Giant Robots: The Dark of Winter
Oct. 25th, 2013 07:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThe Dark of Winter
Prompt: 'Winter' for Stuff100; 'hostile climate' for Hurt/Comfort Bingo
Word Count: 1146
Summary: Before the PIN can catch up to them, Biff and M.D. dash to Jaeger Academy, in Alaska, in winter. M.D.’s health doesn’t take it well.
Notes: This takes place directly before Sturm und Drang and soon after Feet on the Ground. This story takes place in the Giant Robots verse, which is an Infinity Smashed/Pacific Rim crossover.
“Welcome to Anchorage! We hoped you enjoyed your flight with us, and don’t forget your coat!”
The plane door opens, admitting an icy howl of wind, and Biff hastily muscles his way into the line of people, bags over his shoulder. He makes sure M.D. gets in behind him. She has a death grip on the armrests, trying to hobble down the aisle with her shattered leg still in a cast, but he can tell her good leg isn’t taking her full weight either. Something’s busted in her, something deeper than bone, something the move and the Jaeger Academy won’t cure. But they need to get out of here before the PIN catch up to them, and the Jaeger Academy is all they have.
M.D. snarls something about how, of all the countries in the Pacific, of course the PPDC put their training facility somewhere inconvenient. Biff’s too pissed to respond. An hour delay in San Diego due to someone seeing M.D. as ‘suspicious,’ and then another three hours sitting on the asphalt in LA, waiting for the weather to get less shitty so they can hit Anchorage. They’re grumpy, tired, cold, and hungry, and M.D.’s meds got stuck in the bag that ended up being ‘carry-on’ and stuffed in the bottom of the plane. Due to the delays, they don’t have a gate open either; they’re going to have to walk down stairs. If M.D. asks for her crutches to beat someone with, Biff plans to keep one for himself. No way she should get all the fun.
The cold hits them like a tangible force, and Biff’s lungs freeze for a moment, like they refuse to take in something that cold. A smiling stewardess awaits them with a wheelchair, but Biff takes it from her. M.D. collapses into it, glowering balefully out at the world over her scarves.
It’s just as well they’re out of the habit of talking. He’d have to shout for her to hear him over the howling wind. Biff has lived in exactly two states his entire life, Georgia and Arizona, and neither prepare him for the icy reality of an Alaskan winter. At least he can move around to try and get the blood flowing. M.D. is stuck in the chair.
And they still have the ferry to Kodiak Island to contend with.
…
Marshal Hardass is sick.
M.D. and Biff didn’t know that, not on their own. But Biff sees the split-second falters, the quick white-knuckling of armrests and table rims, and M.D. puts it all together. With oblique glances and thought-image and not a single word, she says, “That Pentecost, he’s sicker than I am.”
Biff isn’t sure about that. He’s pretty sure M.D.’s sicker than she’ll let herself think. The marshal, at least, doesn’t need help getting out of chairs.
M.D. snorts. She sends him an image of FDR, with context so it actually means something, plus flittering trivia about Hiroshima and radiation sickness. She carefully doesn’t think about how the Mark Ones and tester bots like the Shitheap were equally nuclear, or the Metharocin they both take every day because of it. (From what Biff understands, all the old Jaegers were held together with equal parts duct tape, bubble gum, and nukes.)
The hardass is old. They’re young. And hey, even the hardass looks pretty good. The marshal will be fine, they’ll all be fine. They have to be. The kid can’t afford to get any sicker.
…
M.D. can’t get out of bed.
Biff finds her sitting on the edge, shoulders slumped, staring at her legs. He knows the docs don’t have a clue what’s wrong with her. The way he figures, she’s just wearing out. Here on the island in December, the sun goes down at two PM, the wind cuts through you like a knife, the temperature is below freezing before the wind-chill, and muktuk and akutaq just aren’t a substitute for light and heat. He’s caught M.D. sticking her finger in the electrical socket a couple times, and his skin goes cold every time she touches him, and she’s still losing weight and strength every day. She’s been in and out of Dr. Kaur’s office more times than he can count, and she’s needed his arm more each time.
Now, it looks like his strength isn’t enough either.
She’s not screaming or shouting. She just sits there and she says, “I’m sorry.”
