. Everything smells vaguely of something metallic and chemical coolant.

Caelus slaps a control panel with practiced familiarity. The speakers crackle to life: “This ball is long gone, just like the ex-girlfriend who will never return!”

You stare. “You built a Discord soundboard into your billion dollar Jaeger?” Stelle just laughs. Caelus pats the console affectionately. “Gotta keep things lively when you’re about to get your ass kicked by a kaiju.”

“For when we’re about to kick a kaiju’s ass, you mean.”

You leave behind their bantering to wander over to the massive forward visor. Below, technicians scurry like ants across the hangar’s ground floor. You glance back at the pilot’s rig behind you, and imagine—

— a pink haired woman, grinning as she leans over the center console to give you a fist bump.

A dark mass, emerging from the waves. Moving fast, too agile.

A sinking feeling of despair. Teeth, clamping through the top of the Conn-Pod.

Metal screeching, something in his mind shattering, and then—

Silence.

Something in your stomach lurches, and you grab onto the nearest thing to steady yourself. What the fuck was that? Imagination that vivid is only reserved for bedtime, and although you’d read the news articles, thought about it, had nightmares again and again about it, you’d never actually seen the way that Cyrene had—

Oh.

“You okay?” Caelus asks, noticing your white-knuckled grip on the railing. He’s peering at you, golden eyes concerned. 

“Yeah. Just…” You flex your fingers, pry them off and shove them in your pockets, “never been this high up before, actually.” There’s a dryness in your throat and you swallow hard, decide to turn your mind to other things. “Um, what’s drifting successfully actually like?”

The twins exchange one of those wordless glances that only siblings can pull off. They seem a little surprised by your sudden question, but try to humour you regardless.

“Honestly?” Stelle shrugs. “Wasn’t much to think about. It kinda just… happened.”

Caelus nods. “It’s like remembering how to ride a bike, except the bike is also remembering you back.” What does that even mean? He scrunches up his face, searching for the words, and then gives up. “Hard to describe, unless you’ve felt it yourself.”

You think back to yesterday’s failed attempt, how violently you’d forced out Phainon’s presence in your head. “I guess it’s not supposed to feel like someone’s groping around in your mind, huh?”

“It’s a two way street,” Stelle shrugs, tilting her head to look at you. Her eyes are suddenly more perceptive than you’d like. “Like they say, it’s a neural handshake. Can’t have a handshake when one hand’s closed. Or if the other is trying to go for a slap. Or if one’s giving you the middle finger. Or—”

“I’m sure she gets the idea,” Caelus laughs, and you glance away. “Well, even with a successful sync, it doesn’t mean drift compatibility’s always high. Like shaking someone’s hand and finding out they have sweaty palms.”

Ugh. You look at the two of them. “But you’re twins,” you reason aloud. “Guess it came naturally for you.”

“That probably helped,” Stelle admits. “But compatibility’s weird sometimes. Some married couples can’t drift to save their lives and then you get guys like Mydei and Cassie who synced a 70% on their first try.”

Anything above 50% is within the passing range. Most pilots score between 56% to 80%. You think back to the 26% you’d gotten with Phainon, try to extrapolate it the best you can. Maybe if you can just complete a successful sync without giving away too much…

But then there’s the other issue. “And after you drift,” you say slowly, “is it normal to see memories—”

Before you can finish asking your question, the Conn-Pod doors hiss open. A tall man with green — green? — hair storms inside, flanked by a team of J-Tech in greased-stained coveralls. His lab coat might have been white once, but now it’s just a map of coffee stains and scorch marks. One of his eyes is covered with a medical eyepatch.

“Stelle!” he barks, completely ignoring you and Caelus. “Why are you contaminating my equipment with your… your…” He waves a hand vaguely at her. “Vibes.”

Stelle rounds on him, scowling. “You’re the one harassing me in my Jaeger!”

His one visible eye twitches. “I formulated all the repairs for this thing. I was the one who re-calibrated every neural relay when you fried them kicking that EMP kaiju!”

Caelus sidles up next to you. “Professor Anaxagoras. He’s the head physicist and engineer in the Shatterdome. They’ve been like this ever since Stelle asked if his hair came standard issue with the military uniform,” he whispers, not quietly enough.

Anaxa’s head whips around. “I heard that!”

Before the argument can escalate, a mountain of a man steps between them. His coveralls are streaked with grease, hands scarred from decades of physical work. When he speaks, his voice is… quieter than you expect, a low rumble in the cavern of his chest. “No time for arguments,” he says, slow and patient, with the air of someone who's mediated this argument too many times. “Plasmacutter upgrades necessary.”

Stelle brightens. “(Name), meet Chartonus — the person who actually keeps this circus running.” His eyes, intense and deliberate, settle on you. You shift, mildly uncomfortable.

“Nice to meet you.” he says, slowly. He speaks with an accent distinctively not Amphorean. Or at least, not the standard Amphorean you’re used to. 

Stelle elbows the technician lightly. “So? What fancy new ways to murder kaiju do you have for me this time?”

“Let me explain my own designs, thank you very much,” Professor Anaxagoras — Anaxa? — pulls out a tablet from the pockets — how’d that even fit in there? — of his lab coat, projects a rotating schematic. The blade’s design glows blue. “Managed to stabilise the system, prevent a complete meltdown while the plasma blades heat to 30,000 Kelvin. Should slice through even a Cat IV’s hide like butter.”

“Holy hell,” Caelus whistles, looking impressed. He leans in to take a closer look. “Overkill, much?”

Chartonus shakes his head. “Not overkill. Necessary.” He glances at Professor — Anaxagoras? Anaxa? — and his shoulders slump slightly. “Reports from Analytics division. Kaijus learning.” He meets Stelle’s frown with a serious look of his own. Suddenly, you feel like you’re hearing things that you shouldn’t be privy to — words that carry the weight of the world.

Professor Anaxagoras nods, eye narrowing. All traces of humour are gone when he speaks. “There are similar reports coming in from the other Shatterdomes. The EMP six months back? Not an anomaly anymore. Now, it’s a pattern. They’re evolving fast, and we need to be faster.”

“What the fuck?” Stelle exhales sharply, looking frustrated. “How are they doing this so quickly? It tooks millions of years to get from monkeys to here and they’re doing it in months?”

Chartonus just shrugs, a wearisome movement that feels like a sigh. “Hyacinthia’s job, to think. My job,” he glances at the Jaeger, “to build.”

He nods at the massive clock visible through the front visor — the War Clock, Tribbie had told you, reset after every kaiju attack. A tally of borrowed time.

[001:17:42:11]

A month and seventeen days since the last breach. Even as you watch, the seconds climb upward with relentless precision. When Chartonus speaks, his words land heavy.

“When comes… must be ready.”

