anon @blvdmrcnry - Tumblr Blog

like gravity.

⟢ pairing: phainon x f!reader

⟢ word count: 19.6k

⟢ tags: pacrim!au, angst, hurt-comfort, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, action, big robots punching big aliens, smut (mdni)

Fourteen drops, twelve kills. Phainon is the best ranger the Pan Pacific Defense Corps has and, with the threat of the Breach looming on the horizon, the soldier that they need. But not even he can pilot a Jaeger alone.

VII. EQUILIBRIUM

The silence in the War Room is nearly palpable in the wake of Anaxagoras’ presentation.

At the table, the General sets down the report briefing in her hands and takes a moment to rub her temples. It has been six years since she’s taken up the mantle of General and in that time, she’s signed the orders, delivered the speeches, watched the many rangers under her command go out there and never come back. To step into a Jaeger is to stare Death in the face, every single time. And all her Rangers know it.

But this report puts a cold, sinking feeling in her stomach, one she hasn’t felt since the day Phagousa fell. Since the day Helektra died.

“Enough with the technical details.” Aglaea raises a hand before the professor can dive back into his probabilities and calculations and formulas. “Just tell me: will it work?”

Anaxagoras crosses his arms over his lab coat, left eyelid twitching as he glances over his shoulder at the numbers crawling across the screens. For the past week, he’s been running on nothing but caffeine, pure insanity and the threat of the apocalypse looming over the horizon. “Well, if you want me to give you a detailed breakdown of each scenario—”

“Anaxagoras.”

The professor holds her tired glare for a few seconds before he lets a sigh escape. “You’re no fun at all, you know that?” When the General doesn’t respond, he lets his head fall into a nod, turns his head back to the screens. “But yes. It will work. The Breach will be shut and we’ll never see another kaiju again,” he pauses, “unless somehow a new Breach is opened, although the probability of that happening is one in thirty three mil—”

“And the cost?”

Of all the questions he’d known she’d ask, this is one that he hadn’t wanted to answer. Anaxa purses his lips. “I’m not sure,” he admits, and Aglaea raises an eyebrow — she knows how much he loathes uncertainty. “I’ve been making preparations with Hyacine to have someone drift with a kaiju brain soon — the closer to the date and the less they know, the better. But according to my models…” He takes a deep breath. “More than three, less than eight. All definitely categories higher than IV. I’ve been working on Jaeger upgrades as fast as I can but… there’s a high chance that every ranger that goes out there will not come back.”

The reality hangs in the air between them, stark and grim. Aglaea is quiet for a long moment.

“Of course,” she murmurs after a while, more to herself than to Anaxa. “The price of saving the world would be too cheap otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Anaxa doesn’t answer. Her eyes fall onto the report beside the apocalypse schematics, the battle preparations. Rangers, broke into the mess hall storeroom, stole five bags of pizza dough, entire box of jello, few other sundries. Then she reaches out to flick the switch, and the displays with all their terrifying predictions and cold calculations vanish, plunging the room into a solemn, silent darkness.

“We will finalise the operational order tonight,” the General says at last. Her voice has regained its steely composure. “I’ll inform the rangers after the drifting is complete.”

Anaxa’s mouth presses into a thin line. “General, with all due respect, they deserve to know—”

“They will know,” Aglaea interrupts. “They will know the moment they need to. But for now…” Her eyes flicker back to the report about the stolen jello, and the tightness at her mouth softens, ever so slightly.

“Let them be, just for a while longer.”

The air in the Shatterdome has been lighter lately, you think.

You don’t think it’s just you that’s feeling this way. The recent victories against the kaiju — despite the last one landing you in a four day coma — seem to have carved out a fragile space amidst the chaos for something that feels almost like peace. The mess hall isn’t as hushed anymore, engineers linger a little longer over their coffee, and the General even flashes you something resembling a smile when she passes you in the corridors. It’s as if the whole base has let itself exhale, if only for a moment.

And in the midst of it all, Phainon smiles more often. He’s always been someone who does that for others — that brilliant, camera ready one that you’ve seen plastered across television screens and news reels and PPDC recruitment posters. It’s a great smile. Effortlessly polished, blindingly charismatic, utterly confident. It almost stands like a shield against the fear of the kaiju, the uncertainty of the future. You can see why the corps wanted him as their poster boy so badly.

But the smile he gives you is different. You catch it when you wake up tangled in his arms, when you share a cup of shitty coffee over breakfast, when he watches March challenge you to a shoot off at the range. It’s softer, you think. Happier. More real.

And you think you can get used to it, this new normal. You want to listen to March and the twins argue over water is wet, and spar with Mydei while Phainon pouts from the sidelines. Sometimes, you read whatever books Castorice shyly offers to lend you when time allows and discuss Jaeger specs with Dan Heng at the hangar. And at night, you fall asleep on your creaky mattress to the warmth of Phainon’s body curled around yours, his steady breathing on the back of your neck and his arms wrapped around your waist.

So, despite the absurdity of having to face death in a big metal suit with an oversized, pointy stick, you find yourself slipping into the rhythm of it anyway. The quiet moments you steal, the kisses Phainon sneaks in the corridors, between meetings — the sharp edges of constant fear wearing down by the simple act of simply living. Slowly, it starts to feel less like a temporary reprieve from the running you’ve always known, and more like a life you could actually live.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t realised your newfound happiness was nothing more than a thin sheet of glass, until it shattered right under your feet.

When you think back on it, you probably should have guessed, somehow. Everything had gone perfectly — too perfectly — that morning. You’d woken up tangled in Phainon’s arms, laughing as he’d conspired to keep you in bed with his mouth and clever fingers. The mess hall had served your favourite breakfast item. Even the notoriously fickle coffee machine had decided to play nice for once.

And now, you’re sitting in the War Room, listening to the professor explain how it will take all of your lives to save the world.

His voice is steady as he lays it all out: the equations, the probability models, the cold math of survivability. The Breach can be closed, yes, but it will be preceded by a surge that can only be described as catastrophic. Five kaiju will come through — vital knowledge gained from K-Science finally attempting a drift with a kaiju brain — and the number puts a heavy, sinking feeling in your gut. Every Jaeger on hand will be needed to hold them back, and even then, the odds are brutal.

“Nikador will carry the payload, accompanied by Khaslana,” Anaxa says, tapping on the displays. The schematic expands to show all of you the bomb that will finally seal the Breach once and for all. “Trailblazer and Akivili will clear the way, try to intercept as many kaiju as possible. The Precursors will send their largest, their strongest in a last ditch attempt to destroy our world. The likelihood of all teams returning is…” His pause speaks more than the numbers on the display ever could. “Low.”

For a moment, no one says anything. You can barely process the plan at all, just the word low ringing in your ears like the wail of the Shatterdome’s sirens.

Stelle and Caelus exchange glances, their expressions unusually serious. March’s lower lip is trembling, her eyes suspiciously shiny. Dan Heng reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. When you glance to the left, Castorice looks pale and withdrawn, while Mydei’s lips are pressed into a hard, unforgiving line. He looks like he’s biting back the urge to argue against inevitability.

And Phainon… Phainon’s face is unreadable. It’s the worst thing you could be looking at right now, you think. Almost like a lake that has frozen over completely, revealing nothing under its surface.

Low.

The General is the one to break the silence. She does not apologise for what she’s asking of all of you, and neither does she say anything to rouse you to action. There is only a grim belief in her eyes — that despite the fear, every single person in this room will still get into their Jaegers to do their jobs and save the damn world.

“The professor will work on some upgrades and repairs to give you every advantage you can get out there.” You think you see her expression falter for the briefest moment, before she smoothes it over and continues. “The longer we delay, the more time the Precursors have to prepare ammunition against us. We’ll commence the operation in three days.”

Three days. Countdowns. It’s almost funny, how you escaped one hourglass just to fall straight into the quicksand of another. Seventy two hours left until the world demands everything you have to give.

“For the next three days, there will be no assignments. All of you are free to spend your time as you see fit.” The General presses her lips together, her gaze sweeping over the room as though she’s Memorising every face. “Any questions?” And when no one says anything, she just nods slowly. “Then, everyone is dismissed.”

To your surprise, Phainon is the first to leave the room. Just stands, gives a tense but small nod to the General, and then walks out without so much as a glance back over his shoulder.

