#imagine the silence in that confined helicopter space

[iztea]

awkward helicopter ride back home

[mnemememory]

better to scream

yasha is too tired for this shit. 

critical role pacific rim fusion au (part 1 of 2)

.

Over the years, Yasha has heard of ghost drifting.

Of course she has. In this profession, rumours are almost always more reliable than whatever new strange thing the scientists have cooked up to try. With such experimental technology, it was a safe bet to trust the instincts of those who had gone before rather than simply hoping for the best.

Beau complains about it all the time. How she always has Jester’s voice in her head telling her about her latest prank, or how cute Fjord looks. Fjord always rolls his eyes. Jester just laughs because “of course I have their voices in my head, where else would I keep them?”

When Molly dies, there is nothing but silence.

.

The man is a stranger.

It’s fitting, almost. Yasha tells herself that she wasn’t expecting anything different when she walked off that helicopter, but she’s always been a bad liar. It’s probably for the best. She doesn’t know if a familiar face would have broken her or not.

“Good evening,” the man says with a placid smile. He is taller than her, which is unusual enough to warrant attention, with pastel pink hair and cow-soft eyes. “My name is Caduceus Clay. My sister is the one in charge of fixing Necrotic Shroud.”

Yasha clenches her jaw and says nothing.

Caduceus Clay doesn’t seem too put off by her standoffish presence. He simply gives her another vacant look and gestures her towards the door.

It’s raining. Yasha walks over wet asphalt, boots heavy in the puddles. It hadn’t been so obvious from above, but from ground level everything has a distinctly rough edge to it. Yasha may not have been here for the first building blocks, but the whole building complex had been new and in good condition upon her abrupt departure. A lot appears to have happened in two years.

They wait a good ten minutes for the elevator which never comes, so Caduceus Clay ushers her towards the fire escape just a few feet down the hall. Their footsteps echo in the hollow metal chamber, the light casting a sepia tone over the surroundings. Caduceus Clay’s skin is painted in orange heughs, his eyes gleaming yellow.

Yasha looks away.

They eventually make it down to the correct level – number seven, Yasha notices with detachment – and step out of the stiflingly warm confines of the staircase to something far colder – and familiar. Yasha feels an unpleasant chill run across her skin as she walks out into the hanger room. There are ghosts here, in Yasha’s head, but they’re not the right ones.

“This way,” Caduceus Clay says. Yasha doesn’t move.

The first time she ever came to the Shutterdome, the sky was bleached white-blue and the ocean sparkled green. Molly was next to her, talking. He was always talking. Yasha followed him through the throngs of people who were gathering around the stairwell. They were all looking up at the overhanging railing with clear expectation.

“This place is amazing,” Molly said.

Yasha shrugged. It was certainly big.

“There are so many people here,” he said. “This is so much bigger than the circus. There are – what, a thousand people? Two thousand? I can’t imagine what it would be like to perform for so many people.”

That cracked a smile across Yasha’s face. “You weren’t a performer,” she said.

Molly’s grin was sly as he flared out his uniform-noncompliant multi-coloured cloak. A few people dodged out of the way of the flowing fabric.

“They don’t know that.”

“Miss Yasha?” Caduceus Clay says. He patiently waits for Yasha to blink her way out of the memory before urging her to the side so as to not disrupt the trickling flow of traffic.

A thousand people? Two thousand?

Try twenty.

Yasha eyes the skeleton staff with no little wariness. They all look a shade short of exhausted, with hair pulled up and bruises around their eyes. As she watches, one of the engineers stumbles off to the side and collapses against the wall, the palms of his hands pressed tight to his temples. Another engineer breaks off to check on him, but quickly gets back to work when he waves her off.

Caduceus Clay follows her eyes. “We’re a bit short-staffed at the moment,” he says easily. “But Clarabelle’s people are good people. They’ll get things up and running in time.”

“Clarabelle,” Yasha says. “Your sister.”

“I’ll introduce you two later,” Caduceus Clay says. “She probably won’t thank us for interrupting. I’ll show you where you can put your things and then we can get something to eat.”

Yasha gives the hanger one last casual glance before turning around and looking at what she’s been avoiding ever since she entered.

Necrotic Shroud is a tomb of a thing, black and grey and matte. It towers above the other Jaegers lined up. Yasha’s eyes run over the armour plating, the deceptively delicate lines of its hydraulic musculature, the thickened gauntlets. Her lady is in mourning; the paint no longer bares Molly’s distinctive paintwork. He would sit on Necrotic Shroud’s shoulders for hours at a time and drive the engineers to tears with the paint fumes.

Seeing her like this, naked, is a punch to the gut.

“Hey, beautiful,” she whispers. Her voice manages to come out steady, which is a pleasant surprise. Everything else about Yasha is shaking.

“She’s the last Mark II in existence,” Caduceus Clay says. “She’s one of a kind.”

Yasha thinks of Molly’s paintings, the way feathers and vines flowed their way messily along Necrotic Shroud’s ribcage and spiralled out from the shoulders. She always was, she wants to say, but she’s so tired.

“Who else is here?”

Even with the Jaegers filling up the open space, there’s something hollow about the Shatterdome. Maybe it’s because this place was built for so many more. Yasha can see empty bays that have been repurposed into scrapheaps, where busy engineers scavenged and discarded pieces.

Caduceus starts walking. After a few seconds of hesitation, Yasha decides to follow him.

“Here, we have Converging Fury,” he says, waving to the Jaeger set up in the bay next to Necrotic Shroud. It is compactly built – a Mark IV, if Yasha can read the specs right – with a massive metal staff with a circular knob at one end secured alongside it.  The sleekness of the design makes Yasha absurdly uncomfortable – compared to Necrotic Shroud, the plating looks flimsy and useless, sacrificing armour for manoeuvrability.

How many hits will this take before crumbling? Yasha wonders. It’s a design strategy, she knows, and yet. And yet.