The maintenance ledge juts out over the ocean like a dare, its rusty railing the only thing between you and a roughly fifty-meter drop into the churning waves below. You dangle your legs over the edge anyway, heels kicking absently against the Shatterdome’s concrete underbelly. 

The Okhema Shatterdome had used to be a wave generation facility, before it’d been bought out by the Pan Pacific Defense Corps and the IPC. From here, all you see is ocean, waters slate grey instead of the sparkling blue waves you’re used to, but it’s better than staying inside. The lack of windows has started to unnerve you just a little, the constant hum of machinery a poor substitute for the crying of seabirds.

You look out. Somewhere beyond the horizon lies Aedes Elysiae. Or what’s left of it, at least.

You’re not the sentimental type. Haven’t let yourself be, ever since you’d decided to leave everything behind. But here, listening to the waves, you can still vaguely picture your hometown when you close your eyes: the salt-warped boardwalk where Phainon had dueled crabs with sticks from the beach, the tide pools where Cyrene had collected her perfectly spiral shells. And you’d been… whatever you’d done didn’t matter, because a kaiju had appeared. 

All you remember doing is staring, eyes wide as the monster rose from the water, kept rising and rising and oh, that’d just been its head. The way its shadow had blotted out the sun. 

The news reports hadn’t even named your town in the headlines. Lethe’s two million souls mattered more than Aedes Elysiae’s few hundreds. But the kaiju that day had taken away everything you’d ever known.

Voices echo from behind you. Bright and eager, cutting through the sounds of the ocean. With energy this excitable, they can only be recruits. 

You sigh, glance behind you. Leaving now would mean crossing the open stretch of the ledge, and there’s no way they wouldn’t see you. Not that you’re not allowed to be here — you didn’t even have to pick any doors on the way, or swipe any keycards. But you’re just not quite in the mood to be perceived right now. When are you ever, actually? You press your back against the cold metal, willing yourself to stay still. Maybe if you don’t move, they’ll pass by in just a bit.

But then, you hear a familiar voice — Phainon’s. Gods, what are the odds? The Shatterdome is massive and somehow you still manage to end up in a place with the Deliverer in it. 

You risk a glance around the edge. Watching them as they crowd around him, faces lit up with something dangerously close to worship. One of them — wiry and still barely just a kid with a fresh Jaeger Academy tattoo on his forearm — leans in, voice almost trembling as he speaks.

“I— I joined the Jaeger program because of you, Sir. After that takedown in Kremnos, I—”

Phainon waves a hand, that practiced, self-deprecating laugh of his rolling out as smoothly as a broadcast soundbite. “Ah, come on, that was a team effort. Georios was the real MVP there.” He sounds disgustingly sincere, and what makes it even more annoying is that you know that it is. 

Another recruit, a woman with hair curling just beneath her ears, pushes her way forward. “I heard that you haven’t found a new co-pilot,” she says determinedly. “I know that I’m not good enough yet to match up to Dr Cyrene, but I’ll try my best.”

You squint, annoyed. Yeah, yeah, good luck lasting more than a minute in there with him.

Phainon just smiles. “It’s not about being good enough. I’m sure that you already carry a hero in your heart. And my scores, well, I guess it’s just not time for me to be back out in the Jaeger just yet.” You catch the weariness in his tone, barely noticeable. But there.

The kid from earlier doesn’t seem to hear it, because he just scoffs. “Bullshit. That just means no one is good enough for you.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a snort. “What, is drifting some sort of matchmaking service now?” you mutter under your breath.

But of course, no one hears you. They’re too busy hanging onto Phainon’s every word, too caught up in the myth of him — the golden boy, the unmatched pilot, the man who should have been grounded after his co-pilot died but somehow kept getting pushed back into the spotlight because the PPDC needed a hero more than it needed honesty.

And Phainon — he plays the part perfectly. The sincere, genuine charm, the effortless confidence, the way he claps a hand on the kid’s shoulder like they’re old friends instead of strangers who’ve known him for five minutes. It’s easy to see why they’re basically eating out of his palm.

It's nothing like the quiet, tortured looks he gives you when your eyes meet. Like he’s looking at the ghost of something he’d rather forget but can’t quite leave behind. And that drift… you’d already known it before, but it’s something completely different to feel Phainon’s disappointment in you. It stings more than you care to admit.

Something twists in you. You tell yourself it’s annoyance.

This is a good thing. You want this. As soon as you’re finished with that NeuroSync, show Aglaea that the two of you are incompatible as people can be, you’ll leave and never cross paths with Phainon ever again.

The recruits finally leave, buzzing with adrenaline, their voices carrying on the salt-stiff wind as they chatter about training schedules and neural tests and did you see the way he looked at me?

And Phainon is left all alone.

You duck your head behind the pillar again. But that doesn’t do you any good, because a few seconds later you hear the sound of boots on the metal sheets, and then a soft ‘hey’ behind you that makes you nearly throw yourself off the ledge.

“Woah!” Phainon panics, fingers clamping around your upper arm with nearly enough force to bruise. The sudden contact sends a jolt through your body, palm warm through the fabric of your jacket. 

“Don’t… don’t sit there.” His voice is tight, strained in a way that makes you look up. Phainon’s face is slightly pale beneath the tan, blue eyes wide with something beyond concern. “The railing’s rusted through. What if you—” He cuts himself off sharply, like he can’t bear to finish the thought.

You roll your eyes, shrugging against his grip. “I’ve been in shootouts. With machine guns. Pretty sure I can handle a dodgy railing.”

But he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers tighten fractionally, and when you meet his gaze, what you see there makes your breath catch — not just worry, but something raw and desperate, like he’s seeing you balanced on some invisible edge only he can perceive. 

“Please?” Just one word, barely above a whisper, but it lands like a physical weight. There’s a history in that single syllable — years of similar pleas you’d ignored, walked away from. Why does he still even bother?

Something in your chest twists. Against your better judgment, you shift back from the edge. “Happy now? Guess I can’t die until we’ve completed that NeuroSync, huh…”

He doesn’t answer, just exhales sharply through his nose, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. The hand on your arm lingers a moment longer than necessary before falling away, and you find yourself missing the warmth.

Just the warmth, you tell yourself. Because it’s freezing out here.

“I’m surprised you saw me,” you grumble, picking at a flaking patch of paint on the railing. “Thought you were too busy playing hero for your fan club.”

Phainon turns to look at you fully, and the expression on his face is so painfully familiar it makes your teeth ache. That same searching look he gave you when he saw you behind bars for the first time, like he was trying to reconcile the person in front of him with the ghost he’d been chasing. 

“I spent six years searching for you after you disappeared,” he says softly, as if he’s remarking on the weather and not the half-decade he’d wasted combing through wreckage and dead ends for any sign of you. “It’s not a habit that disappeared overnight after you reappeared.”