A slight sting goes through you, but you stay in your seat, taking a moment to gather your scattered thoughts and emotions. “Three days, huh…” Stelle finally looks up. It’s a little wobbly, but at least she’s managed to get something resembling a smile onto her face. “Guess we better call the guys back at the HSS… finally fess up about destroying Madam Herta’s quantum supercomputer…”

The twins file out, followed by a softly sniffling March and a stone-faced Dan Heng. Mydei tugs Castorice up, pulls her into a brief, one-armed hug before the two of them exit the room as well. The ranger gives you a short nod as he passes — there’s hard determination flickering in his golden eyes, like he’s ready to punch those probabilities in the face and win. The professor leaves too, muttering something about finishing up some upgrades.

And then, it’s just you and the General left.

She studies you with those sea green eyes, and for a moment, you’re reminded of the first time the two of you met in that jail cell in Marmoreal. So much has happened between then and now. Her gaze isn’t harsh, just assessing — as though she’s wondering whether you’ll ask her to cut you free of this fate again, or weighing your resolve against the impossible demands being made of you. She is the one who brought you here, after all.

When you don’t speak, she does. “You’re willing to do this?”

A defeated laugh bubbles out of you at that. Aglaea simply looks at you, and you shake your head slowly. “Die? Not really, no…” You stare down at the floor between your boots. “But Phainon… he’ll definitely go out there. He won’t leave anyone behind.” The twins, March, Dan Heng, Castorice, Mydei… “And if he does… how can I let him go alone?”

Aglaea watches you for a beat longer before her expression softens. It makes her look years younger, more human in a way you’ve never really seen her before. “I get it,” she says, her voice quiet with an understanding that you can’t quite place a finger on. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad that I was wrong about you.” She gives you a small, genuine smile, and then makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Go on, then. I’m sure you’ll want to be by his side.”

You exit the room after a quick nod to Aglaea. The corridor is empty, the silence a stark contrast to the roaring in your ears. There’s a suffocating feeling in your chest, a tangled knot of dread and resolve that you know only one person can help unravel. You hesitate for a second, deciding which way to go, before you let your feet take you to where you need to be.

They bring you to a familiar maintenance ledge. And sure enough, Phainon is already there with his legs dangling over the water, staring out at the ocean.

You ease yourself down next to him, the same way he’s done so many times for you. He doesn’t acknowledge you, gaze locked on some unseen point on the distant horizon, but you see the way his fingers twist in his lap — a mirror of the turmoil roiling in his mind. So you simply sit there with him, and let the rhythmic lap of waves against the concrete pillars far below you fill the silence.

Finally, a hollow laugh escapes him.

“I thought countdowns were a thing of the past for us,” Phainon says. His voice sounds stripped of its usual warmth, leaving behind something raw and weary and just… defeated. It’s as though the weight of the mission has already crushed him underfoot. “I know we’re rangers, and it’s stupid, but…” He drags a hand down his face, blue eyes still fixed on the waves beneath his feet. “But I just thought we’d have more… time, you know?”

The way his voice cracks on the word time makes something chip away inside of you. You’d thought so, too. “We still have three days,” you tell him softly. “Seventy two hours.”

Phainon snorts at that, and the sound is wrecked and a little desperate. It makes your heart ache. “Three days? Three decades, no— thirty lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to spend with you.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, before he lets his head fall to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

What is he apologising for? “None of this is your fault, you know that.”

His fingers tighten on the railing — the same one he’d fixed for you — until his knuckles strain white against his skin. “But I’m the reason you’re here in the first place.” Phainon finally turns his head, and the sight you’re met with steals the air from your lungs. His eyes are wet with unshed tears. “I was so happy to finally see you again, you know? To have you here with me, despite the danger. But now…”

His voice drops to a broken whisper, barely audible over the water. “Now it’s like I brought you here to die.”

You don’t answer his words. Instead, you reach out and let your fingers brush over his cheek, catching his tears before they can fall. His lashes are impossibly soft. He closes his eyes at the contact, a shudder running through him as he leans into your palm. One of his hands comes up to hold yours there, as though it’s the only solid thing left in a world that’s crumbling apart.

“I still would have died, if you hadn’t,” you finally murmur into the quiet between the two of you. It’s almost like a confession, as your thumb brushes over his damp cheek. “Maybe from a screwed up drop, a bullet to the head, bleeding out in some dirty back alley somewhere…” Phainon stiffens when you say that, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? “Or in some different way, altogether. Alive, but…” you struggle to find the right word, and eventually give up. “Not really living. You know?”

You watch his face carefully, see the way your words slowly sink past the guilt eating at him. You slide your hand up further, cupping the curve of his jaw. He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing hitches slightly, but he’s listening. Still here, with you.

“So, if I had to choose,” you continue, voice softer now, “I think I prefer to go this way.”

A sound that’s half a laugh and half something else escapes him. When he opens his eyes, they’re overflowing with a tenderness that you think ruins you inside out. “Punching a giant alien in the face?” Phainon asks, his voice hoarse.

“No.” You shake your head. “With you.”

Phainon looks at you for a long, suspended moment. The agony in his eyes doesn’t vanish, but it shifts, tempered by a gentle, aching thing that you can only describe as deep-seated affection. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he lets his forehead fall forwards to rest against your shoulder, entire body leaning into yours like even that distance is too much for him to bear.

You can feel the faint tremor that runs through him, the slow, measured exhales brushing warm against the curve of your neck. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking back to the first time you’d met him here. Past the shattered bottle of whiskey and that tipsy game of truth or dare, beyond the rusted railing that had worried him so. Back to when you’d sat side by side for the first time in years, but still felt worlds apart — two jagged pieces that could and would never fit together. You’d been so certain that you’d never be drift compatible with this man, the boy you’d once known turned hero with no space for you in his life.

And now, if dying means saving the world side by side with him… well. It doesn’t seem like the worst way to go, after all.

“Three days.” His words are muffled against your shoulder.

Your fingers card gently through his hair. “Mmhmm.”

“Seventy two hours.”

“Yep.”

Phainon lifts his head just enough to look at you. His eyes are still red-rimmed, but clear now. He licks his lips slowly, and then takes a deep breath.

“Spend them with me?” His voice comes out so quiet, so pleading that it’s almost carried away by the sea breeze. It’s almost like he’s asking “spend the rest of your life with me?” instead. Because, in a way, that’s exactly what he’s asking. And in response, you just smile, lean forward to kiss his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his lips.

“What else was I supposed to be doing?”

Phainon laughs a little wetly, the sound catching in his throat, and then scratches at his neck, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t— in case you had something important to do, or… or maybe something you wanted—” He’s stammering, as if he can’t quite believe that your answer came so easily, so absolutely. It’s such a sweet contrast to the despair of just a few minutes ago that you can’t help the warmth that rushes through you.

“Mm, I guess I do have something important to do,” you lean in, suddenly teasing. Only Phainon could drag you from the precipice of despair and make you feel like a giddy teenager all within the span of minutes. “You.”

He chokes, the sound catching in his throat like he’s forgotten how to breathe. “What?”

Your world might be ending in seventy two hours, but you hope that this newfound ability to utterly short circuit Phainon’s brain is something that doesn’t. Yet something else to add onto your to do bucket list, right under the bullet point with his name on it.

“Just kidding,” you tell him, and start to lean back. “Come on, we should—”

Phainon drags you back by the wrist and brings your mouth to his. There is no hesitation in it — he kisses you like he’s trying to steal the very air from your lungs with a desperate, burning intensity. Like he wants to brand the shape of your lips, the taste of your mouth onto his very soul, as a memory to carry into whatever comes next.

When he finally breaks away, both of you are breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. The countdown hasn’t stopped. The statistics are still the same. But perhaps, you want to believe in the two of you more than you believe in the numbers, in the professor’s so-called prophecy and fate.

“Together?” Phainon whispers. You lace your fingers with his and press a kiss to your joined hands.

“Always.”

The next three days stretch and contract in a strange rhythm. It’s both an eternity and the blink of an eye — too much time to sit with the dread and not nearly enough to do everything you suddenly wish you could. But you make do with what you have, you suppose, and everyone grapples with the countdown in their own way.

Every morning after breakfast, the twins, Dan Heng and March huddle together to do a video call back home to the HSS. March’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, but every time a fellow ranger passes she wipes her nose on her sleeve and offers a wobbly salute, like it helps to hold her together. Stelle and Caelus default to their sense of humour. You swear you spot them once, digging with intense focus through the scrap heap outside the maintenance bay. Looking for the perfectly ugly piece of junk to carry into battle, Caelus tells you, when you question them about it over dinner. It’s a good luck charm.

Castorice spends her time putting together handmade gifts for the General and the three siblings. Something for them to remember us by, just in case, she says softly. Takes my mind off things, too. Mydei uses his hands as well, just in a more visceral way. The repetitive, thunderous impact of his fists on the training dummies echo from the combat room. You see him once, chest dripping with sweat, delivering a blow so powerful the dummy’s head shears clean off and goes spinning across the room like a shot put.