“She’s piloted by Keg and Nila, who should be around here somewhere,” Caduceus Clay says. “Well, Nila should be here somewhere. Keg is very good at showing up in unexpected places.”

Yasha nods.

“They’re from around Shadycreek Run way,” he says. “Northeast of Zadash. Twelve drops, twelve kills. Nine of those were solo. They’re a good team.”

“Sounds like it,” Yasha says.

Caduceus Clay moves on.

“This is Dragon Slayer,” he says, gesturing to a frankly haphazard Jaeger. Half of its torso is covered in uniform black scaled armour, while the rest of a patchwork of whatever had been made available at the time. Yasha can see the corpses of at least three Jaeger’s that she’s served with stitched into its skeleton, and her stomach squirms uncomfortably.

Caduceus Clay glances at her, reading the hesitation in her body.

“We had to get creative when things started to get decommissioned,” he says. “Some of these are spare parts, but some were ripped wholesale off whatever we could save. Well” – here, he ducks his head – “I say we. My sister is the engineer in the family. I’m just an administrator.”

Some administrator, Yasha thinks, eyeing the whipcord muscles underneath his skinny frame.

“In any case, this beautiful creature is piloted by Twiggy and Calianna. They were originally stationed out by Nicodranis, but they moved basically anywhere they were needed. Towards the end, that was basically everywhere. Now they’re here.”

Yasha can read between the lines. They’re needed here, because this is it. We’re being shut down. It’s now or never.

“And here, we have –”

“YASHA!’

Yasha braces herself just in time. She stills rocks a little on her feet as Jester’s body rams into hers, arms flung around Yasha’s torso.

“Jester,” Yasha says, looking down at the smaller woman with a smile. She still looks so young.

“Yasha! I can’t believe you’re back – I mean, I absolutely can believe it, but also I didn’t think you were going to come? It’s been a very long two years. Caleb didn’t think you were going to come, but I told him that you would.”

“It is very nice to see you, Jester,” Yasha says, giving her an awkward squeeze. Jester just beams harder, snuggling into Yasha’s soaked hoodie.

“You’re back.”

It almost hurts worse than seeing Necrotic Shroud, the way Beau’s voice comes out so flat. Yasha stiffens before she means to, head jerking up and heart in her throat.

She looks the same. Well, the same, but more tired. Thinner. The softness has been filed away. Beau’s cheekbones stand out like knives across her face, hair pulled up in an exhausted mess. She’s half-in and half-out of her black under-armour, the shirt peeled back and tied around her waist. Yasha’s eyes linger a touch too long on her bare arms, the dusty contours of her muscles.

“Beau,” Yasha says, cautious.

“About time,” Beau says, and walks away.

.

Yasha can’t sleep.

That in itself isn’t unusual. Yasha has never been very good at beating off the darkness of the night, now more so than ever. The spacious quarters are a painful reminder of just how cramped it would have been with another person present. Yasha’s eyes keep lingering on the bare walls, on the empty bedside table, on the unmade upper bunk.

It’s cruel to put her here. It isn’t the same room as the one she had previously shared with Molly, but it’s close enough to itch.

The third time that Yasha looks over to see that barely ten minutes has passed, she gives up. Rolling out of bed, she shoves her bare feet into her sneakers and pulls on a sweatshirt over her leggings. Phone stuffed into her bra, she slips out of the room and into the silent hallway.

There aren’t many people in this area of the Shatterdome. Caduceus Clay had been kind enough to complete the tour by informing her of their greatly reduced numbers, and – consequently – the gradual spread of living space. Yasha’s area is running on rechargeable batteries. They aren’t connected to the main power grid anymore.

Her breath mists in front of her as she moves deeper downwards. If she closes her eyes, she could trace out her path by route. Forward, left, forward, forward –

The kitchens open up in front of her. At this time of night – well, morning – there aren’t many people around, save for those unlucky enough to have been rostered on for preparing breakfast. There’s a pot of something foul-looking but decent-smelling bubbling away on the stove, but Yasha bypasses it completely for the refrigerator.

As she inches the door open, one of the people cooking turns to glare at her. “Excuse me,” she says, hands planted firmly on his hips. “I’m afraid that you can’t –”

“It’s okay, Adeline,” a familiar voice says. “She’s with me.”

Adelina falters. “Mister Fjord –”

Fjord steps out of the shadows like the creepy overdramatic bastard that he is. Yasha glares at him and then goes back to rummaging around the refrigerator for anything unopened. Fjord can explain, if he wants to stand up for her. Yasha is too tired to deal with anyone today.

Adelina eventually leaves to go and check on something on the other side of the kitchen, though she doesn’t look especially happy about it. Fjord sidles over to where Yasha has gathered some cheese and a few leftover eggs. She’s already mixing them together when he comes to sit next to her.

“Long time no see,” he says.

Yasha ignores him.

“Mind if I had a taste of that when you’re done?” he says. “I was feeling a little bit peckish myself, which is why I came down here.”

“This feels like an ambush,” Yasha says, looking around for a microwave. Fjord handily points it out to her.

“Not an ambush,” Fjord says. “I don’t like eating in the cafeteria either. Getting it straight from here is – safer.”

Yasha grimaces, stabbing at the buttons with more force than it probably warranted.

“How was the Wall?”

“Cold,” Yasha says. “And wet.”

“So no different from here, then.”

“It was a little different,” Yasha says, and then hesitates. “How have things been here?”

“Cold,” Fjord says with a smile. “And wet.”

“Fjord.”

“It varies from day to do,” he says with a shrug. “We’re all working to get things done. Did you see the massive clock in the hanger? They’re counting down the days between each attack.”

“Fourteen,” Yasha says.

“Our brainiacs in the science department don’t think it’ll be much longer,” Fjord says. “Have you met them? Caleb and Nott.”

“Nott?”

“Don’t ask, she doesn’t like talking about it,” Fjord says. “But yes, that’s her name.”

The microwave beeps. Yasha opens it up to look inside, and then scrambles the goopy mixture up with her fork and puts it in for another forty seconds.

“How much longer, then?”