Six years. You’d heard the rumors, of course — how the PPDC’s golden boy had turned down command postings, how he’d personally scoured every seabed in Amphoreus for what remained of your bones. Any confirmation of your death. You’d told yourself that it was out of obligation. Guilt. The kind of stubbornness that once made him chase you down the beach for stealing his last chimera cookie back when you were thirteen and he was twelve, boardwalk sandy under your bare feet and shrieking with laughter.

But hearing it now, in his own voice, with the sea wind between you — it lodges between your ribs like a shard of glass.

Before you can respond, he’s lowering himself onto the ledge next to you. The space between you is narrow enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the familiar mix of engine oil layered over a hint of something warm and citrusy from some expensive cologne.

The silence stretches, filled only by the rhythmic crash of waves against the Shatterdome’s foundational pillars. Out on the water, the setting sun fractures against the waves, scattering light across the sea like diamonds, glittering. 

“I come here a lot,” he says at last, voice oddly soft. “Reminds me of home.”

You almost laugh. The Shatterdome’s industrial landscape is a far cry from Aedes Elysiae’s beautiful beaches, warm sand between your toes and smooth pebbles you’d skipped across the waves. But there is no more Aedes Elysiae. Only this — rusted metal, cold concrete, the war he's so desperate to throw himself back into looming on the horizon.

For some reason, against your better judgment, you find yourself speaking. “Why do you want to get back in a Jaeger so bad?” you mutter. You remember the war clock, the way the numbers had ticked, steadily going up and up. Almost like a countdown, time marching towards an inevitable fate. “Are you that excited to die?”

Phainon hesitates for a moment. His fingers flex slightly where they rest on his knees. “All of us have a responsibility to save the world,” he says at last. The perfect response for the PPDC’s perfect hero. His eyes stay fixed on the horizon where the water meets the sky.

You shake your head, stare out at the waters. “Damn hero complex…”

He just sighs, like he’s given up on explaining himself. You wonder if that's something you'll ever understand, even if you drifted with him another ten, hundred or thousand times. That’s why you’ll never be drift compatible with this man.

But for now, the two of you stay there in silence, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the boy you grew up with and the man he became, watching the waves until the last of the sunlight fades from the sky.

At night, the bed creaks beneath you as you stare at the ceiling, thin mattress doing nothing to cushion the ache in your bones. Around you, the Shatterdome hums with purpose — muffled footsteps in the corridor outside, distant clang of maintenance crews working through the night. Every sound underscores the same note: you don’t belong here.

All the people you’d met today — Stelle, Caelus, Anaxa, Chartonus — they move through the world with a certain conviction. Like they wake up each morning believing that the things that they do matter. That if they just fight hard enough, they can claw back some light from the darkness that encroaches. 

And Phainon belongs among them. He’d burn himself to cinders if it meant saving the world and think nothing of it. Maybe even do it with a smile. Self-sacrificing git…

You press your face into the pillow, pull the blanket over your head. Tomorrow, they’ll attempt to convince you that you’re someone capable of drifting with a hero. And tomorrow, the results will come back and they’ll tell you what you already know — that you’re not enough.

But tonight? Tonight you’re just a thief in a hero’s bed, counting down the hours until the world reminds you of your place.

Kaiju: The Kaiju (怪獣 kaijū?, Strange Beast) are a race of amphibious creatures from the Anteverse. In 2011, a portal known as the Breach opened between dimensions at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, allowing the Kaiju to enter Earth. As biological weapons of warfare, Kaiju are extremely hostile and toxic creatures designed with the intention to wipe out all humankind.

The K-Science biolab smells like antiseptic and formaldehyde and something sharper underneath — the sharp sting of kaiju blue that always seems to linger no matter how many times Hyacine sterilises the place. Phainon waits by the examination table, fingers drumming nonsensical rhythms against his thigh as he watches her work.

Hyacine doesn’t look up from her microscope. “Give me a second,” she says, adjusting the focus. The mechanical gears in the knob make tiny click-click noises. “Just need to finish up this sample analysis…”

“Still working on Terravox?”

“Mm. Secondary brain tissue, might give us some insight as to how their tails work independently of the main brain. The General thinks she’s seeing a rising number of kaiju with decentralised neural networks.” She finally sighs, straightens up to peel her gloves off and gives him a wan smile. “But you’re not here for my research. Come on, let’s get your psych eval done.”

She motions him towards the chair by her cluttered desk, the same one she’s been using since he’d started these monthly psych evaluations three years ago. Phainon sits, trying not to fidget as she scrolls through his records.

“Sleep still bad?” she asks. Phainon shrugs.

“Could be worse.”

Hyacine gives him a scolding look. “That’s not an answer.” She taps the screen where his prescription history is listed out. “Your meds have been refilled three times this month. That’s more than your baseline.”

He shrugs again. The floor sticks to the soles of his boots. Yikes. “There’s been a lot on my mind.”

“Uh-huh.” Hyacine sets her mouse aside to cross her arms at him. It's always disconcerting to see the usually cheerful biologist slip into full doctor mode—her posture straightens, her voice drops half an octave. Always about the patient’s well-being, though… “How many nights this week did you sleep without the pills?”

Phainon hesitates just a beat too long. It's enough of an answer for Hyacine.

“That’s what I thought,” she sighs, rubs at her temples like she’s fighting off an impending headache. “Look, I can’t keep rubber-stamping these evaluations forever. I know the General believes in you, but…” She leans forward, green eyes softening. “If you’re not alright, it’s okay. It’s expected. I don’t even want to imagine what it felt like, being trapped in the Drift when Cyrene…”

The name hangs in the air between them. Phainon’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice carefully even. “I’m functional.”

“I don’t want you just functional. I want you well.” Hyacine clasps her hands together, looks at him with something like pleading in her eyes. “Phainon, look, you know I’m always on your side. But you’re pushing yourself too hard. The nightmares, the insomnia—” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “These are symptoms, not just inconveniences that you can bury with pills. You’re no good to anyone if you go chasing R.A.B.I.Ts mid-drift, yourself included.”

It’s one thing to know these things, but another to be confronted with them by someone else. “I know.” Phainon’s voice is quiet. “Thank you, Hyacine.”

When she sees that he has no intention of engaging further, Hyacine just sighs, reaches for her stylus with the air of someone conceding the battle but not the war. “Fine. But I’m cutting your dosage. Half the pills, twice the check-ins.” She fixes him with a stern look. “And if I hear you’ve been rationing the pills in an attempt to stockpile them, we’re going to be having a very different conversation.”

No wonder why Mydei likes her so much. Phainon nods, the motion tight but sincere. “Understood, ma’am.”

Hyacine scribbles her signature on the psych evaluation with more force than necessary, a looping cursive. The printer whirs to life and she hands him his prescription chit. He takes it, paper curling between his fingers.

Phainon smiles, a genuine one as he stands. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Just don’t make me regret it,” she mumbles, turning back to her microscope. “People care about you, Phainon.” The door slides shut. 