And Dan Heng… copes. There’s nothing outwardly different about the way he acts — still quiet, still efficient, still the steady anchor in the storm — so you can only assume he’s processing it all in his own way. Perhaps for him, the routine is solace enough for him.

As for you and Phainon, you steal your moments where you can. Aside from the necessary time set aside for sparring and drills, you spend the hours wrapped up in each other. In the quiet, with the rest of the world locked out, you’re reminded of an old movie you’d once watched to pass the time.

It had been about a cruise liner that struck an iceberg, sinking slowly beneath the waves in the dark as people struggled with the helplessness of an inevitable fate. You didn’t remember much about the movie, but there had been an old couple, lying side by side, holding each other as the icy waters poured in under the door. You’d thought it was the height of narrative indulgence then — a sentimental, foolish waste of seconds that could have been spent fighting or fleeing.

But now, wrapped in Phainon’s arms, you think you understand it with an aching clarity.

“We are so boring,” you find yourself saying, on what might be the second last afternoon of your lives. “We have three days left and we are spending two out of those seventy two hours watching a movie. A bad one, at that. This got twenty six percent on Rotten Tomatoes!”

The two of you are lying in the bottom bunk, your mini-projector casting an old action movie across the opposite wall. His legs are tangled with yours, arms wrapped so tightly around your waist you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. You haven’t absorbed a single word the lead actress has said for the last ten minutes.

And you want this to last forever.

“That’s exactly why we’re watching it. It’s so bad that it’s funny,” Phainon corrects. He presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, then another just under your ear. His fingers trace idle patterns along your arm. “And we’re watching the movie in each other’s arms. There’s a significant difference.”

He’s right, of course, but conceding would be boring, and you’re not about to hand him the victory so easily.

“Yeah, but.” You hold up a finger in mock argument. “Imagine we survive and have all the time in the world. We’d be so boring. Just two ex-rangers with puttering about and giving interviews and making guest appearances on history documentaries until we turn old and grey.” You wrinkle your nose at the idea. “I’m too young to retire.”

Phainon lets out a little huff behind you. “Could get a job,” he suggests, his tone deliberately light.

“I have no transferable skills. What am I going to smuggle after the kaiju disappear, huh?”

He nuzzles into your shoulder. It’s stupid, really, how warm he makes you. Not just on the outside — gods know the man runs hotter than a Jaeger’s reactor — but more of how he makes everything inside you feel as though it's melting. Perpetually. “Organs.” You twist around to give him a dubious look and he just bats his lashes at you. “Since you already stole my heart.”

This shamelessly cringey man… “I’m lactose intolerant, you know.” He looks surprised at that.

“You are?”

“I am now.”

Phainon just grins, utterly unrepentant, and pulls you closer. “What else?” he whispers, looking up at you. His eyes are bright with something that makes your heart clench, sunlight glittering upon ocean waves.

“You mean, what other jobs I’d do?”

“No.” He shakes his head, lips brushing your temple. “What else is in this wildly boring future of yours.”

They are nothing more than daydreams, castles in the sky, but the way Phainon looks at you makes them feel weightier than that. He listens as though you are sketching out something certain — a someday, not just a perhaps.

So you continue, regardless. “Maybe I should get a pet, to liven things up,” you declare.

He seems to like this idea. “A cat or a dog?”

“Dog.” It comes out of you, without thinking. You recall the first time the two of you had piloted a Jaeger together, the raw, untamed happiness that had lit up his face. He’d reminded you of a certain fluffy creature. “A Samoyed, maybe. Something with a happy face and too much white fur.”

Phainon sits up immediately, propping himself up on one elbow so you can get the full effect of his theatrical, wounded pout. “I could be your dog,” he complains. “I’m fluffy. I’m always happy to see you.” Before you can react, he leans forward and licks your cheek, making you yelp with laughter as you push him off half-heartedly. “See? I even give the best cuddles. A dog can’t do that.”

You flick his nose. “You’re not nearly as cute, though.”

Phainon just sighs at that. “We’re all allowed to have our opinions, as wrong as they might be.” He settles back down, pulling you flush against him again. “But okay, a Samoyed. What else?”

You don’t know why he keeps asking. The conversation is absurd, really — nonsense, when the world, everything might end in a matter of hours. And yet, there are still so many things you want to do. Maybe that’s why it feels so liberating, to speak of futures you’ll likely never touch. For a moment, it’s almost like living them yourself.

It’s easier to imagine, than to hope.

“A house, obviously. Not in the city. Somewhere with big windows, so we can see the sky.” The word we comes to you as naturally as breathing — you can’t imagine a future where Phainon isn’t by your side. You can’t stand the thought of it, actually. “I don’t think I could stand living in the Shatterdome for the rest of my life. We’ll have to stay somewhere else.”

“A big window,” Phainon agrees easily. His eyes flicker with quiet warmth, like he’s caught the unspoken truth in your words — in every version of the future you picture, he’s there beside you. “A ridiculously soft rug for our ridiculously fluffy dog to sleep on. Right in the sun. And… maybe a garden?”

A garden. That’s a thought that’s never crossed your mind before — you’ve never stayed in one place long enough to even think of having one. But you can almost see it: Phainon kneeling in the dirt, in a pair of faded, stained overalls, and almost taste the tomatoes, warm from the sun. It’s a vision so ordinary, it feels more like a dream than victory ever could.

“Nah.” You clear your throat before the imagination can solidify into a hope you can’t afford. “You’d kill every plant in a week.”

If Phainon notices, he doesn’t comment. “We would kill every plant in a week. We do everything together, remember?” He lifts your intertwined fingers to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “We’re a package deal now.” He pauses, considering. “But we could have a fake one. Very low maintenance. Like me.”

“You are the furthest thing from low maintenance. You require constant praise and hugs and you get grumpy if you don’t get an afternoon snack.”

“I’m a growing boy,” Phainon shrugs, utterly shameless. “It’s a full-time job, keeping me this delightful.” He’s quiet for another moment, his fingers still drawing lazy circles on your hip. “It sounds nice, though. The dog. The big window. Even the fake plants.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, the word catching in your throat. You finally give in and let yourself truly picture it, just for a second. “It does.”

Phainon doesn’t reply with words. He only gathers you closer, his face buried in your hair, and after a while you close your eyes too and let yourself imagine — that you are in a house with its windows open and tomatoes growing outside, and there is a white, fluffy dog snoozing on an equally white, fluffy rug.

And just like that, the next two days vanish. They slip through your hands like sand in an hourglass — each moment painfully fleeting, impossibly precious. March has stopped sniffling, Castorice has already passed out her handmade gifts, and the twins have triumphantly declared their “lucky charm” to be a slightly dented metal trashcan salvaged from the scrap heap. You can hear them halfway down the hall as you pass, loudly arguing with Professor Anaxa about the aesthetic necessity of installing it on their Jaeger’s console.

You and Phainon steal an afternoon for yourselves, slipping out of the Shatterdome to wander the nearby town. Neither of you speak of the mission. Instead, you share a plate of oysters and promise to visit Carmitis (as regular people on vacation, not in Jaegers), laugh as the waves chase your ankles, and comb the shore for shells like children pretending tomorrow doesn’t exist.

Back in the Shatterdome, you catalog each one carefully into Mem’s database. You hope that she’ll appreciate the gesture when you step inside Khaslana tomorrow.

And then, without fanfare or ceremony, the sun sets on the third day.

The evening drifts by in its familiar rhythm: squabbles over the superior juice flavour at dinner, Phainon emerging from the shower in nothing but a towel. You lob a pillow at his bare chest. He catches it easily, grinning, and the two of you tumble through the rest of the night’s small rituals until you’re finally climbing into the bunk side by side again.

It’s the same as every other night. His strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back into the steady wall of his chest. His lips against the pulse point under your ear, although tonight it lingers a second longer than usual. The two of you slot together like puzzle pieces, and he holds you close in the dark as though that alone might be enough to keep whatever will happen tomorrow at bay.

You lie awake in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of his breathing, and watch the numbers on the clock tick steadily by.

“Can’t sleep?”

Phainon’s voice is a low murmur against your shoulder, but it’s clear and awake. It seems that you weren’t the only one lying in silent vigil, keeping pace with the same relentless countdown. You turn over in his arms, shifting carefully until your foreheads almost touch so that you can see him in the dark.

“Seems a waste,” you mumble. “To spend tonight just sleeping.”