“A week,” Fjord says. “If we’re lucky. Three days if we’re not. That’s why everyone’s on high alert at the moment.”

“I noticed.”

Fjord flashes a bright, tired grin her way. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m not sure if I’m back,” Yasha says. “I don’t have anyone to Drift with.”

“There are a lot of good kids training here,” Fjord says. “Not as many as in our classes, but a decent selection. You’ll find someone.”

“I might not,” Yasha says. Three seconds before the timer runs out, Yasha stops the microwave and tests the eggs. She’s managed to overcook them, so they’re a little rubbery, but edible compared to what she’s used to eating these days. “I might not want to.”

Fjord regards her steadily from where he’s sitting at the table. “If you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t be here.”

Yasha shakes her head and deposits the plastic bowl on the table in front of Fjord, offering him her spoon. “This place is dying,” she says. “The Wall won’t work.”

“The Marshall has a plan,” Fjord says. “We need all the Jaegers we can get. That includes Necrotic Shroud. Beau and Jester and I, we can only do so much.”

“And those other pilots,” Yasha says, stealing the fork back and taking a bite.

“They’re good,” Fjord says. “But we haven’t been on a run with any of them. I know you. I trust you.”

Yasha’s fingers clench around the cool metal of the fork. “You shouldn’t.”

Fjord sighs. “Is this about what happened? Because Jester and I –”

“It’s not only about that,” Yasha says. She isn’t hungry anymore. She hands the fork back to Fjord. “Not fully. Molly had to pilot the Shroud for almost an hour before anyone came to help. I was useless.”

“That wasn’t your fault,” Fjord says.

“It doesn’t matter,” Yasha says. She doesn’t say, but it is, because that would be counterproductive. “It’s going to affect anything I do in the Drift. My new partner might not even be able to connect.”

“Molly –”

“Molly was a blank slate,” Yasha says. “He was silence in the storm. I’m never going to get anything like that ever again.”

Fjord closes his eyes and takes a bite of overcooked eggs. “I can’t imagine it,” he finally says. “If I lost Jester or Beau.”

“That won’t happen,” Yasha says.

“Big words,” Fjord says. “You gonna back those up?”

No. Yes. Maybe. “I guess we’ll see tomorrow, won’t we?”

.

Caduceus Clay says, “I was opposed to reinstating you as a Ranger.”

“That’s fair,” Yasha says. She’s just been given an empty room with no internal heating. The blankets that are folded on the end of the mattress look worn but serviceable.

“I don’t mean to be personal,” Caduceus Clay says. A brief look of discomfort flashes across his serene face, but it’s gone too quickly for Yasha to be sure. “But I advised that you were too unpredictable to be brought back into a combat situation. Considering what happened last time – and how you reacted to it –”

Yasha bares her teeth into a smile. “I understand,” she says. “I wouldn’t have reinstated me either.”

.

“One, four.”

Yasha rolls to her feet and offers her opponent a hand up. She’s sweaty, but not sweaty in the right sort of way – this sweat is from the monotonous repetition of tasks, rather than an actual workout. There’s no challenge to this. Block, deflect, attack.

Yasha can feel her moves going stale with every blow she doesn’t bother to dodge. The flashy man in front of her smacks his staff against the ground in what appears to be an intimidation tactic, but Yasha just gives a small sigh.

“Begin!”

The man moves, and Yasha waits for him. What else can she do? There are only so many matches she can follow through with before things start to get old. When the man reaches the limits of her patience, she puts him on the ground. Rinse, repeat.

On the other side of the room, at the door of the Combat Room, Caduceus Clay stands with a clipboard in hand next to Marshall Shakaste, the Duchess an ever-present distraction at his side. After a few more matches, Yasha can’t hold back her frustration and rounds on them.

“Alright, what is it?” she says.

“What is what?” Shakaste says, but it’s Caduceus that she’s looking at.

“You,” Yasha says. “Every time I beat someone, you have this look” – she tries to imitate it, but probably only ends up looking constipated – “like I’m doing something wrong.”

Caduceus blinks slowly. “Well, you are doing something wrong.”

Yasha’s voice is flat. “Really.”

“You took hits you shouldn’t have,” Caduceus says. “It’s obvious that you could have finished the fight quite a bit more easily than you managed. You’re not taking this seriously. Since my sister was the one who spent most of the past year of her life fixing the machine that you’re going to be piloting, I’d prefer if you didn’t screw that up.”

Yasha bares her teeth. “You think you could do better?”

“Probably,” Caduceus says. “It’s not like you’re trying very hard.”

Shakaste lets out a low chuckle and takes the clipboard away from Caduceus. Yasha obligingly steps back onto the mats and sweeps her staff low and inviting.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a few minutes to warm up,” Caduceus says. “I wasn’t exactly expecting to be fighting today.”

“You’re certainly dressed for it,” Yasha says. Caduceus’ clothing is tastefully green and loose, the shade going well with his hair.

Caduceus just smiles. Yasha is really starting to hate that look on his face.

There are too many people in the Combat Room for Yasha to really feel comfortable. She’s better at fighting behind closed doors, where no one can see how ugly it can get. Jester is in the corner, next to Fjord. Yasha can’t see Beau anywhere, but she’s got to be here somewhere. No matter how much has changed over the past few years, there are few things that Beau likes more than a good fight. And regardless of what Caduceus thinks, Yasha is very good at fighting.

“Okay, I’m ready,��� Caduceus says after a few stretches. He’s remarkably bendy for someone who looks like he should snap in half at the first stiff breeze. Yasha tightens her grip on her staff.

“Okay,” she says, and attacks.

.

The first time Yasha crossed staves with Molly, they were already exhausted from playing second fiddle to thirty or so of their classmates.

Yasha was very good at knocking people down. Molly was very good at making a fool out of people. Neither of these things made them very popular.

“I don’t think I’ve sparred with you before,” Molly says.

Yasha shrugs.