More than you realise, I think.

After the psych evaluation, Phainon wanders the Shatterdome aimlessly. His feet, as usual, bring him to the Kwoon Combat Room. He’d once sparred with Mydei here for four hours straight, when the other ranger had first become a pilot. If they hadn’t each already had their own partners, Phainon sometimes wonders whether they would have been compatible as co-pilots.

Regardless of that, he pushes open the door and hopes to find Mydei in the training arena — someone who can match him blow for blow, where he can lose himself to the rhythm of hand to hand combat and just… quiet his mind. 

Instead, he sees you.

You’re in the center ring, fumbling with a practice staff like it’s personally wronged you. The sight makes him pause in the doorway. Stelle, Caelus, and March — one of Akivili’s pilots — are sprawled on the ground next to the ring, all looking similarly sweaty. Dan Heng, her co-pilot, corrects your posture with a hand on your wrist and you frown, gripping it even more tightly.

The NeuroSync is scheduled for this evening. He tries not to think of the last time your minds brushed. Tries not to think of the way you had forced him from your mind. You should have been compatible with someone else.

The rational part of him knows he should turn around — the quiet moment you’d shared last evening changes nothing, fixes nothing — but then you laugh at something Dan Heng says, a rare, unguarded sound he hasn’t heard in years, and then suddenly leaving feels impossible.

Before he can make up his mind, March spots him. “Phainon! Perfect timing!” she calls, waving him over with an enthusiastic grin.

He sighs, rubbing at the tension gathering at the base of his neck. Too late to escape now. As he approaches, he watches your shoulders stiffen the moment you register his presence, that guarded look flashing across your face before you school your features into careful neutrality. Part of him is irrationally jealous all of a sudden — though of what exactly, he isn’t quite sure.

“Six to zero,” Tribbie calls — Phainon hadn’t noticed the little redhead behind Dan Heng, there. She beams up at him, waves both hands enthusiastically. Caelus gives him a lazy salute as he comes to stand next to them.

“I’m not used to these things,” you mutter, shifting your grip on the staff. “Who even uses staffs in this day and age? Give me a gun any time.”

Dan Heng exhales through his nose, a slight hint of amusement showing in his eyes. “It’s not about the weapon — not even about winning, actually. The combat room is more about forging a relationship between pilots, developing a physical chemistry with your partner.”

“Could we not say it like that, please?” You attempt the spin that Dan Heng shows you and nearly drop it. Wrist is too stiff… “Guess the military couldn’t come up with a better way to build a relationship than to beat the shit out of each other, huh…”

The dark haired ranger shrugs, sweeping his own staff forward in a controlled arc that you barely manage to block. “Before Cyrene developed the NeuroSync, they were using all kinds of tests to see if potential rangers had compatibility. March and I got tested because we used the same excuse to get out of tasting Dr Himeko’s coffee back at the HSS.”

“That’s not even the strangest one,” Stelle chips in, dabbing at her forehead with a towel before glancing up at him. “Didn’t you and Cyrene get tested with a Nintendo Switch?”

The memory feels like it happened lifetimes ago. It might as well have. He nods slowly, can’t help the slight smile that tugs at his mouth. “Beat the Shatterdome’s highscore for Overcooked 2 in a day.”

“What?” You blink, momentarily distracted. “This is the kind of scientific research my taxpayer dollars are going into?”

Dan Heng uses your distraction to move again. His strike is slow, but you still nearly drop the staff entirely in your scramble to defend. Phainon steps into the ring without thinking, plucking the weapon from your hands.

“Here,” he says, adjusting your grip with practiced ease. His fingers brush against yours — warm and calloused — and he feels you tense. “Can’t wield it properly if you hold it like it’s going to bite you.”

You make a noise of disgust, expression sullen. “Everyone’s a critic…” You don’t pull away, though.

Phainon watches you with an unreadable expression, something flickering behind his blue eyes. There's a strange, almost childish desire rising in him — to keep needling you, to draw out more of those reactions, to prolong this moment where the air between you doesn't crackle with unsaid things. This is the most normal you've been around each other in months, and some traitorous part of him wants to stretch it indefinitely. “Would you rather keep losing?”

“Woo-hoo! Phainon verses (Name).” He turns just in time to catch the staff March tosses at him, her eyes bright with their usual playfulness. Dan Heng is already slipping out of the ring. That guy moves like the wind… “First to five hits wins!”

“Wait,” you lower your staff, eyes darting over to Phainon before frowning at her. “I never agreed to—”

Before he can fully think it through, Phainon steps forward to tap the point of his staff lightly against your forehead. “Dead,” he announces. You whirl around to stare at him, indignant. “What? That doesn’t count!”

Tribbie just giggles, chin propped up on her hands. “One to zero,” she calls in a sing-song voice.

You lunge at him with a scowl and he sidesteps easily, countering with a light but precise strike to your ribs. “Two.”

He can practically see the gears turning in your head as you clench your jaw and fall back, circling him. He expects another reckless charge, but instead you pause — eyes locked on him with an intensity that makes something in the pit of his stomach curl. And then, when he shifts his weight to feint left, you strike.

The staff cracks against his forearm with surprising force.

“One to two,” Tribbie announces, eyebrows raised. Phainon glances down at his arm in surprise, at the hot sting where your blow had connected. You shouldn’t have been able to read that move. He looks up.

You’re grinning a little, looking too pleased with yourself. “Surprised?”

He is. More than he’d care to admit.

The next exchange is faster, more fluid. Phainon goes low, slots the end of the staff between your ankles and flips. Your back is on the ground before you can even register falling, eyes wide as you look up the pole he holds to your throat. He huffs out a little breath, smiles down at you. “Three.”

You push yourself to your feet, eyes narrowed — and just lunge forward, instantly. He’s almost taken by surprise, rushes to bring his staff up to counter yours. You pull away before he can twist your arm into a deadlock, jab at his right shoulder where he can’t quite reach.

You’re still sloppy with the staff, technique unrefined, but there’s something unsettling familiar in the way you move against him. Like you’ve studied his fighting, somehow. Like you know his tells before he commits to them.

It happens again. When he steps forward, aims high just as you go low. Like you knew, somehow. The end of your staff knocks into his side.

“Two to four,” Tribbie is starting to sound confused, now. 

The two of you exchange blows again, but Phainon’s mind is speeding through a thousand thoughts in minutes. Suddenly, it clicks. “You’ve watched my fights,” he accuses, between strikes.

“Kephale’s fights,” you correct, twisting away from his advance. 

He presses and you block — barely — arms shaking from the strain. “Which ones?”

You exhale sharply through your nose, blink away the sweat as your eyes lock. “All of them,” you admit after a beat, and the admission that makes his chest tighten. Something hot and unnameable flares behind his ribs at the thought of you sitting in some dimly lit room somewhere, rewinding footage of Kephale — of him —  over and over until you could predict his movements like second nature. Because Kephale’s movements were — are — his. 