Phainon smiles. He’s quiet for a moment, just looking at you, and from the softness in his eyes, you think he feels the same. Not a frantic desperation to seize the moment, but a slow, settled understanding that the next few hours are yours, and they are too precious to be lost to unconsciousness. “I agree,” he says easily, before the corner of his lip quirks up in a smile. His hand finds yours in the space between you, thumb stroking over your knuckles. “So, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” The possibilities are endless, yet none of them matter. There is only this, only him. “I just want to spend it with you.”

Phainon’s smile softens. He shifts closer, the mattress creaking under him, and one hand slides down to the small of your back, pulling you firmly against him. The other comes up to cradle the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking over the sensitive skin there in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that makes you shiver.

And then he kisses you, deep and slow.

You sigh quietly into his mouth, hands coming up to grip at his shoulders while your leg slings instinctively over his hip. When he finally pulls back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is warm on your lips. “Is this alright?”

You’re already leaning in again. “More than alright.”

The two of you kiss until you’re dizzy, until the air in the small bunk is thick and warm, and then you kiss some more. Each brush of his lips against your stokes the slow heat simmering beneath your skin, honey sweet. Faintly, you notice that his hands have slipped under your shirt, tracing languid circles at the curve of your waist.

They don’t wander higher. Phainon seems unaware of the way his touch is unravelling you, your threads slipping loose into his hands. You think that this might be the pace he’s set for tonight, maddening in its slow touches and lingering kisses, but despite the ache building low in your belly, you’re more than content to bask in it until the sun rises.

That all changes when you shift against him. You press closer, trying to meld your body with his, and your knee accidentally brushes against the hardness straining against his sweats.

Phainon breaks the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. A low, involuntary groan tumbles from his mouth, and the sound drags a shiver down your spine. His eyes flutter open, dark with a sudden, startled hunger. The sight of it is enough to turn the ache in you into liquid heat.

“Sorry,” Phainon mumbles, suddenly shy. There’s a faint blush creeping up his neck, and it’s unbelievably sweet despite the hardness you still feel pressing insistently against your thigh. He starts to slide his hands back out from under your shirt. “I, uh—”

“Phainon…” you say slowly, letting a teasing smile tug at your mouth. You catch his wrists before he can retreat, guiding them back to their rightful place on your bare skin. His breath hitches. “Do you want me?”

He melts a little in the face of your question, the last of his hesitation dissolving like sugar in warm rain. “I always do,” Phainon murmurs, and the next kiss he brands you with lets you know how much. You’re gasping the next time the two of you break apart, hands fisted in the thin material of his sleep shirt.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. The earlier shyness in his expression is gone, replaced by a determination that seems wholly focused on you. “Everything from here onwards is uncharted territory for me,” he admits, punctuating it with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “But I’m a quick study,” — another kiss, at your jaw — “and I am very, very motivated.”

You exhale shakily when his hand, large and warm, drags upwards slowly over your ribs. The hem of your shirt rides up with the movement, exposing more of your heated skin to the cool air. “So, you’ll have to show me what you like.”

The callused pad of his thumb brushes the sensitive underside of your breast and you have to bite back a breathy moan. He seems to be doing a good enough job of that on his own, you think dazedly. But Phainon is looking at you with such devotion, so eagerly awaiting your instruction — like he wants nothing more in the world than to learn how to please you. The sight is enough to make your mouth go dry.

Holding his gaze, you tug at him until you’re both sitting up, and then slide your hands down his chest to the hem of his shirt. “Take it off.”

Phainon blinks, before eager compliance flickers over his face. He doesn’t hesitate — just pulls back enough to tug his shirt up and over his head in one swift motion, before he lets it drop to the floor next to the bunk without a second glance.

The dim light from the clock paints the defined planes of his torso in shades of red and shadow, reflecting off the golden ink at the curve of his neck in an iridescent sheen. He’s breathing a little faster now. There’s a slow flush creeping across his skin, those storm bright gaze never leaving yours as he waits for your next command.

Utter surrender. Completely yours.

You clamber into his lap, the sheets and blankets tangling around your legs, and he lets out a soft grunt of surprise as you push him back against the wall. One of his hands comes up to rest lightly on your head, preventing you from bumping it against the top bunk. And when he looks up at you, his eyes are wide with an intoxicating cocktail of raw anticipation and desire.

You think you’re drunk on him already. “Pay attention, now,” you tell him as you lean in. “Lesson’s starting.”

You don’t give him time to respond. Instead, you bend down to devour his mouth first, and after a beat, Phainon kisses back with an intensity that matches your own. His hands grip at your waist, holding you flush against him, and you shift to trail wet kisses down his jaw. You hear his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, glance up to see his lips parted around a silent breath. And when you suck lightly on a few spots along the column of his throat, you can feel the way he swallows, shivering at the sensation.

His body is so responsive beneath your touch that it makes you unbearably greedy. You want more. You want to give him so much more.

When you get to the tattoo at his neck though, you pause, tracing the outline with your thumb. The memory of the Drift comes back to you, and with it, the reason he’d gotten it.

Phainon stills beneath you, his breath catching. He whispers your name, a cautious search for any hesitation from you. Always more concerned with you than for himself. Blinking back the sudden dampness in your eyes, you press your lips to golden ink with every bit of reverence you have, and feel the rapid, frantic flutter of his pulse against your mouth.

And then, without warning, you suck down hard.

Phainon cries out beneath you as your teeth scrape against sensitive skin, a ragged sound that comes from the back of his throat. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at your hips with a strength that borders on bruising, but you hold the pressure for longer, until he’s squirming beneath you, before soothing the sting with a gentle lap of your tongue.

He’s panting when you pull back, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word shaky and awed.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you — he looks beautiful like this: biting his lip, eyes glazed, a trembling mess beneath you. “So soon?” you tease, and your fingers slip down his chest to tug at the dusky pink of his nipples. He shudders violently under your touch, an aborted half-whine catching in his throat. The sound of it goes straight through you, leaving you positively dripping with want.

But before you can coax more of those beautiful noises from him, his hands snap up, wrapping around your wrists with a hint too much pressure to be gentle.

“I’m supposed to be the one making you feel good,” Phainon insists, voice ragged but stubborn. His gaze is earnest, almost pleading. You can see the place where you’d bitten down earlier on the intricate ink of his tattoo, the mark already a shade darker than the skin surrounding it. His determination to please you, his overwhelming devotion, him — all of it drives you absolutely wild.

So how can you deny him anything, when he asks so earnestly?

“If you say so,” you say, slipping yourself from his grasp to climb off the bed. Phainon watches you go, mouth parted — to protest or beg for you to come back, he doesn’t know — but then you’re hooking your fingers into the hem of your own shirt to slip it off your body, and every word dies an instant death in the back of his throat.

You catch sight of the dumbstruck look on his face, and the corner of your mouth curls up in a smirk that he can only describe as lethal for his cardiac health. With one hand braced on the ladder for balance, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and tug. Your eyes never leave his as you push them down, slipping one leg free and then the other. The scrap of fabric falls from your fingers to join your shirt on the floor.

You stand there for a heartbeat, bare and naked before him in the dim light. Every thought, every sensation in his body fails to process, rerouting straight to the aching heat coiling low in his gut.

Oh, Phainon thinks dazedly. You must really be trying to kill him.

Before he can verbalise a single, coherent thought, you’re already easing yourself back onto the bed. You lean back against the pillows, bottom lip caught between your teeth. And then, so slowly it’s almost agonising, you spread your legs for him.

His brain whites out completely.

“Come here.”

Phainon obeys without hesitation. He crawls over to you, mattress dipping under his weight until he’s settled between your knees. You take his hand to guide it firmly between your legs, and his breath catches.

Your folds are already dripping, hot and slick under his touch. The feeling sparks something in his chest, feeding a possessive fire that he knows will consume him if he lets it. But what undoes him completely is how you slowly drag his fingers through the mess there, the way your head tips back with a low moan. You’re touching yourself with him, feeling good because of him, and Phainon is certain that something has cracked permanently in his hardware, because he feels each brush of his fingers against you directly between his own legs.

Swallowing the small puddle in his mouth, he strokes you there again. Your hips lift off the bed entirely, chasing the sensation of his touch, and your hand drops from his wrist to fist in a pillow. “More,” you rasp.

Phainon works his hand against you slowly, torn between the watching the expressions you make and the way your legs tremble and shake under his touch. He traces the outline of your cunt with a reverence that’s almost teasing, until his finger glances over the little nub at your apex.

You cry out. More slick drips from you, thoroughly coating his fingers, making a mess of his hand. The scent of it is utterly intoxicating, and his head spins with it. He wonders, his mind hazy with a hunger he’s never known, how you would taste.

Almost without conscious thought, Phainon brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, and slips one past his lips.