“Well, in any case, it’s been a pleasure,” Molly says, giving her a mocking kind of salute. Yasha responds more automatically than she would have liked, but there were certain courtesies beaten into trainees before they were even allowed to set foot into the Combat Room, and respect was one of them.

Molly’s blows come in short, sharp bursts; he’s never where Yasha expects him to be. If they were going for points, he would be the winner, because he was getting more.

From the way they kept on fighting, though, Yasha knew that this wasn’t going to end until one of them was on the ground.

Half an hour later, most of the class had already packed up and were trying to leave. Yasha weathered the blows without faltering. There were going to be bruises all along her arms and across her shins for weeks to come, but she barely felt the pain. Molly was slowing down rather significantly. Whereas his initial attacks had come in rapid succession, he was being more cautious about them now, more incredulous.

“How the hell are you still standing,” he says.

Yasha shrugs, and then sends him sprawling with a single blow to the ribs.

.

Someone told Yasha, once, “You fight angry.”

(A lot of people have told Yasha that).

It’s an easy statement to make. Yasha fights like she’s going to die. Molly laughed at her for it.

Caduceus just waits.

Yasha can’t quite get the timing right. Every time she goes in for a strike, there’s something about Caduceus’ stance that makes her hesitate. She stops an inch from his throat and jumps back, fingers clenching hard around the practice staff.

“I’m not really trained for this sort of thing,” Caduceus says. He hasn’t stopped smiling.

Yasha’s staff dips. “You’re not so bad,” she says. “You just need more practice.”

Caduceus blocks her next strike. There’s an opening, but Yasha doesn’t take it. She backs off and starts circling.

“There’s not much of a chance for that around here,” Caduceus says. He’s not even sweating. Yasha’s drenched, though that could be because of her earlier bouts. It’s a little unnerving facing down someone who doesn’t waste energy on excess movement – Caduceus stands still and waits for her.

Yasha attacks. Caduceus parries but doesn’t go in for a blow to the neck, despite Yasha telegraphing the opening for a good five seconds. She narrows her eyes.

“You’re messing with me,” she decides.

“I told you I’m not very good at this,” Caduceus says. “Now you’re taking me seriously.”

Then he starts fighting back.

.

“You,” Yasha says.

Caduceus is on the ground in front of her, arms spread wide with a contented expression settling over his face. His staff is on the opposite side of the room. Yasha’s ribs ache from laughing so hard.

“Me what?”

“You’re my partner. I won’t Drift with anyone else.”

Reading the smug lines of Caduceus’ mouth, Yasha can already tell he had planned this.

.

The cafeteria food looks as unappetising as ever.

Yasha takes the offered plate automatically and then looks around for a table to sit at. Jester is very obviously bouncing up and down in the far-right corner, waving her arm enthusiastically in the air, but Yasha takes her time before ambling over there.

As per usual, Fjord is settled alongside Jester. Beau is sitting opposite to them, moodily chewing on something that might resemble lettuce if it wasn’t so – stringy. Her expression darkens when she sees Yasha coming towards them, and she hurriedly begins to scarf down what remains of her food. She’s almost made it by the time Yasha reaches them, which is impressive, considering how disgusting it looks.

“Yasha!” Jester says. She ushers Yasha to sit down next to Beau, who pointedly scoots further down the bench. “It is good to see you. Again.”

She won’t stop smiling. Yasha smiles back.

“How have you been?”

“Fine,” Beau snaps, and then goes back to picking at her food.

Fjord clears his throat. “Ignore Miss Grumpy over there. We’ve been doing as well as can be expected, really. We were just transferred out from over Nicodranis with Dragon Slayer. Have you met Twiggy and Calianna yet?”

“Not yet,” Yasha says. She scrapes some mashed potatoes around disinterestedly across her plate. “Are they nice?”

“They’re so cool,” Jester says, waving her fork around in the air. “Twiggy is always giving me her chocolate, which is awesome, and Calianna writes the best poetry –”

Fjord smiles. “I think you’ll like them.”

Yasha pushes her tray away from her. “And the other team?”

Beau bares her teeth in a smile. “Reliable.”

“Ouch,” Yasha says.

“Beau,” Jester says in a tone of profound disappointment. “We talked about this.”

“No, you talked about this,” Beau says, crossing her arms across her chest. She looks tired. They all look tired. “You’ve been gone for a long time, Yasha. We didn’t think you were going to come back.”

“Beau…”

Beau shakes her head and gets to her feet. Yasha tilts her head to one side and considers following her, but a quick glance at Fjord tells her that probably isn’t the best idea. She watches Beau leave through the door towards the hanger bay.

There’s a long, awkward silence.

“Don’t take it personally,” Jester says. Her fork is back alongside her still-untouched plate of food, and she’s twisting her fingers into anxious knots. “She was so sad when you left. She thought you were going to come back – a long time ago. Before this.”

Yasha sighs. “I couldn’t.”

“I know,” Jester nods. “If something happened to Fjord or Beau – I don’t know what I would do. Molly –”

“I don’t think this is the place for that kind of talk,” Fjord says. “We’re very. Out in the open, if you know what I mean.”

Yasha glances up. Caduceus is walking over, gait unhurried, a heaped tray of food in his hand.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “He’ll know everything soon enough.”

“Soon doesn’t have to be now,” Fjord says firmly.

Yasha shrugs. Caduceus sits in the empty seat next to her, beaming across the table. Jester smiles back with the same kind of open reassurance, though Fjord seems largely immune.

“Heard you’re going to be a Jaeger pilot,” he says.

“That’s the rumour,” Caduceus says, shovelling something that didn’t look especially edible into his mouth. Yasha looks over her plate, and then dumps it onto Caduceus’ tray. He gives her a nod of thanks and keeps eating.

“And how’s your sister taking that?”

“She wouldn’t stop laughing for twenty minutes straight,” Caduceus says. “Says I deserved everything that happens to me.”

“That certainly sounds like Clarabelle,” Fjord says.

Yasha glances between them. “When am I going to meet your sister?”