Biff is sorry too.
Marshal Pentecost is a man like iron. But when he comes to the sick bay, he looks at M.D. in her bed with something almost like pity.
Under Biff’s hand, he can feel M.D.’s fury catch and burn. She knows what that look means. They all do. The marshal opens his mouth, and they can already hear the words.
Before they can come out, M.D. says, “No.”
The marshal’s brows go down.
Biff sends her a quick warning, and M.D. digs her fingernails hard into the back of his hand. He shuts up, but at least it gets M.D. to throttle her rage and desperation down until they burn like cold fire. She takes a deep breath.
“With respect. Sir. I am not the only sick person here.” Marshal Pentecost’s face betrays nothing, but Biff feels the temperature drop another ten degrees, and not because of M.D. “And I know that the sick people here have achieved great things. My training hasn’t started yet. Please. Give me January. If I can’t keep up, cut me, by all means. But give me January. Let me fail under my own merit. Please. Sir.”
Silence. Biff tries to read the marshal’s face, but all he can see are the gears turning, not their direction. For a few seconds, the marshal and the kid seem to have a staring contest.
Finally, the marshal says, “I have expectations of you, Rawlins. Do not disappoint me.”
And he turns on his heel and leaves the sick bay. M.D. collapses against the pillows with a whoosh of air. Her mind is all sunshine and light: “Oh thank entropy. I wasn’t sure he’d go for it.”
Biff just shakes his head. He can’t believe it worked. He gives M.D.’s hand a squeeze, and they exchange delighted looks. M.D.’s tired face splits into a grin.
“We’re going to be Rangers,” she says. “And we’re going to be great, because we are going to work for Marshal Pentecost until the day we die.”
And they do. When the Rangers rise and the kaiju are beaten back into the sea, they work for Marshal Pentecost. When the Beckett brothers fall and the kaiju swarm and the funding vanishes and the Jaeger program is all but dead, they work for Marshal Pentecost. They pilot robots, and they punch monsters, and they are brilliant, because of Marshal Pentecost.
That promise, at least, M.D. manages to keep.
Almost.
Prompt: 'Winter' for Stuff100; 'hostile climate' for Hurt/Comfort Bingo
Word Count: 1146
Summary: Before the PIN can catch up to them, Biff and M.D. dash to Jaeger Academy, in Alaska, in winter. M.D.’s health doesn’t take it well.
Notes: This takes place directly before Sturm und Drang and soon after Feet on the Ground. This story takes place in the Giant Robots verse, which is an Infinity Smashed/Pacific Rim crossover.
“Welcome to Anchorage! We hoped you enjoyed your flight with us, and don’t forget your coat!”
The plane door opens, admitting an icy howl of wind, and Biff hastily muscles his way into the line of people, bags over his shoulder. He makes sure M.D. gets in behind him. She has a death grip on the armrests, trying to hobble down the aisle with her shattered leg still in a cast, but he can tell her good leg isn’t taking her full weight either. Something’s busted in her, something deeper than bone, something the move and the Jaeger Academy won’t cure. But they need to get out of here before the PIN catch up to them, and the Jaeger Academy is all they have.
M.D. snarls something about how, of all the countries in the Pacific, of course the PPDC put their training facility somewhere inconvenient. Biff’s too pissed to respond. An hour delay in San Diego due to someone seeing M.D. as ‘suspicious,’ and then another three hours sitting on the asphalt in LA, waiting for the weather to get less shitty so they can hit Anchorage. They’re grumpy, tired, cold, and hungry, and M.D.’s meds got stuck in the bag that ended up being ‘carry-on’ and stuffed in the bottom of the plane. Due to the delays, they don’t have a gate open either; they’re going to have to walk down stairs. If M.D. asks for her crutches to beat someone with, Biff plans to keep one for himself. No way she should get all the fun.
The cold hits them like a tangible force, and Biff’s lungs freeze for a moment, like they refuse to take in something that cold. A smiling stewardess awaits them with a wheelchair, but Biff takes it from her. M.D. collapses into it, glowering balefully out at the world over her scarves.