The taste spills over his tongue — salty, musky, uniquely you — and a moan sits low in his throat. His eyes flutter closed for a second, lost in the sensation.

When he opens them again, you’re staring at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. For a heart-stopping second, he wonders if he’s crossed a line — whether you might be turned off by how desperate he is for every part of you. But before he can apologise, you reach for him, your hand fisting in his hair with a possessiveness that makes him shudder and tug him down until his breath is hot on your inner thigh. All he can smell is you.

“Stop thinking,” you whisper, voice thick with need. “And put your mouth on me.”

Phainon is a trained soldier, and soldiers don’t need to be told twice. Every last trace of hesitation is burned away at your command, and he curls his arms under your thighs, pulling you firmly against his mouth and lowering his head. For a heartbeat, he simply presses a soft, reverent kiss to your trembling stomach, as if sealing a promise. Then, he dives in.

At first, it’s hesitant, a little clumsy. The flat of his tongue strokes you experimentally, and you gasp, your fingers threading themselves into his hair. “There,” you breathe. “Right there.” He moans at your slight tugging on his scalp, and then his mouth is moving against you with eager abandon, more than making up for his inexperience with enthusiasm.

The rhythm is messy, unpracticed, but you can’t find it in you to care. You’re almost completely swept away by the pleasure when suddenly — with a boldness that can only be instinct — his tongue presses into you.

The steady stream of praise that had been spilling from your mouth cuts off into a sharp gasp. Your hips lift off the bunk, grinding yourself against his face in a desperate, involuntary search for more pressure, heels digging into the solid muscle of his back.

Phainon’s eyes dart up, scanning your face carefully from beneath pale lashes for any trace of discomfort. But when he sees you — flushed, panting, your eyes glazed with pleasure — his lips curl into something that can only be described as wicked against your skin.

You don’t have time to chastise him for the look before he drops his head with a renewed vigour, tongue plunging straight between your folds again. Every word on your lips dissolves into a cry as he fucks you with it, a slow, relentless rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. All you can do is moan wordlessly and twist your fingers in the sheets, to hold on as more spit and slick drips between your legs, coating his chin and ruining the sheets.

Phainon really is a fast learner, just as he promised. And now, he’s applying the lesson he’s learnt to devastating effect.

Just when you think you can’t take any more, he changes his rhythm. He wraps his lips around that aching, sensitive nub almost gently, and sucks.

The world fractures, and you come hard. A cry tears itself from your throat as your back arches violently off the bed, pleasure rippling through you like seismic waves. Phainon doesn’t let up, though, drawing out every last shudder from you with gentle, almost kittenish licks. He keeps going until you’re curling weakly away from him, unable to take any more.

His eyes are dark and half-lidded as he looks up at you. Even as you watch, panting, Phainon wipes his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, then drags his tongue across it to lick up any last trace of you on his skin. The sight is almost enough to make your thighs clench together again.

“Did I do a good job?” he rasps. His voice is hoarse, but his eyes are shining with the pride of a man who already knows that he’s more than delivered.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you surge forward, crashing your mouth to his in a fierce kiss that’s more tongue than lips. Phainon moans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you as you taste yourself on him. His hands roam over every inch of your skin, squeezing at every part that he can reach.

Your own hands drop to the waistband of his sweats, pushing insistently. He gets the hint immediately and the two of you break apart for just a moment, a frantic, synchronised effort to shove them down his legs and kick them somewhere onto the floor.

Phainon is pulling you back into another hungry kiss when he suddenly goes completely still. You’re about to ask what’s wrong when a look of shattered realisation crosses his face.

“I don’t have any condoms…”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at Phainon’s crestfallen look. The words are filled with a devastation that would have been hilariously comical if he weren’t so genuinely earnest. You draw him close, winding your arms around his neck and pressing your bare body flush against his. “I’ve been on the pill,” you admit quietly, your lips brushing his ear. “Ever since we kissed.”

For a moment, Phainon just blinks at you, as though not quite grasping the meaning of your words. Then the implication sinks in. You can only watch as the despairing expression on his face vanishes, before it’s replaced by something that you can only describe as predatory.

The shift is so sudden that a nervous little thrill shoots through you. Phainon is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.

“Oh,” he says. His hands slide down to grasp possessively at your hips. “Is that so?”

A little shiver goes through you at the dangerous promise in his tone. You suddenly wonder whether you’ve just made a terrible mistake. “Hey…” you put a hand to his chest to create a sliver of space, a fragment of sanity between the two of you. “You know I still need to be able to walk into that Jaeger tomorrow, right?”

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, leaning down to capture your mouth in a kiss that steals the protest straight from your lungs. He breaks away just enough to whisper against your lips. “I can carry you.”

You feel yourself throb in a dizzying mixture of fear and want. “That’s not the—”

“Show me,” Phainon breathes. His voice is thick with a need that mirrors your own, and the look in his eyes is no longer one of eager inexperience, but sharp, focused intent. “I want to make you feel good. Show me how. Please.”

You swallow hard. It’s impossible to say no when he’s all but begging, and so you lean back, guiding him onto his knees between your legs. He runs his hands along the insides of your thighs, spreading them further, but the vulnerability of the position is eclipsed by the raw hunger on his face. Phainon watches you, almost mesmerised, as you reach between your bodies.

Your hand wraps around his length. He jerks at the contact, a sharp gasp escaping his throat. He’s hot and hard in your palm, and when you thumb over the tip, smearing the precum there, he lets out a choked groan and grabs you by the wrist.

“Wha—”

“Inside,” Phainon says, insistent. His voice is strained, almost rough with need. “I want to come inside you.”

Any urge you had to tease him further evaporates at the sight of him — pupils dark and blown wide, his whole body trembling lightly. You guide him to your entrance, dragging the blunt head along your soaked folds, and Phainon’s forehead drops against your shoulder with a moan that’s almost pained. You can feel his breath, hot and searing your collarbone, as he struggles to hold onto his last shred of self control.

“Slowly,” you whisper, and he nods, expression tight.

You rock your hips down, meeting his tentative push. The tip catches for a moment, smudging against the resistance of your folds, before it sinks into you. You’re so wet and ready for him that the slow push into you is almost effortless, aside from the delicious burn of his girth that has you biting your lip, head falling back against the pillows. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every expression that flickers across your face as he fills you inch by inch.

When Phainon finally bottoms out inside of you, he lets out a low, shuddering moan. He doesn’t move, just braces himself above you, arms trembling. You reach up to cup his cheek, slightly concerned.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Phainon chokes out, another moan slipping out when you shift beneath him. “I just… I think I might just come instantly if I move.”

That is so unexpected — and unbearably cute — that you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. You grip his shoulders to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t mind,” you say, letting your voice drop to a teasing hum. “Promise I won’t laugh.”

“No!” Phainon shakes his head, expression tight. “Just… just give me a second.” He presses his forehead harder against your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as if in prayer. “Gods, the way you feel around me… I need a minute or this is going to be embarrassingly short.”

You can feel the tremors running through him, the intense battle for control in the way he holds himself utterly still, buried deep inside you. You let your fingers card through his hair to soothe him, simply savouring the sensation of being filled by him for now.

After a long, suspended moment, the tension in his shoulders finally begins to ease. Phainon lets out a shuddering breath that rolls across your skin, and then, with agonising slowness, pulls back. Barely an inch, but enough for his eyes to flutter open and meet yours — seeking permission, reassurance.

You answer with a slow roll of your hips, feeling him drag against every inch of you. A low groan rumbles in his chest. He pushes forward again, and this time, it’s smoother, more confident. Phainon sets a slow, deep rhythm, the hands on your hips holding you steady as he fucks into you. A stream of bitten off moans and gasps escape you with each thrust, and you can see the way his confidence grows with each noise you make, every time you writhe beneath him.

A fast learner, indeed — Phainon’s entire focus seems to be on your body, the way it reacts to his. He tilts his hips experimentally, and when a subtle shift nearly makes you sob, he memorises it instantly, replicating the motion with a precision that drives you absolutely insane. And when his mouth drops to your neck, lips latching at your pulse just like you’d done to him earlier, you shudder and claw at his back with a desperation that feels almost animal, nails leaving streaks that you’re sure will bloom into raised, red trails across his skin tomorrow.

Some part of you thinks about the engineers, about how they’ll definitely see those marks when Phainon puts on his drivesuit tomorrow. How he’ll be wearing them as he steps into the Jaeger tomorrow with you, as you face the end of the world together.

A fierce satisfaction surges through you, eclipsing any flicker of embarrassment. Good. Let them see. Let them know. Even Death itself will know he belongs to you, if the two of you end up crossing that threshold together.