You were watching him.

The fight shifts then. It’s not just sparring anymore — it’s a push and pull, a give and take that feels dangerously like the Drift itself. He sees it now, the way you fight like a cornered animal. Mydei had always said, to know someone you observe them in battle or fight them yourself, to reveal their true nature. You’re all sharp edges and a whirlwind of something frantic, as though staying down for more than a second equals death. But there’s something more beneath it. A rhythm. A syncopation that he finds himself falling into step with.

“You’re not going easy on her, are you, Phainon?” Stelle calls from the sidelines, arms slung over the ropes. She’s frowning.

He’s not. Not going all out, of course. But he’s not exactly holding himself back, either. You drop low and he follows. Your sticks smack together but he’s stronger, forces your staff back and twists it from your grip. But you let it slide, reaching down to catch if before it can hit the mat, and hold one end to his neck just as he does the same to you.

The two of you stare at each other for a few moments. Your chest is rising and falling with each breath, harsh and heavy.

And then he realises: the room has gone quiet.  

Stunned, the two of you turn to see a small crowd has gathered. And at the front of it, arms crossed, expression unreadable — stands the General. Phainon exhales, lowering his staff.

He knows what this means, and from the look on Aglaea’s face, so does she.

Hyacine moves quickly through the biolab, her usual methodical precision abandoned in favour of urgency. The NeuroSync hums to life, screens flickering as initial diagnostic and calibration tests run. 

Aglaea had pushed the test forward, the moment she’d seen you and Phainon in the ring. As though whatever fragile, fleeting compatibility you had with him might just evaporate if given too much time to breathe.

You stare down at your hands, still trembling from the fight — or nerves? Beginner’s luck, you try to reassure yourself. Freak incident. Nothing more. But even that doesn’t convince you. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You were supposed to have another three more hours. Not much time, but enough to make a run for it — if you’d known, you might have just tossed yourself into the ocean and made a swim for it. Not this hurried, reckless plunge into something that could ruin the entire course of your life. Your stomach twists.

And despite yourself, you find yourself glancing at Phainon.

He’s standing against the wall, arms crossed and expression schooled into that infuriating calm he wears like armour. But you see the tension in the line of his jaw, the way his eyes sweep the floor in front of him, restless. Fingers digging into flesh, like it’s the only thing grounding him to here, to now.

He’s just as unsettled as you are.

Hyacine steps back from the console, wiping her hands on her lab coat. “Systems are up,” she says, her voice softer than usual. There’s something hesitant in her gaze as she glances between the two of you. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You exchange one last look with Phainon — something silent and weighted passing between the two of you — before you settle into the chair. Hyacine is silent as she attaches the electrodes to your temples, does the same with Phainon. The headsets descend with a mechanical hiss.

It starts with the same unsettling thrumming, as though someone’s placed a speaker right next to your ear and turned the bass all the way up. Grows and stretches, until it’s enveloping your entire mind. And then you fall, no ground beneath your feet, and—

It’s summer, sun high in the sky. You’re on your hands and knees, digging at the sand under the boardwalk where you’re sure Phainon has hidden your flip flops. Cyrene’s cheeky laughter rings out in the background, tasting of salt and sunshine. “Lose something again?”

“I didn’t take them.” A young teen with the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen in the surf, waves washing up to his knees. His hands are cupped around his mouth, but you can still make out his grin. “You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders, y’know.”

You toss a handful of sand at him that scatters in the stiff wind, wave a fist at him. He doubles over laughing, the sound bright and warm and oh so—

The sky goes dark. So suddenly, it steals your breath.

One moment, the sun is shining, the next — the sky splits with the scream of fighter jets. Alarms tear through the air, shrill and panicked. Phainon’s eyes meet yours, blue swallowed by fear. In the distance, the kaiju roars. And then—

He’s kneeling in the blackened sand. Clawing through the debris, fingers raw and bleeding, face streaked with tears he didn’t even know were falling. Cyrene is tugging at his shoulder, her own eyes red-rimmed and wet. “Stop,” she’s saying, voice breaking. “Stop, Phainon, she's gone—”

Not yet. Not as long as he can still move. Not until he sees—

You’re smaller, younger. The knife in your hands feels too heavy. The man in front of you — a pale stranger with cold eyes — presses it into your grip. “Make yourself useful, then.” His voice is smooth, constricts around your throat like a noose. Silk and venom.

Your hands shake. Fear coalesces in your chest, a cold that splinters and doesn’t melt. But you don’t drop it, fingers gripping—

The Conn-Pod shakes. The world tilts violently. Phainon’s voice is frantic. “Cyrene! Cyrene, we need to—”

Then— wet, crunching metal. The sound of something tearing, like fabric being ripped apart. The neural handshake fractures, a burst of warmth like a dying star, and suddenly, there’s nothing. No presence in his mind. No steady stream of thoughts. It’s like hearing his own heartbeat come to a stop.

You stand at the end of a pier, staring out over familiar waters. Silently drop a perfect, spiralled shell into the water, watch it sink beneath the waves without a trace. Too late. Everything is too late.

Phainon stares at his own reflection in the mirror, eyes hollow. Looks down at the bottles of pills in the medicine cabinet, fingers curling around the edges of the sink, and—

It’s too much. All of it, it’s too much. You’re already halfway through ripping off the headset, before you even realise what you’re doing. Try to breathe deeply to fill the clawing emptiness in your chest, eyes wet. Next to you, Phainon pulls his off slowly, eyes on the ground but not really seeing. He looks gutted, like someone’s reached into his chest and rearranged everything in there.

The screen flashes. 86%.

For a second, you just stare, wondering if the Drift has finally cooked your brain so hard you no longer recognise numbers. But Hyacine is gaping at the results as well, similarly wide eyed, and the sinking feeling in your chest becomes real all at once.

“I’ll give the General the results,” Hyacine mumbles, when she finally peels her eyes away from the screen. Her voice is hushed, as though the numbers on the screen might change if she speaks too loud. She offers you a sympathetic look, at least.

Next to you, Phainon says nothing.

You end up in Aglaea’s office again, but not alone this time. Everything is uncomfortably silent, except for the occasional tap tap of the General’s fingernails against the desk as she reviews the results. Phainon sits on the chair next to you, back rigid, arms crossed, jaw set. He hasn’t looked at you once since you entered. The tension between you is palpable enough to choke on.

86%.

Your pulse hammers in your throat, palms damp where they’re pressed against your thighs beneath the table. 

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out, before Aglaea can say anything, hate the way your voice cracks like thin ice. “Look, Aglaea, I’m not a soldier. You can’t possibly think that putting me in a Jaeger is a good idea.”