“You’ll see her eventually,” Caduceus says. “She’s around here somewhere.”

There’s a low buzzing sound. Fjord glances down, and then takes his phone out of his pocket. He reads the message, closes his eyes, and then glares at both Yasha and Caduceus.

“That was Beau,” he says. “Shakaste wants you two in the hanger ten minutes ago for a trial Drift.”

.

Yasha has so many scars from her uniform – there are clamps and drills and hooks that dig into her skin and down to her bone. The biggest scar she has is along her spinal column, where the suit connects directly into her nervous system.

It had required surgery. Molly had been there when she closed her eyes, holding tight onto her hand in a way that was both reassuring and terrifying. Yasha remembers breathing in and out, in and out, and waiting for everything to go dark.

Her skin aches as she puts back on the suit. Her shoulders pinch along the scars, the metal digging into her throat and along her collarbones. Yasha breathes in and out, in and out, and doesn’t jolt when they connect her spine.

Walking into the cockpit of Necrotic Shroud is a nightmare of reality. There are exposed bundles of wiring that have been taped down, cracked glass screens that are just good enough to justify their continued presence. No longer does a sleek, minimalistic aesthetic dominate the area – that has all been thrown out in favour of cheap practicality. Here’s how to save the world, a dollar at a time.

Yasha hooks herself into the harness. The tech’s try to help, but she’s done this hundreds of times before, and she’s done before they can really make much of a difference.

Molly is next to her, grinning.

No.

Caduceus is next to her, looking almost ridiculous in his dive suit. Yasha blinks away the memory of Molly’s sharp grin and tries to smile back.

Shakaste’s voice echoes through the cockpit: “Prepare for neural handshake.”

Yasha’s smile turns bloodless.

“My head isn’t a very nice place to be,” she says. “I’m either very unlucky, or cursed. And I don’t believe in luck.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Caduceus says.

Four.

Yasha closes her eyes. Molly is there, just out of reach.

Three.

“Don’t latch onto anything,” she says. “The Drift is silent.”

Two.

“See you on the other side.”

One.

.

“Hey, sleepy,” Zuala says.

Yasha shakes her head and presses further back into the pillow. It’s still dark out, but she can see the faint light coming in through the window from the streetlamp outside. She’s been meaning to install curtains above it, but it never really seems to come up.

“G’way,” Yasha says, burrowing down.

Zuala laughs. Zuala has the most wonderful laugh in the world.

“Hey, sleepy,” she says. “Get –”

“ – up. Yasha, get up.”

There’s an alarm. Yasha’s eyes snap open and she scrambles around for some kind of purchase. Everything hurts. The buildings around them are in ruins, blown apart to dust and rubble, and a storm is whipping wind and hail and dust around them.

Yasha is on her knees. Zuala is in front of her, and she’s on the ground, and she’s not getting up. Her hands scrabble weakly at Yasha’s. In the distance, as a kind of horrific background noise, a siren wails in futile warning. There’s a monster out there in the mist, somewhere, but Yasha can’t think.

“You need to go,” Zuala says. She’s shaking Yasha frantically. Yasha clambers slowly to her knees and shakes her head like a wounded dog, trying to think. The rain isn’t letting up. “Yasha, get up, you need to –”

“ – go, go, go!” Molly laughs, pushing Yasha forward. “C’mon, wake up, we’ve got a monster to kill!”

Yasha shakes her head and stifles a yawn. Even the minor pain of getting into the dive suit doesn’t wake her up as it usually would. She cracks her neck and gets into the harness, tightening the straps automatically.

“Initiating neural handshake.”

“You ready for this?”

Yasha dredges up a smile from somewhere. “Always.”

Four.

“– wake up – wake up –”

Three.

“ – wrong – Jester and Fjord –”

Two.

“– Lorenzo –”

One.

.

[teenagermilk]

He wanted to leave, but couldn’t think of anyplace he wanted to be. It was a strange feeling to want to go away but have no place in mind he’d like to be. He wanted to disappear, without telling anyone.

It came to him as a surprising, soothing thought, ‘I want to die.’ And he smiled.

He’d never considered suicide before, never understood why anyone would... until now.

He wasn’t religious, knew there wasn’t an afterlife. He’d been dead before, been dead for billions of years before he was born. That hadn’t been so bad. There was an infinitium of time on either side of an ephemeral life. He’d already spent an infinitely longer span dead than alive, he wasn’t afraid of oblivion.

He wasn’t afraid of pain, he could do it himself, was confident that he could do a good job of it. Take a shotgun into the woods. Rent a helium tank for balloons and lay it in the backseat of his car with the windows rolled up, open the nozzle to full blast and go out singing along to the radio like a chipmunk. Take a few sleeping pills, down a bottle of wine, padlock a length of chain around his waist and swim as far out to sea as his arms would take him. There were a lot of tall buildings around.

His death would hurt his family, but he honestly didn’t care. His life was his, they didn’t have to live it, he did. This life was his to do with as he wished.

He understood why mass shooters did what they did, the world was too crowded. Too bereft of opportunities. Dog-eat-dog was too kind an expression for seven billion selfish people all working in oblivious unison to worsen the world on all fronts. He smiled at the thought of firing an AR14 at everyone in the church he’d been drug to as a child, retire early to a quiet life of solitary confinement, or ‘suicide-by-cop’. The death penalty had been overturned, and he had no hopes of ever retiring otherwise...

He could never do that either, he wasn’t a murderer. He couldn’t think of anyone he truly hated.

His life had become asphyxiating, and he’d come to regret so many decisions he’d made. His youth was waning fast, dotage setting in. He’d already left everyone he loved, or they’d left him. Cancer ran in his family, he was uninsured. He owed thousands in debt.  

He’d had some fun over the years, but fun was a poor facsimile for happiness. He was certain he’d lost his chance at ever being happy. He was ready.

All these thoughts were pointless though. He could never commit suicide, he knew. Suicide meant admitting defeat, and that was something he just couldn’t do. His pride wouldn’t allow it.