The old bunk groans as Phainon continues slamming into you, rhythmic creaks punctuated by the wet slap of your hips. The sounds are swallowed by your wanton moans, cresting high with each stroke, and his own ragged, babbling praise tumbles from his lips.

“You feel… gods, you feel so good,” he pants against your neck, voice utterly wrecked. “So perfect, so tight. I can’t—”

You clench around him instinctively, and a deep, broken groan escapes him. His rhythm falters for a heartbeat, hips stuttering before snapping relentlessly back into motion. “Can’t — hah — hold on much longer if you keep doing that.”

You want to see that, more than anything. You want to watch him come undone, to see him overcome by the pleasure you can give him. Driven by that desire, you drop a hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles. The combination of him hitting that spot deep inside you and your own touch sends you over the edge. Your climax crashes through you like a tidal wave, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as you convulse around him, your walls milking him mercilessly.

The sensation of you pulsing around him shatters the last of Phainon’s control. With a broken cry of your name, he follows you over the edge, hips stuttering erratically as he spills deep inside you.

For a long while, the only sounds are your ragged breaths, the quiet creak of the bunk’s rusty screws. Phainon collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting, solid presence that grounds you back into reality.

After a few minutes, he shifts, gently pulling out, and a whine escapes you at the sensation of his length dragging through your oversensitive folds. You both watch as a trickle of white slips from your well-used cunt, dripping down onto the sheets below.

You catch the hitch in Phainon’s breath. Slowly, almost reverently, he gathers the cum spilling out and presses two fingers back inside you. You moan, startled by both the sensitivity and the intimate possessiveness of the gesture.

Before you can comment, Phainon bends down, capturing your mouth in a deep, languid kiss that tastes of sweat and satisfaction. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with a renewed, simmering hunger, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips, entirely at odds with the cock you feel hardening against your thigh. Your mouth falls open. This man—

“Again?”

You lose count of how many times Phainon makes you come that night, but he remembers to have mercy on you and relents at sometime about two in the morning. You’re draped across him, a boneless, sated weight, too tired to move. Your finger traces the constellation of hickeys you’ve left along his neck, a night sky of stars to go with the sun etched into his skin.

The room is silent, except for the sound of your slow breaths. There’s a pleasant soreness humming through your muscles, and you’re almost lulled into sleep by the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear when his voice vibrates through his chest.

“I saw a house,” Phainon says suddenly.

You lift your head from his chest, blinking through the haze of sleep. The dim glow of the clock illuminates every microexpression on his face — serious, nervous, tentative all at once. “Hmm? Where?”

He licks his lips, a small, hesitant gesture. “In… in Aedes Elysiae.” The name hits you like a memory long buried — your hometown, his hometown, the one reduced to rubble and ash years ago. “I heard about the rebuilding efforts there… saw a listing for a house on the beach. Right where the old boardwalk used to be.”

Your chest tightens. It’d always been too much to bear, the thought of the place you’d called home. There had been no place to return to after the day Aedes Elysiae had fallen, and you’d wandered from cage to house to shelter in the years after to survive. But never a home.

His next words tumble from him in a rush, hope and fear tangled together. “It— It’s big. It has room for a garden, and I don’t know if the windows are big but I can always knock down the walls to install bigger ones—” He pauses, swallows, and you’re unable to do anything but stare, all traces of sleep gone in an instant. “It’s right on the beach so that a dog can play down by the water, and… and…” Phainon’s voice falters, fading into the fragile quiet of uncertainty.

Then, with barely a whisper, he asks. “I was just… just thinking. If… when all this is over…” he takes a deep breath. “Would you be willing to come with me?”

He doesn’t look at you at first, fidgeting nervously with the ends of your hair. But when you take too long to respond, he looks up, blue eyes searching yours hesitantly. Then his expression shifts to one of panic when he realises that you’re crying, silent tears sliding hot and wet down your cheeks.

“Hey,” Phainon’s voice cracks, sounding alarmed. “I— I was just joking. You don’t have to—”

“I don’t…” Your voice catches, and you have to stifle a sob before trying again. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say yes?” A half-laugh breaks against the tremor in his words. “Or at least say you’ll think about it. Please. I know it’s not much—” Not much? How do you find the words to tell him that it’s everything? Your chest tightens, a flood of emotion threatening to spill over, to drown you completely. “I just…”

You shake your head, swiping at your face desperately. But with every tear you brush away, two more seem to take its place. “To take care of those fake plants for you?”

A shaky laugh escapes Phainon, and suddenly the wetness is in his eyes too. “Yeah…” His thumb draws gentle circles into your bare skin. “I’d kill them somehow, I just know it…” His mouth curves into a small, wavering smile. “I’m hopeless without you.”

“Silly.” You lean down until your forehead rests against his. “I’d go anywhere with you.” His breath shudders against your lips, his lashes fluttering softly. “Anywhere.”

The truth is, he didn’t even need to ask. Your answer would always be yes.

Into a Jaeger. Into death. And into whatever waits beyond that.

The morning of the operation dawns cold and grey. The Jaeger hangar is a rush of last minute activity, engineers and technicians rushing to perform last minute checks and fixes. Everyone else moves with a similar grim focus, the usual banter in the drivesuit room replaced by the silent ritual of suiting up.

And for some strange reason, you seem to be garnering some looks from the other rangers…

Mydei, in particular, looks extra irritable today, his movements sharp and efficient as he checks the fastenings on his drivesuit. There is the faintest hint of dark shadows under his eyes, and he looks like he is personally offended by the way his morning is turning out. He glares at the cup of coffee in your hand as you pass.

“None for the rest of us?” he grumbles, and Stelle snorts.

“Nope,” you say breezily, not breaking your stride as you step over to Phainon, who’s already halfway into his own suit. His expression brightens when he realises you’ve returned from the mess hall. It’s unfortunate that most of the hickeys that you’d left on him last night are hidden behind polymer mesh, but there’s one beneath his jaw, just visible at the thin strip of skin above his collar. You fight the urge to brush your fingers across it, and hand him the mug instead. “Boyfriend privilege, unfortunately.”

Phainon fumbles the cup spectacularly.

“Hey—” Only your quick reflexes save the hot drink from splashing all over the sensitive circuitry of his suit, and you wince when the hot ceramic sting at your hands. You’re about to scold him for being careless when you realise that he’s staring at you with his mouth wide open, cheeks flushed a brilliant pink. “Um… Phainon?”

Mydei watches the scene unfold with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced to witness a trainwreck in slow motion. “Did you only just figure that out?” he asks flatly, every word dripping with acid sarcasm.

The fact that Phainon doesn’t even register the jab says everything. He clutches the rescued cup to his chest like a lifeline, gaze darting helplessly between you and Mydei and back to you. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

March and Stelle snicker. Dan Heng just touches his forehead and sighs.

“I mean…” He’s stammering now, practically tripping over his words. It’s almost funny how hard Phainon is blushing over an update to your official relationship status, as though he wasn't fucking you senseless just hours ago. Cute, too. “I mean, we never explicitly said— I didn’t want to assume—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mydei interrupts, rolling his eyes so hard it looks painful. “I thought the very explicit noises the two of you were making last night should have been confirmation enough—”

Oh. Oh. So that’s why the other rangers had been giving you those looks earlier. So that’s why Mydei looks like he didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. Caelus, catching your glance, grins like a devil and flashes you a thumbs-up as he hops into his drivesuit. “Guess there’s no better time to do the dirty, eh?” he says, cheerfully. “We already collected our prize from Mydei.”

You turn to your other neighbour-turned-victim. “Sorry, Cas…”

Castorice waves it off sagely. “Don’t worry about it. I slept in the twins’ room last night.” She smiles at you. “So they divided the winning pot with me.”

Mydei just groans, running a hand over his face. “Fucking animals…”

Phainon’s flush deepens to a spectacular shade of crimson that matches the emergency alarms, and raises the mug to his lips in an attempt to hide it. You laugh and pat his shoulder, a smile playing on your lips.

“Drink your coffee, boyfriend,” you say, tone light despite the gravity of the day. Phainon chokes on his coffee. “We’ve got a world to save.”

Before Mydei can make another big show of protest again, the doors to the drivesuit room hiss open and Hyacine strolls in, brilliant and beaming. She’s wearing her usual crisp white doctor’s coat over her clothes, a white mug with a cartoon unicorn printed across it in her hand.

March raises a hand to say hi, but Hyacine just brushes past her with a quick smile. To everyone’s shock, she walks straight up to Mydei, places the mug in his hand and rises on her toes to press a firm kiss to his cheek. You, along with every other person in the room (except for Castorice, who doesn’t look surprised) simply stare.