To your surprise, it’s Phainon who replies. “Stelle and Caelus weren’t soldiers.” His voice is low and measured, still staring at some fixed point on the wall. “March, too.”

Aglaea steeples her fingers. “He’s right. You don’t have to be military to pilot. What you do need,” she locks eyes with you, “is compatibility. You might not be a soldier, but Phainon is. And when the two of you have drifted properly, you’ll understand everything about what’s needed of a Ranger.”

“What, you mean the suicidal urge to climb into a walking coffin?” You snap back. “No sane person would volunteer for that. Only you brainwashed lackeys who think that being torn apart by kaiju is somehow noble—”

“Cyrene did.”

The name hangs between the two of you. Your stomach twists.

“Yeah, and look what happened to her,” you spit, hands trembling violently now. The words taste like battery acid in your mouth. “Fucking idiot should’ve known better than to put herself into a Jaeger—”

Phainon goes very, very still. It’s something deeper, more terrifying. Like all the molecules in the room have frozen in place, too afraid to move.

“Say that again,” he says, voice barely over a whisper.

You don’t back down. “What, does the truth hurt? She was so smart, and all for what? Still stupid enough to get into that death trap. All rangers do is die. And then they shove new ones in and watch those ones die too. Just like they’re trying to do with me now—”

Phainon slams his hands on Aglaea’s desk so hard that the metal shudders under his fists. The sudden violence of it steals your breath. His face is inches from yours now — when did that happen? There’s a white hot anger in his eyes, a nuclear fission ongoing behind those blue irises. 

But when he speaks, his voice is glacial. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not when you spent years hiding from us. Not when you couldn’t even be bothered to show up for her funeral—”

“Enough.” Aglaea’s voice cuts through like a knife. Phainon doesn’t move. The General’s words drop into something deadly quiet. “Phainon. Out. Now. Or I’ll have to call security to escort you out.”

His fingers tighten on the edge of the table. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Then, with one last searing look, he turns on his heel and storms out, door slamming shut behind him so hard the displays shake.

Silence.

You stare at the door. Gods, if Phainon didn’t already hate you before, he definitely does now. He really hates you now. You don’t even realise that you’re shaking like a tree in a storm until Aglaea says your name, cautious.

“I can’t…” your voice barely comes out as a whisper, raw with a hint of unshed tears. You don’t even know who you’re talking to, now. “There are a million other people who are better than me, for fuck’s sake. I’ll never be able to live up to someone like Cyrene…” The admission hangs quiet, in the space between the two of you.

Aglaea just looks at you. And for a moment, her expression is almost kind.

“There might be a million other people who are better. But the Drift isn’t about being better.” Aglaea reaches over the table to rest a hand on your shoulder, a look of sympathy in her sea green eyes. “For now, you’ll have to report to the Ranger division. But I assure you, we’ll keep looking.”

You don’t answer.

“Get some rest, (Name).” Aglaea says softly. “I’ll have the soldiers move your things to the Ranger wing for you.”

You have no words left. Numb, you rise and head for the door.

As you walk along the corridor, you pause at the observation deck windows. Below, in the hangar, the Jaegers stand sentinel in their bays — glorious, towering monuments to human defiance. You press a hand to the cold glass. 

They didn’t save Cyrene. You’ve always wondered what she’d felt like, in her last moments. Whether she’d been afraid. Whether she’d been cold. Crushed between metal and giant claws. Lost beneath the waves, screaming for air, drowning in the dark. And the fear of dying, lodged in your chest, worse than dying itself.

And if Phainon dies too?

Your fingers curl against the window, leaving smudges on the pristine surface as you step away. The thought carves something hollow and aching from your ribs. 

You’d already considered it once, when Cyrene had died. If you lose him, too, you might just end it yourself, on your own terms.

There’s only so much one person can take.

Phainon’s hands are bruised.

He flexes his fingers absently, watching the blue-green mottling across his knuckles bloom darker where the skin split against Aglaea’s desk. Barely feels the pain, secondary to the storm whipping in his chest. He doesn’t even remember walking to the mess hall — one moment, he’d been storming out of Aglaea’s office, and the next he’s sitting at a corner table with a tray of cold food he has no appetite for.

Aglaea had sent him orders, earlier. Move to the Ranger wing by tonight. Shared quarters. Builds compatibility, had been their reasoning. As though the forced proximity could mend what years of absence and today’s words had shattered.

Phainon stabs at his peas with a bit more force than required. They’re overcooked, the kind of mushy that sticks to the roof of your mouth. Wonders if you’ve eaten (he hasn’t seen you come down to the mess hall). Or if you’re already in that shared room, unpacking your things with the same spiteful energy you’d hurled at Cyrene’s memory.

Was that really what you thought of Cyrene? He wonders to himself, chest hollow. Cyrene, who’d died with a kaiju’s teeth buried in her chest? Whose last memories had been of you?

The thought makes his grip tighten. The fork wilts slightly under the pressure.

Around him, the mess hall chatter continues at a careful distance. Soldiers cast furtive glances his way before quickly looking elsewhere to sit. Even the boldest recruits who normally pester him for conversation are giving him a wide berth today. Good, because Phainon has no desire to pretend to be the PPDC’s golden boy now.

He shovels another forkful of peas into his mouth. They taste like cardboard.

“No juice?” Stelle’s voice cuts through his brooding. She slides her tray opposite him, takes a seat. She’s followed by Caelus, and then March, and then Dan Heng, their trays clattering onto the tray in a discordant symphony. “Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

Phainon blinks at his tray. Sure enough, no juice carton. He hadn’t even noticed.

Dan Heng exchanges glances with March, and silently, slowly, puts his juice onto Phainon’s tray. “I don’t like apple,” he says, by way of explanation.

Something tight in Phainon’s chest loosens just a fraction. “Thanks,” he mutters, the word coming out rougher than intended.

Caelus, tray piled high with every variation of potato the mess hall offers, gives him a searching look. “We heard that you’re moving back to the Ranger wing.” A wedge pauses halfway to his mouth. “But from the look on your face… I’m assuming the NeuroSync didn’t go well?”

Phainon swallows. “We’re… compatible.” The peas taste bad in his mouth, so he switches to the pork chop. “But she doesn’t want to do it.”

“Guess Aglaea’s got leverage anyway, if the two of you are still going ahead with this,” Stelle muses. The knife in his hand suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and then, behind his eyelids—

“Make yourself useful.”

The knife in your hands. Trembling fingers, smeared with blood. A tall, pale man who he recognises as Lygus, smiles down at you. It’s not a kind smile.

“Won’t make it out of the undercity alive, otherwise.”

Phainon presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, feels the bruises ache. Drift fallout — fragments of memory that aren’t his but linger anyway, in his mind. He feels your fear like it’s his own, lodged like shrapnel in his chest. I can’t die. I can’t die here. I can’t I can’t I can’t—

March looks sympathetic. “Think the General can change her mind?” she asks, twirling a strand of pink hair between her fingers. There’s no judgment in her voice, just a genuine curiosity.