It’s just as well they’re out of the habit of talking. He’d have to shout for her to hear him over the howling wind. Biff has lived in exactly two states his entire life, Georgia and Arizona, and neither prepare him for the icy reality of an Alaskan winter. At least he can move around to try and get the blood flowing. M.D. is stuck in the chair.
And they still have the ferry to Kodiak Island to contend with.
…
Marshal Hardass is sick.
M.D. and Biff didn’t know that, not on their own. But Biff sees the split-second falters, the quick white-knuckling of armrests and table rims, and M.D. puts it all together. With oblique glances and thought-image and not a single word, she says, “That Pentecost, he’s sicker than I am.”
Biff isn’t sure about that. He’s pretty sure M.D.’s sicker than she’ll let herself think. The marshal, at least, doesn’t need help getting out of chairs.
M.D. snorts. She sends him an image of FDR, with context so it actually means something, plus flittering trivia about Hiroshima and radiation sickness. She carefully doesn’t think about how the Mark Ones and tester bots like the Shitheap were equally nuclear, or the Metharocin they both take every day because of it. (From what Biff understands, all the old Jaegers were held together with equal parts duct tape, bubble gum, and nukes.)
The hardass is old. They’re young. And hey, even the hardass looks pretty good. The marshal will be fine, they’ll all be fine. They have to be. The kid can’t afford to get any sicker.
…
M.D. can’t get out of bed.
Biff finds her sitting on the edge, shoulders slumped, staring at her legs. He knows the docs don’t have a clue what’s wrong with her. The way he figures, she’s just wearing out. Here on the island in December, the sun goes down at two PM, the wind cuts through you like a knife, the temperature is below freezing before the wind-chill, and muktuk and akutaq just aren’t a substitute for light and heat. He’s caught M.D. sticking her finger in the electrical socket a couple times, and his skin goes cold every time she touches him, and she’s still losing weight and strength every day. She’s been in and out of Dr. Kaur’s office more times than he can count, and she’s needed his arm more each time.
Now, it looks like his strength isn’t enough either.
She’s not screaming or shouting. She just sits there and she says, “I’m sorry.”
Biff is sorry too.
…
Marshal Pentecost is a man like iron. But when he comes to the sick bay, he looks at M.D. in her bed with something almost like pity.
Under Biff’s hand, he can feel M.D.’s fury catch and burn. She knows what that look means. They all do. The marshal opens his mouth, and they can already hear the words.
Before they can come out, M.D. says, “No.”
The marshal’s brows go down.
Biff sends her a quick warning, and M.D. digs her fingernails hard into the back of his hand. He shuts up, but at least it gets M.D. to throttle her rage and desperation down until they burn like cold fire. She takes a deep breath.
“With respect. Sir. I am not the only sick person here.” Marshal Pentecost’s face betrays nothing, but Biff feels the temperature drop another ten degrees, and not because of M.D. “And I know that the sick people here have achieved great things. My training hasn’t started yet. Please. Give me January. If I can’t keep up, cut me, by all means. But give me January. Let me fail under my own merit. Please. Sir.”
Silence. Biff tries to read the marshal’s face, but all he can see are the gears turning, not their direction. For a few seconds, the marshal and the kid seem to have a staring contest.
Finally, the marshal says, “I have expectations of you, Rawlins. Do not disappoint me.”
And he turns on his heel and leaves the sick bay. M.D. collapses against the pillows with a whoosh of air. Her mind is all sunshine and light: “Oh thank entropy. I wasn’t sure he’d go for it.”
Biff just shakes his head. He can’t believe it worked. He gives M.D.’s hand a squeeze, and they exchange delighted looks. M.D.’s tired face splits into a grin.
“We’re going to be Rangers,” she says. “And we’re going to be great, because we are going to work for Marshal Pentecost until the day we die.”
And they do. When the Rangers rise and the kaiju are beaten back into the sea, they work for Marshal Pentecost. When the Beckett brothers fall and the kaiju swarm and the funding vanishes and the Jaeger program is all but dead, they work for Marshal Pentecost. They pilot robots, and they punch monsters, and they are brilliant, because of Marshal Pentecost.
That promise, at least, M.D. manages to keep.
Almost.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-27 08:18 pm (UTC)Should that be, "Do not disappoint me." ?
no subject
Date: 2013-10-28 02:41 am (UTC)--Rogan