“Don’t be late for our date tonight, hm?” Hyacine says, her voice cheerful and utterly matter of fact. It’s like she’s reminding him to pick up milk, not return from a suicide mission.

Mydei freezes, gripping the mug rigidly like it’s a ticking time bomb. His usual scowl is gone, replaced by a look of total, dumbfounded bewilderment, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.

Hyacine doesn’t look very bothered by that. Instead, she just smiles, pats his cheek, and then turns on her heel. “Good luck, everyone!” she calls over her shoulder, and then she’s gone again, the doors swishing shut behind her.

Every single person in the room turns to stare at Mydei, whose ears are slowly turning a violent shade of red that matches his tattoos. He looks down at the coffee in his hand, and then slowly, deliberately brings it to his lips, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

Phainon, his own embarrassment completely forgotten, lets out a low whistle. “Well,” he murmurs, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Looks like someone else had a productive last night.”

Mydei’s head snaps up, his death glare returning with a vengeance. “Shut up and suit up,” he says, but the telltale blush creeping up his neck and staining the tips of his ears only makes you smile. Stelle and Caelus cackle loudly and unapologetically behind him, and Dan Heng just shakes his head.

It’s a good day to save the world, you think.

The doors open again, and this time it’s the General who enters, her posture sharp and impeccable as ever. The air shifts, suddenly heavy. Every Ranger in the room straightens. Aglaea doesn’t launch into a grand, inspiring speech about saving the world. She moves straight to the central table, expression grim and focused, as mission schematics flash across the displays. Professor Anaxagoras lingers a few feet behind her, eyes darting over the screens.

She runs through the operation plan one last time. Her pointer taps on every critical waypoint, every contingency, each instruction clipped and precise, leaving no room for error or misinterpretation.

At the end, the displays wink out. The General straightens, her sea foam eyes sweeping across each of your faces slowly, as if committing them to memory. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.

When she finally speaks, her voice is composed. “I will see all of you later for the debrief.” She says it as if this mission is just another day’s work, as though all of you returning safely is a given. “All the best out there, Rangers.”

And then she turns on her heel and walks out, her heels echoing quick and precise on the floor. Professor Anaxa pauses to glare at all of you, before he lets out a sigh.

“If the lot of you are destroying my Jaegers,” he grumbles, jabbing a finger at each of you in turn, “you better make sure you come back alive so that I can beat all your asses for it.” It’s the closest thing to a heartfelt farewell that any of you will ever get from him. And then he, too, is out of the door.

The moment the doors slide shut, March leans over, whispering out of the corner of her mouth despite the fact that Aglaea has already left. “Hey. Hey. Do you think Agy was… you know, tearing up at the end there?”

“Don’t be crazy.” Stelle looks similarly gobsmacked. “Robots don’t cry.”

Dan Heng, without even looking up from adjusting his drivesuit, reaches out to smack her upside the head.

Everything that happens after that feels like an old habit, a familiar routine. You get into your drivesuits, March and Stelle chattering about what they’re going to eat for dinner. Castorice tugs at her hair, frowns, and braids it again. Then the engineers are telling you that it’s time to go, and you blink, and suddenly all of you are walking down the catwalks in the hangar. One by one, each team breaks off to head to their Jaegers, waving with see you laters that seem to hold so much more than just that, until it’s only you and Phainon stepping into Khaslana.

The second you plug into the internal comms, you hear a familiar voice in your ears. “Heya~ Phainon, (Name). Ready to save the world?”

You blink. “I didn’t know they gave A.I. mission updates…”

If Mem had a mouth, she’d probably be pouting. “Rude. The General uploaded the mission objectives into my database. This is standard procedure. You guys never tell me anything—”

“Oh.” Phainon smiles. “Is this a bad time to tell you that we’re dating now?”

There’s a profound, digital pause. Then, an indignant squawk. “You guys really never tell me anything!”

“Engaging pilot to pilot protocol sequence initiated,” Tribbie hums over the intercom, seamlessly cutting in. “Initiating Neural handshake in twenty. Twenty, nineteen — oh, and congratulations! Eighteen…”

Mydei sighs, a sound that you might have mistaken for irritation if not for the slight curl you can hear in his words. “I should get compensation for psychological damage…”

You bite back a laugh. “Oh sorry,” Phainon grins, a playful, rakish thing as he tilts his head back to look at you. “We’ll be on our best behaviour later. Unless, of course, you have a thing for voyeurism, which—”

“You guys made me listen to that!” Mydei snaps just as Castorice goes, “The children!” delicately.

“Ten, nine…”

Phainon rests a finger on the mute, and the shared channel falls silent, leaving only the private connection humming between the two of you. His eyes find yours. The countdown, the apocalypse at the world’s doorstep, everything — it all fades away to leave just you and him, looking at each other. “Ready to be in my head one last time?”

You snort. “Aren’t I always in there?”

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Phainon’s face. “True,” he says, his voice soft, “you’re always on my mind.”

“Five, four…”

“Oooh,” you fight back a cringe even as your heart skips a beat. “Don’t be saying all that sappy stuff now. We’ll be like the first couple in the horror movies that always get killed.”

“Three, two…”

He shrugs easily, grinning. “Not if we’re the main leads, though.”

One.

The Neural Handshake doesn’t feel like falling anymore. It’s like stepping out into the sun, a soft warmth blooming across your face. Like home, and hope. Because despite the chances, the calculations, the probabilities, you still hope — for the house at the beach, a fluffy white dog and a garden full of sun-ripened tomatoes. And in every future you can imagine, Phainon is there. Phainon is that.

Home.

The plan is simple, on paper. Walk four Jaegers down to the Breach at the bottom of the deepest trench in the Pacific Ocean, defeat approximately five kaiju of categories never seen before, and then nuke it all into oblivion. Preferably, without dying.

Nikador, the most structurally robust of all the Jaegers, carries the payload. It’s a massive bomb with enough destructive power to reduce an entire mountain to rubble, but it’ll be useless until you can get your hands on a dead kaiju to chuck it into the Breach. Regardless, Castorice is still discussing potential date ideas with Mydei about a flower dome somewhere in Aidonia, her soothing voice a surreal counterpoint to their impending doom.

Even now, people are thinking about the future.

Then, you are at the Breach.

“Well,” Caelus says, as the Jaegers gather around the Breach. It looks exactly how it did the last time you and Phainon had come to collect samples for the professor, a beautifully ugly thing glowing with an underworldly kind of light. You remember, in a moment of strained levity, that someone had once called it an iTunes visualiser at the bottom of the ocean — and honestly? You can see the resemblance. Phainon lets out a snort next to you. “What do we do now? Just wait for the kaiju to attack, right?”

“I hate the ocean,” Mydei sighs, again. “Nikador’s not designed for aquatic combat.”

Dan Heng makes a sound that translates perfectly to a shrug. “None of us are Aquaman.”

“Maybe you can get the Professor to design Nikador a giant floatie, next time.” March giggles, but the laughter is cut short by the sudden blare of alarms. Your chest tightens, heart sinking — too fast, too soon.

“Energy signatures detected,” Mem warns.

There’s a pause, before it’s broken by a sharp, quick laugh. “Guess it’s showtime!” Stelle says, her grin audible over the comms. “The one who dies is a rotten egg!” And with that, Trailblazer is already stepping down into the deep, to engage the first kaiju to claw its way out of the depths.

The Breach flares, edges distorting like the audio waves of a scream. It stretches, warping the edges of space and matter itself, and your displays ping a cacophony of alarms in your ears. You hit the mute. This isn’t the last emergence, and it won’t be the biggest either. The wormhole twists, a vortex of impossible energy, and it shines in the ocean deep like a neutron star in the middle of a galaxy.

Out of that tear in space-time, a single claw emerges. It’s monstrously huge (because it is— thanks Phainon), scales rippling in a way that seems to bleed the meagre light from the water. More of the creature follows, like a nightmare given form, and Mem graciously categorises it as a VI, not that the number means much to any of you anymore, anyway.

Its orange eyes stare out with a malevolent, ancient intelligence, and its maw opens in a roar that vibrates everything, even underwater.

You find yourself looking at Phainon even before you register the fear. This is what the professor had said would come, what the models had predicted. It’s like staring Death in the face. Through the Drift, you feel his despair like your own, but when your eyes meet, something settles. The fear is still there, shared between the two of you, but it’s overshadowed by the simple fact that he is there with you.

Everything will be alright.

“Hey, big ugly!” Caelus yells over the comms, the same instant Stelle shouts, “Eat shit!”