“I don’t want her to have to change her mind.” His admission surprises him as much as it does the others at the table. “I might not… agree with her. But she has her own reasons, for being the way she is. I just happen to have my own.”

Then why were we even compatible? He signs through his nose, looks down at his tray again. The Drift’s never been an easy thing to work with, let alone understand, even with Cyrene’s years of research.

“Unfortunately, personal reasons don’t matter much when the world’s ending,” Dan Heng mutters. He’s looking at Phainon now, a wry smile on his face. Other than Phainon, he’s the only other military guy here. “I doubt most people want to go out there and fight giant monsters.” He pauses, makes a face. “Except maybe Stelle.”

She flashes him a grin. “I crave destruction.”

“And Caelus too, the guy is crazier than he looks.” Caelus shrugs, not disagreeing as he shoves another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “But someone’s gotta do it. Guess it’s easier, if you have something to fight for.”

Phainon stares down at his tray, bent fork still grasped loosely in his hand. 

He wonders if there’s anything left in this world that you care for enough to risk dying for.

Your room in the rangers' wing is to be shared.

Your things have already been moved in — standard-issue military shirts they’d ‘loaned’ you folded neatly on the lower bunk, a thin pillow that looks suspiciously like the one you’d been using in the temporary quarters. The space is sterile, impersonal, bare. Again. 

Phainon isn’t here.

Good. You don’t want to be around when he returns — not after what you’d said in Aglaea’s office, not after the way he’d looked at you like you’d ripped open an old wound and left it to bleed out. So you toss what little things you have onto the bed and leave before the silence can suffocate you.

The cafeteria is out of question — too many people, too much noise, too high a chance of running into him. Instead, you wander the Shatterdome’s endless corridors aimlessly, taking turns at random until the sounds of chatter and machinery fade into distant murmurs.

Then, without realizing it, you find yourself standing at the entrance of the Hall of Glory.

The hallway stretches before you, long and solemn, its walls lined with plaques and portraits of Rangers who never came home. Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway as you walk, eyes skimming names until—

There.

Cyrene’s portrait stares back at you, her pink hair vibrant even in the dim light, her lips curved in that teasing half-smile you still see in your dreams. The plaque beneath reads:

Cyrene Pilot of Jaeger ‘Kephale’ “This will be a romantic story like none that has come before.”

You stare at the plaque for a few moments before letting out a huff. Only Cyrene would choose such lighthearted, whimsical words to be put on her obituary plaque. For a moment, you let your fingers linger against the embossed brass, stare into those soft blue eyes as though you aren’t too late. As though she can still hear you.

As though you still have time to tell her that you’re sorry.

“I don’t know what to do.” The words escape you in a whisper. “I can’t do this, Cyrene. I’m not you. Not selfless enough, or heroic enough, or—” You cut yourself off, fingers curling into a fist. “It should have been you here instead.” Your voice is thick in your throat. “What a waste.”

“I’d advise you not to speak like that of the dead.”

The voice startles you — a whisper, soft a candle smoke, yet carrying an unexpected weight to it. You turn to see a young woman with waist length lilac hair pulled into a neat braid standing a few paces away. Soldier? Doesn’t seem like it. In the dim light of the hallway, she appears more like a ghost wandering these halls, hands clasped in front of her.

You drop your hand from Cyrene’s plaque, crack a half smile at her. “The dead can’t hear us.”

She walks towards you slowly, pace unhurried. “No,” she agrees. “But the living still can.” Her hand comes to rest on Cyrene’s memorial plate, her touch as light as a moth’s wing. “My name is Castorice. I come here often. To remember.”

You give your name in response, surprised by how easily it comes. There’s just something disarming about her — maybe the quiet calm that hangs around her, like a shroud, or the faraway look in those violet eyes — that makes the walls you usually keep up feel unnecessary. 

For a long moment, you both stand side by side in silence, studying Cyrene’s photograph. The camera had captured her perfectly, that playful light in her eyes, smile curving her lips like she was sharing a private joke with the photographer.

“It must be terrifying,” you say at last, “being out there in a Jaeger.” The words feel inadequate for the churning in your stomach at the thought. 

Castorice, however, just smiles, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. “The first time? Like standing naked before a hurricane. The fear… you get used to it, but it never really goes away.” She hums softly. “That’s why we don’t go alone. The Drift… it anchors you. Gives you someone to hold onto, when the fear comes.”

So she’s a ranger. You watch her profile as she speaks, noticing the way her eyes linger on certain names along the wall. This isn’t just a place she visits — it’s a place she knows intimately.

“I don’t know how Phainon does it,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The mention of him sends an unexpected pang through your chest. You could run to the ends of the earth and somehow Phainon would still find you there. Haunting you like a living ghost, in the cadence of strangers’ laughter, in the hush between heartbeats, in that hollow within your ribs where his absence has made its home.

“They say he piloted solo for twelve minutes after…” you gesture at Cyrene’s portrait. Castorice nods.

“After she died. He was still connected to her, in the Drift.” Her voice quiets to a whisper. “After Captain Hysilens died when Phagousa fell… the General never stepped foot into a Conn-Pod again. It’s not something that you just come back from.”

The image hits you with a sudden, brutal clarity — what it must have been like for Phainon in those final moments. You remember the suffocating intimacy of the NeuroSync, what Hyacine had called a facsimile of actual Drifting. Phainon’s emotions bleeding into yours, his thoughts like whispers under your skin. You can’t imagine the thought of feeling someone die while being connected like that.

Your breath comes short. The memorial hall suddenly feels too small, the air too thick with ghosts.

Castorice turns fully to face you, her violet eyes holding yours with surprising intensity. "The Drift shows you everything," she says quietly. "But it also gives you everything. There's no hiding, but there's also... no more being alone. Not truly."

With that, she offers you a small, knowing smile before turning back to her quiet vigil. You linger a moment longer, fingers brushing Cyrene’s plaque, before stepping back into the world of the living.

Back into the waking world.

It’s long past midnight when you finally decide to return.

The room is dark when you push open the door, the lights dimmed down. You pause in the doorway, letting your eyes adjust, and see a dark shape — Phainon — sprawled on the upper bunk, one arm thrown over his face. His chest rises and falls with slow, even breaths. 

Is he asleep?

Holding your breath, you shut the door quietly behind you and tiptoe over to your bunk, intending to grab your toiletries and escape to the relative safety of the showers. And then you see it — two neatly wrapped sandwiches and a juice carton, placed carefully on the covers. Your throat tightens.

He noticed. Despite everything you’d said, despite the way you’d torn into him earlier… he’d still noticed.

“Thank you,” you whisper, before you can stop yourself.