So he decided to get hopelessly lost. The ‘hopelessly’ part being literal to his aim. No hope of ever returning. He didn’t care what happened to him, so long as he never saw another person for however long he lived.

He quit his job spent a week cleaning out his shabby apartment, writing platitudes to the texts of family members, created a story about going on a road trip to see a woman he’d met online, they were happy for him. Spent a few days selling everything of value that he had.  

He opened a road atlas and looked for a way out. Getting hopelessly lost was difficult to accomplish in today’s world. Highways bisected every tract of wilderness. He decided the best direction was north-northeast, and the best route was through mountains. He couldn’t imagine himself traveling afoot through alpine forests, it excited him.

He withdrew his pitiful life savings, added to it the sum traded for all his valuables, and went shopping. He bought a fine pair of hiking boots, a 70 litre pack, mess kit, two canteens, net bags and compression sacks, sleeping bag, rolled foam pad, pricey four-season tent, several braids of parachute cord, titanium axe/pick, multitool, two tarps, two different crank-charged lamps, head lamp, two high-powered pen lights and a big pack of batteries. He paused in front of a selection of durable compasses, but decided he was better off without.

With two of his three credit cards maxed out, he decided lastly to get four sets high-tech thermal underwear and a dozen pairs of smartwool socks before moving on to his list of provisions. He couldn’t envision how he wanted to die, but gradual starvation wasn’t ideal. He’d shop for food tomorrow.

Laying out all his purchases on the floor of his shabby apartment, he became suddenly very anxious to leave. Opening all his cupboards, he discovered his kitchen to be surprisingly well-stocked with an array of nonperishables. He mixed his sizeable spice rack into three zippered plastic bags, one salty, one curry, one that was mostly cumin and cayenne. He filled another zipperbag with the dozen types of teabags his ex had left in his cupboards. He never took any sort of inventory, decided that rationing was counter-intuitive to his objectives. He stuffed everything into his pack and padded the edges of cans with compressed sacks of clothing. Pulled out a woollen military sweater, his warmest jacket, a down vest, and a durable denim jacket, knit cap and two pairs gloves.

The pack was overstuffed, he didn’t want to guess what it weighed. He wondered if it was possible to trek through mountains with so much strapped to his back, so he laced up his new boots, strapped on the heavy pack and walked to the post office to put a hold on his mail for three months (which would \\\\\sell the lie

). It was about four miles, there and back.

When he returned he decided it was possible. He was out of shape, had grown thick through his middle, but he’d be in great shape soon. He’d make a handsome corpse. He drank the remaining five cans of lager from his refrigerator whilst looking through his bookshelf, trying to decide what the last book he’d ever read would be. After finishing the fifth beer he gave up without having having selected anything. Rising, he undressed and lay down on his bed, pulling the covers over him for the final time, dropping into a deep and dreamless sleep, not unlike death.

He awoke and threw a couple new toothbrushes and a roll of floss into his pack. He thought about buying more groceries, but decided he would eat what he had and subsist off whatever he could find thereafter.

He had his final breakfast amongst civilisation in an old diner. He tipped very well.

Then he turned onto the highway north, towards the mountain range not yet visible.

The mountains were rose from the horizon like the profile of a sleeping woman. They loomed blue and misty as he stopped for fuel. He filled the tank before realising how stupid he was for doing so.

It was surprising to see snow this late in the year, hard rinds of windblown snow and ice clung to the shadows in crags, fissures and the leeward sides of the peaks. He pulled into a rest stop for free coffee and consulted his road atlas.

A road broke away from a tributary highway that seemed to lead into nothing, a good place to disappear.

The road didn’t end though, it continued in a series of muddy logger roads that wound upwards through an area of switchbacks beset on all sides by spruces and then through a massive clear-cut that spread downwards and up the slopes of the mountain east. His car handled the boggy snowmelt muck better than he’d ever have guessed.

Eventually the ravine on his right opened into a proper canyon, so he pulled off the single gravelly lane and advanced over the moss covered rock to the precipice. Setting the emergency brake, he parked the car as close to the cliff as he dared, shifted to neutral and exited the vehicle, leaving the engine running. He took a cursory inventory of the contents of his car, electing to bring a sizeable wad of napkins from his glove box, hot sauce packets, a pair of oversized pliers, paint respirator and a pair of cheap sunglasses. After shouldering his pack and cinching the straps, he leaned into the open door, disengaged the emergency brake and stood back. The humming car didn’t move, so he pushed, and it began to roll.

Just before the very edge, was a gulch of loose shale, which crumbled as the car tipped. There was silence for a few seconds before the impact. He’d heard a garbage truck drop a dumpster before, it sounded a lot like that. There was no explosion like on TV. He edged forward to see the car flipping end-over-end for the last hundred feet before crashing through the tree line, folding over a birch. No explosion, but a bit of smoke. Disappointed by the lacklustre death of the best car he’d ever had, he turned his face to the succession of barren crags above him and started walking.

The gravel lane curved away downhill and he left the road, feeling energised, feeling like this was the exact moment he left civilisation and everyone he knew behind. He hadn’t wept in years, but was surprised to feel his eyes fill and drops rolling down his face. He hadn’t known such joy in a long time. He began his climb in earnest.

It was hard on his knees. The layers of loose rock under a hard crust of frozen snow threatened to roll his ankles. Despite this, he made better time than he’d thought. He stopped for a moment to take out a thermal flask of coffee, still hot. He took out his phone and looked through the photos on it. Then he threw it out over the wide gulf of space that opened before him. Then he stood to resume his trek. But then he noticed the haze of smoke rising from the ravine. The copse of birches where his car had come to its final rest appeared to be smouldering. He wondered if the smoke was visible from the highway.

After what he guessed might be two hours, he summited the first peak and stared out at the grey sky. The position of the sun wasn’t obvious, but he found it low in the west, where it would soon set. The wind whipped at his clothes and stole his breath,  he leaned into it, arms out, eyes running. He couldn’t see the highway, no buildings, no trace of humankind. The land looked much as it had for hundreds of thousands of years. This was magical.