The response comes immediately. “Couldn’t have you starving to death,” he mutters.

You nearly drop your bundle of clothes, startled. “You were awake?”

Phainon’s arm doesn’t move from his face. “Waited for you for eight hours.” His voice is rough with exhaustion, a little snappy. “I thought you might’ve decided to make a run for it.”

Something in you twists — you’d been thinking of just that, actually. “What, worried that your only ticket into a Jaeger might have…” But the memory of his bruised hands, of the food he left despite everything, stops you. You let out a slow exhale, the fight draining out of you like air from a deflating balloon. “I’m sorry. Let me try that again.” You lick your lips, mouth suddenly dry as bone. “I just… went for a long walk. Was trying to collect my thoughts.”

Silence stretches between the two of you, thick with everything unsaid. Then Phainon shifts, lowering his arm, and you feel yourself tensing up. Too soon? Even in the dim light, you can still see the blue of his eyes, looking straight at you. “And?” His tone is softer now, the edge gone. “How’d that go?”

You bite your lower lip, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. You sit on the lower bunk, feeling the mattress creak under your weight. “Bits and pieces, I guess.” It’s easier to speak to the darkness. “I ran into Castorice,” you add.

“Mm,” you can hear him shift above you, the bed’s frame creaking as he moves. “She’s one of the nicest people I know. Also one of the only few people I know who can get around how headstrong Mydei is.” A pause. “Maybe that’s why they’re drift compatible.”

Another stretch of quiet. The Shatterdome hums around you — distant footsteps, the occasional muffled voice through the walls. You unwrap a sandwich, not because you’re hungry, but because you need something to do with your hands. Tuna and cucumber. Does he remember, or is this just coincidence?

Phainon exhales sharply above you. “Look, if you want to go,” the words come out in a rush, like he doesn’t want to say them, “then go. I spoke to Aglaea. There’s another batch of new recruits I can continue testing with.”

The sandwich turns to ash in your mouth. “You really hate the last choice that you have left, huh?” You try to joke, but it falls flat even to your own ears, your voice small and wounded.

“What?” He makes a noise of confusion, like he has no idea what you’re talking about. “Gods, no. Don’t be stupid.” When he continues, his words are measured, careful. “I know what it’s like to be out there facing the kaiju. The fear, the terror…” He takes a slow breath. “I don’t want to do that with someone who doesn’t want to be there. No one should have to be forced to do that.”

Your breath catches, and you look down at your own hands. Heroes… “So even the great Deliverer is afraid in there?” you ask, quietly.

He lets out a little laugh. “Of course.” No bravado. No deflection. Just… truth. “All the time.”

Something cracks open in your chest. The admission hangs between you, fragile as glass. “I'm scared, Phai,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

You hear him go still above you. That name belonged to a different life — to a sky filled with sunshine and shared ice creams, to a time before kaiju and grief and all the ways you’ve hurt each other since. Too much. Too vulnerable. But Phainon cradles it in his hands, with a gentleness that you know you’ve never deserved. “I know,” he says, so softly that it aches. “I’ll be in there with you.”

Not I’ll protect you. Not there’s nothing to be afraid of. Not you’ll be fine. Just this — I’ll be in there with you.

The simplicity of it is what undoes you. Your vision blurs. A tear splashes onto the sandwich wrapper, then another. You press the heels of your hands to your eyes, but it’s no use — the dam breaks, and suddenly the tears are falling without abandon, your shoulders shaking with the force of the emotions in your chest.

You try to stay silent, but Phainon hears — always does, the perceptive fucker. You hear a sharp intake of breath, and then there’s a pair of long legs swinging over the ledge of the top bunk before he drops down next to you. Through the tears, you see his expression twist into something pained, before he comes to crouch in front of you. His hands hover, fingers clenching and unclenching uncertainly before they settle lightly on your knees.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “Just say the word, and I’ll call it off. I won’t let Aglaea touch you. You don’t have to worry about that.”

You shake your head, swiping at your face. It's not that simple anymore. When has it ever been? You think of dying, the fear of dying, of Phainon dying, and it all just… "What if I'm not brave enough?" The admission tears free, ragged at the edges. "What if I freeze out there? What if I—"

His fingers tighten slightly. “Then I'll carry you.” No hesitation. No doubt. The certainty in his voice steals your breath. You search his face — the new lines at the corners of his eyes, the sun tattooed on the side of his neck, the stubborn set of his jaw. The boy you'd left behind and the man he'd become.

His thumbs brush over your knees, the touch feather-light. “I won’t let you fight alone again, (Name),” he whispers, almost like a promise. A vow. “I swear it.”

And for the first time in years, you find yourself wanting to believe him. Your eyes well with tears again.

Phainon doesn’t shush you or tell you to stop. Just lets them fall until they’ve run their course, until your hiccuping breaths even out. Only then does he lift his hand, using his sleeve to carefully wipe the salt tracks from your cheeks. And then, instead of returning to his bunk, he slides down to sit against your legs, his shoulder a warm pressure against your calf. The two of you exist like that in the quiet dark, the only sounds your breathing and the distant hum of the Shatterdome’s night.

And somehow, impossibly, you feel the fear in your chest loosen its grip. Just a little.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

[elysiumae]

https://open.spotify.com/track/5KQa1dgDpub3IGfOVG1Xcg?si=rIrMCmN8RYqjC0DR5RTkyQ

this song so gives me pacrim to phainon and cyrene vibes, especially during their time working with lycus (LYCARGUS WHEN I CATCH YOU.)

😭😭😭 i need pacrim!phainon to beat lycurgus' ass in stat

[elysiumae]

cant wait to get intimately more experienced with whatever horrors the reader saw living a life of crime since age 13 with Phainon's live reaction through the neurolink, I KNOW that shit is about to be heavy as fuck....

Like, she probably was constantly struggling with her actions contradicting her morals and weighing between a full stomach and doing what she was taught was right. Probably saw things that made her hurl. And then get upset at hurling because that's a meal and money lost. Probably got betrayed by people she thought she was safe with, and the following anger at herself for being 'stupid' enough to let herself get hurt by untrustworthy people. Probably has grown to feel more comfortable not feeling safe, because feeling safe means there is a danger she has yet to recognize.

Get that woman some therapy RIGHT NOW!!!!!!

reader has been thru The Horrors ™️and become so desensitized to all of it that she's just kind of 🥴🤙🏻and buried all of it somewhere in the back of her head... and has never really has had a reason to confront that all the Bad Things that she's done until the ppdc (aglaea) forced her into the Drift with Phainon and even though she's come to terms that she's just a terrible human being part of her just doesn't want Phainon to see all of that messiness and brokenness. which is why she has been doing her best to desperately push him away (he'll get the hint eventually right 🤡🤡)

as for therapy, her current go to is the cheapest available option of

[elysiumae]

no more mr nice guy