Then he heard the helicopter.

There was a single light in the dusky east, a searchlight? The duskiness was not darkened cloud, but smoke. It seems he’d started a forest fire. He cursed. However long it burned, he was certain his license plate would still be legible. They might even begin searching for him tonight. He picked up the pack and started down the other side of the mountain towards the dark woods far below.

He could hear the helicopter echoing all around as he pulled on his gloves, expecting to have to grab ahold of the rock as he descended. He carefully shifted his weight over a ledge of granite and began seating as he lowered himself by arm strength. The weight of the pack was off-putting and the light was beginning to dim.

Suddenly the chopper noise boomed over the crags above him.

He didn’t look up, but jogged, panting to the line of trees below. The helicopter seemed to be overhead. He leapt down to a cluster of boulders and sent some loose stones clattering below. They sounded odd, as if they were ricocheting down a well. Then he saw it, the toothy maw of the mountain.  

A cave opened below him, barely 8 feet across, and angling inward, resembling a blackened mouth teethed with loose slabs of stone. He slid down the loose rocks that comprised the slope and unhooked his axe. Using the pick he stopped his slide and peered over the rim and into the cave. It was dark. The helicopter passed and seemed to be circling the area.

He climbed inside and squatted, listening. The helicopter seemed to be coming round. It was twilight outside, and it was eternal night inside. He didn’t want to be found, and he’d found his path to disappearing. This was fat.

Spelunking was a noble calling.

He pulled his headlamp from the breast pocket of his jacket and adjusted the straps. He switched it on and the single LED light magnified by a thick lens lanced through the dark. Looking around, he realised that the walls and ceiling of this cave were loose, that it might have been a hovel dug by a bear. The helicopter rose in volume as if to add urgency.

So be it.

He crouched and ambled into the narrow passage, awkward with the weight of his pack. This was no bear’s den. As the helicopters rhythmic booming receded again he could hear echoey dripping. It seemed far ahead, where the beam lit only a drifting miasma of dust and the fumes of his breath.

The walls looked irregular and crumbling, as though it would collapse if pushed, but despite the small stones and dirt clods falling on him, they felt sturdy, like hard-packed clay.

The angle of decline steepened, and the loose floor began to slide from under him in an avalanche of small stones, resembling a dry creek bed. He pitched feet-feet first into the black and slid, gaining momentum.

He closed his eyes, ‘let this be it.’

Suddenly wrenched backwards by his armpits, the pack had caught on something. His feet were kicking in empty space. It was a few seconds before the rattle and clacking of stones quieted and he could hear it, running water.

Righting his headlamp forward, he looked out into the drop below him. Some four feet below was a smooth mound of limestone, and beyond that another wide blank of darkness. With slow, deliberant movements, he dug his heels in and pushed backwards, feeling the pack dislodge. Then he flopped onto his belly and eased himself down from the ledge, sneding down a shower of pebbles, placing a boot onto the smooth pedestal of limestone, it was slick with moisture.

Casting his light below, the glittering surface of rushing water sparkled back. He looked up and could see a high vaulted limestone ceiling with what looked like the beginnings of a stalactite. This was a proper cavern. The damp walls sparkled with calcite.

The entire floor of the cavern seemed to be awash in a creek. The creek bed was a motley of coloured pebbles. He put a foot down to test the depth. His boots were waterproof to the ankle, this was about shin-deep. It was cold.

He paused for thought, and at that moment became aware of his fatigue. He gazed up at the narrow passage of light above him and thought about climbing out.

The world he sought to escape was up there. He would forever be running away from it so long as he walked the earth. But underneath...

He decided wet feet weren’t so bad. He zipped his weatherproof jacket to the neck, tugged his knit cap lower, and splashed down into the frigid water to explore. If he could find a dry and level place to sleep he would celebrate with more warm coffee and a stale bagel. Casting his light around, it was doubtful he’d find such a place here.

He became so engrossed in watching his footing that he barely noticed how long the cavern was. It opened wider and the walls were glistening with running water. Something white flicked through the water and he paused. There were a number of smooth stones about the size of his torso, and as he sat still, small white fish peeked out. They were eyeless. He sat watching them flick about in the slow current, nipping at algae growth on the creek bed. He pulled off a glove and cupped some of the water to his lips. It was clean and cold. An albino crayfish scuttled around the edge of a quartz stone, feelers waving in a current. Nudging with a boot, it darted away with a few flicks. In the cleft where the quartz sat was a faint glimmering amongst the pebbles there.  He grasped a handful and sifted them through his hand. There was a bean-sized lump of gold. Unmistakably gold. There was another tiny piece of what could have been gold in the same handful. His mind reeled at the value of such a find. But then he dropped them into the water and stood up.

He was struck by two realisations, first, that his problems were not to be solved with wealth, second, that no one had been in this cave before. Else the gold would be gone. He had, quite literally, entered the unknown.

He trudged on, feet going numb.

[dimenovelsfromoblivion]

Continuity of Government

Nature carves out caves haphazardly. The walls are bumpy, the floors are uneven and prone to sudden opening up into deep chasms, and spikes hang from the ceilings like icicles. This cavern though had been cut into the side of the mountain in a very deliberate and careful fashion. It was a space of equal dimensions. The walls and ceiling with smoothed over with concrete. The opening only went a few meters into the rock and on the back wall was an elevator with a sliding cage door. The Nelson party stumbled upon this secluded anomaly on their way to a burgeoning Mormon settlement on the west bank of the Mississippi. It was too alluring not to explore. It was evident from the location it was the builder's priorities to make sure this place was never found. That could only mean whatever was housed there was valuable. Joe and Mike Nelson had never ridden in an elevator before, and it was every bit as mystifying to them as the man made cavern. The even succession of clicks produced by the gnashing gears provided a steady rhythm for their descent. The lift was a steel cage ventilated like cattle cart. The fluorescent gleam of the shafts lighting fixtures mesmerized the Nelson boys.The elevator carriage jolted when they bumped into the bottom of the shaft. The weight of the cart subtly shifted from side to side as it settled on the ground. The door opened into a room even smaller than the entrance. Joe took the first reluctant steps from the confines of the elevator, and Mike cautiously followed his lead. The only light in the room came from the open doors, and they found themselves in a small cinder block room considerably smaller than the entrance. “What is that smell?” Asked Mike covering his nose with his hands. Joe’s nostrils were also being assaulted by the putrid odor hanging in the stale air. "It's horrible," Joe said recoiling in disgust. Besides, the light spilling from the space was dark. The claustrophobic space was just as suffocating because of its confining dimension as it was foreboding because of the sharp shadows that stood out against the drab and barren surroundings. There was a small desk in the far right corner of the room, and a door flanked six open lockers on the back wall. On the right wall was a portrait of a man well into middle age wearing a navy blue suit with a button on his lapel that had some blue and white stripes along with some five-pointed stars. Mike walked over to the picture. His eyes strained in the dark. "President Richard Newton," he read aloud. "Mike look at that!" Joe gasped pointed down at the floor.  In the center of the room painted on the tile was an eagle circled by the same stars and splattered with blood. The colossal bird was clutching some arrows and leaves in its yellow talons. Between it's spreading wings was some writing that was incomprehensible to Joe or Mike.  The brother’s quietly deliberated with themselves over whether or not they should move forward. The silver knob began to turn. Joe bent his knees as if getting ready to spring from where he stood.  The door opened a few inches and stopped. They could hear unintelligible mumbling, and the door budged again and this time swung on its hinges until it bumped into the side of a locker. Joe and Mike gasped at what was standing in the doorway. “Are you guys from up there?” Asked the nub toothed boy, his pupils dilating in his squinty eyes. “Yeah, we are,” Joe stammered after a moment. “I have to show you to the president,” the deformed by replied unaware of the glimmering strands of saliva around his mouth and chin. Joe saw Mike reach for the revolver tucked his belt and motioned for him to stand down. “Ok, that’s fine,” Joe said calmly. The greeter gave them a smile that lingered into a blank stare. “Follow me,” he blurted as he turned and started back down the hall. Mike shot Joe a glare that betrayed disgust and apprehension. Joe just nodded his head. “Just trust,” he whispered. They started for the hallway before being assaulted by the nauseating stench that had settled over the entire length of the corridors “I was born in the service, so I have to watch the door,” explained their grotesquely formed and enigmatic guide hobbling along. The brothers exchanged another glance. “Who do you watch this door for?” Mike asked. “The president,” was the automatic reply. “How do you keep all these lights on?” Joe asked gazing up into the fluorescent illuminance. “I don’t know what that means,” their host answered with some confusion. “The lights, the lights in the ceiling,” Joe repeated obviously annoyed by the lack of comprehension. They came to a set of windows that looked in on another chamber. The room was filled with rows of plastic chairs that lead up to a small raised platform with the same starry red white and blue banner from the portrait and the crest on the floor.  Standing on the platform wearing a tattered old navy blue suit was another malformed figure with a childlike stature, a bulbous head, and stubby limbs. The dozen or so munchkin sized monstrosities sitting in the chairs were all dressed in a similar fashion. They wore jackets with sleeves that had slack hanging far beyond their hands, some of them decorated with ribboned emblems. They were a vile collection of vaguely human abominations with thin stringy hair, swollen bellies, and bumpy skin. Thier noses were upturned and gnarled, and they had large foreheads that made a ridge over glazed beady eyes. Somehow they seemed just as taken back by the looks of Joe and Mike. “Who are you two?” Demanded the child-sized humpback standing on the stage. “I’m Joe Nelson, and this is my brother Mike Nelson,” Joe said with a calm demeanor that concealed his disgust. “I’m Richard Newton, the 55th president of the United States of America.” The hunchback informed them proudly from the corner of his contorted mouth. “Why are you interrupting my state of the union address?” The Nelson’s look puzzled. “We don’t mean you any harm,” explained Joe. “We just saw your cave and thought we’d check it out.” “Yeah we didn't know you were living down here,” said Mike. “The entrance is open?” Asked President Newton. “Yeah we were just passing by here on our way to the Mississippi when we saw it,” said Joe. “If the entrance is open that means it is time for me to return to the Capitol in the east to take command of America!” Newton said gleefully. “Hey you wouldn't by any chance happen to be related to the Richard Newton from the picture would you?” Asked Mike “He is my great great grandfather,” Newton said proudly. Joe shook his head in disbelief. “How long have you been down he- “Is my helicopter here?” Newton interrupted. “Helicopter?” Mike repeated quickly. “Yes, the one to that’s going to take us to Washington!” Newton bellowed. “Yes,” blurted Joe. “Just take the elevator up, and it will be waiting just beyond the next hill.” “We’re finally going home!” President Newton proclaimed. The collection of oddities cheered at the news. The grotesque group assembled at the elevator. It was a joyous occasion for them. They talked endlessly about their imagined Capitol, a seat of power that assumed was reserved for them to rule over the continent. The Nelson brothers did their best to pay lip service to the stubby-legged president claims. Joe figured having them leave on their own volition would be a much easier business than a massacre. President Newton was the last one on the elevator. “I want to thank you for your service,” he told the Nelson boys. “Happy to help,” replied Joe. “When I get to DC I will send Air Force One to come get you, and I promise you two have a place in my cabinet,” Newton said with a twitchy eye, and a good amount of saliva flowed from his cracked lips. “Ok,” Said Joe. “Safe travels.” “God bless you and God bless the United States of America!” Roared Newton as the doors slide shut and the elevator ascended back to the surface. “Alright let’s see what they have down here,” Suggested Joe. “Good idea,” grinned Mike. “How do we get back up, though?” The lights blinked, the humming filtration system groaned one final time leaving the abandoned cavern in pitch dark silence. The Nelson brothers were sealed in an impenetrable mountain tomb.