The kaiju has barely emerged from the Breach before Trailblazer surges forward with a burst of thrusters, its massive, newly serrated shield swinging around like a giant frisbee. It scores a deep, gouging cut along the kaiju’s massive flank and vivid kaiju blue billows into the water like a cloud of toxic ink.

When visibility returns, the fighting has already moved, a chaotic underwater dance between two giants. And through the dissipating blue, the Breach flares again.

The next kaiju is already coming through.

None of you can help each other. The kaiju outnumber you, and it’s all that you and Phainon can do to prevent the Cat VIII — the highest one so far — you’re dealing with from ganging up and picking off the Jaegers one by one. The most you can see of your friends are little flashes of light from their plasmacasters in the murky darkness, movement of a dark tail slipping through the gloom.

The kaiju that you’re fighting moves with a fluid grace that’s terrifying for its size, multiple limbs striking like hydras. Khaslana’s reactor pops up little emergency messages as you scramble to dodge and attack all at the same time. Fortunately, Mem computes small defensive manoeuvres in nanoseconds, ones that you think have saved your lives over a dozen times already.

“Plasmacaster offline!” you call as the system status flashes a critical red on your display. Many other things are also flashing red, but you can’t pay attention to them right now. “It’ll need some time to cool off!”

“Got it.” Khaslana’s feet plant on the seabed, raises its sword as the kaiju rushes towards them like a giant torpedo of death. Moving underwater takes too much time, and the kaiju clearly don’t struggle in the water like the Jaegers do. Stupid bioengineering aliens… It takes everything in you to stay put like a sitting duck, but you trust in Phainon’s instincts, his years of battling these monsters. “Ready… and… now!”

Right as the kaiju opens its jaws, you hit a button on the console. The launch sequence is muffled by the crushing depth, but the effect is immediate. The ports in Khaslana’s chest armour slide open, and three NeiKos96 torpedoes zip out. Their propulsion leaves trails of bubbles behind as they spear straight into the kaiju’s maw.

For a heart stopping moment, nothing happens. The beast gets closer, and closer—

Then, a series of dull thuds seem to vibrate the very ocean itself. The kaiju’s head jerks violently, and its jaw falls open again in a convulsive gag instead of a roar. Iridescent blue blood and chunks of vaporised internal matter erupt from its maw and gills in a sickening cloud. The immense body twists as the high yield explosives detonate deep within it.

The two of you don’t wait long enough to see whether it's enough. Khaslana braces itself for impact, and the kaiju scores itself open on the giant blade as the momentum of its mass continues to carry it forward. The spinning teeth that the Professor had built into the sword tears a horrific rent open from its lower jaw up through its neck, and a torrent of beautiful, toxic blue floods the water.

In your comms, you hear Caelus and Stelle shout too, a whoop of victory. But there’s no time to savour it. A different scream soon follows, high with panic and fear.

March. Fear sinks into your chest like a stone. “— Akivili’s arm! It’s gone! Dan Heng—”

You see it then, through the murk. The smaller Jaeger is missing its entire left arm, wires and coloured coolant spilling into the water like blood. The Category VI is already circling back for the kill, and you won’t be fast enough to reach, to help. Dan Heng’s voice is strained, a grim determination warring with the obvious damage. “We can’t go yet. We still can—”

“Evacuate!” Phainon shouts, his voice urgent. “Now!”

You see the hesitation in Akivili’s stance. And in that second, the kaiju strikes.

Stelle shouts over the comms as it moves with viper-like speed, its giant jaws clamping around Akivili’s head. The sound of crushing metal screeches, muffled under water. You feel Phainon’s heart drop together with your own.

But then you spot it — two escape pods, ejected at the last possible moment, spearing towards the surface.

The kaiju shakes the decapitated Jaeger like a chew toy, then stills, head turning to pinpoint the fleeing pods. Almost as though it understands. It begins to move, give chase.

It never gets the chance. Akivili’s reactor goes critical. For a single second, the headless Jaeger’s core glows with the intensity of a sun being born in the deep. Then it explodes.

The ball of light consumes the kaiju, vapourising it and the remains of Akivili almost instantly. The shockwave hits Khaslana like a physical blow, and you feel Phainon hold up an arm to protect the visor. The frame of the Conn-Pod rattles, and then the light fades, leaving behind nothing but swirling debris and a dark ocean.

“Is the last kaiju out of the abyss yet?” Mydei’s voice is a strained grunt over the comms. Khaslana turns, and you see Nikador locked in a brutal grapple with a serpentine Cat VI. You raise your plasmacaster and shoot, forcing the creature to release its coil around the Jaeger.

“Four kaiju have been detected so far,” Mem supplies.

“It’s taking too long,” Castorice’s voice is tight and focused. “Mydeimos. Do we—”

“We’ll cover you,” you call, and Khaslana steps forward as you continue to shoot at that stubbornly quick Cat VI. One shot catches it in the side as it swims towards you, and Khaslana drags the serrated blade straight through its tail. Trailblazer is on it a second later, and the blue glow of the plasmacaster lights up the ocean floor.

Nikador disengages, turning towards the pulsating heart of the Breach, the massive bomb on its back a grim offering. The Jaeger takes two steps before the water tears apart.

It’s as if it had been lying in wait. The final kaiju — Category VIII, Mem states — erupts from the Breach in a devastating lunge of armoured spines and crushing limbs. It moves with a speed that belies its size, one massive claw slashing out.

The blow catches Nikador square in the torso. Metal shrieks as the Jaeger stumbles, a shower of sparks erupting from its side even under water. The bomb on its back lists dangerously.

“Conn-Pod breached! It’s starting to flood.” Castorice gasps. Your heart drops when you see Nikador’s readings flashing red on your screen. Things just keep getting worse and worse… “Oh my god, Mydeimos…”

You feel it, the way Phainon immediately hones in on the fear in Castorice’s voice, the lurch in his chest. “What happened?”

“He—”

“It’s nothing,” Mydeimos grits out, his voice tight and strained. “Focus on the mission.”

“Hang on, we’re coming!” Caelus shouts over the channel. Trailblazer lunges forward with its battered shield, serrated edges dulled, and somehow still manages to block another blow on Nikador. But the force of it is too great, and the shield crumples under the kaiju’s claws, and you catch sight of Trailblazer’s metal limbs caving in as well.

“Our systems are fucked, too!” Stelle says, sounding breathless. “Both right and left arm manoeuvrability below 30 percent…”

“Cat VII approaching Trailblazer…” Mem warns.

The Cat VIII starts swimming towards Nikador again. It looks very interested in the bomb on its back.

Nikador turns towards the Breach, hesitating for a second. You can almost hear the internal turmoil going on in Mydei and Castorice’s minds, the weight of the mission, the cost of their lives balanced against success. Die finishing the job, or…

“Blow the payload!” Phainon’s voice cuts through hard and clear, leaving no room for argument. “Both of you, just clear the path! We’ll finish it.” You hear Mydei suck in a deep breath, hear the ragged shakiness underneath that betrays the state he’s in.

“Are you sure—”

“Khaslana’s nuclear core can generate roughly the same amount of explosive power as the bomb,” Phainon says sharply, and Mem instantly overlays the calculations across your HUD, the numbers confirming his words for you. Alternative detonation is viable. “Set the bomb for detonation,” the status updates for Nikador and Trailblazer flash red across your screens again, as Stelle and Caelus struggle to hold back the Cat VI that is also trying to get at Nikador, “and get out of here now! Trust us.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Mydei’s voice comes over the comms, thick with emotion but hard with resolution. “You two better let me repay this fucking favour.”

Those words are all you have time for. Two escape pods blast away from the mortally wounded Nikador, racing for the surface. A moment later, two more — Stelle and Caelus — streak after them, just before the Cat VIII tears Trailblazer’s Conn-Pod from its body.

Then the dark, watery world erupts before you. Nikador’s payload detonates almost in tandem with the triggered Jaeger cores in a violent chain reaction and the abyss ignites like a white hot flare, every shadow banished for a brief, searing instant.

The shockwave that hits Khaslana’s Conn-Pod is brutal. You hit the harness hard enough to see stars behind your eyelids, and when you open them again, the war outside is a graveyard — viscera, a mangled claw, fragments of armoured hide. A whole chunk of kaiju larger than your Conn-Pod drifts past like a grotesque meteor through the murky water.

You gasp, heart thumping madly in your chest. “Do you think that—”

Phainon catches sight of it first. A silhouette moving just beyond the drifting wreckage, too big and deliberate. The two of you stare as the final Cat VIII moves through the haze, armoured plates cracked open and glowing veins spilling toxic kaiju blue into the water. Most of its tail seems to have been caught in the explosion, but the rest of it somehow still endures. It lurches forward, massive head twisting as though scenting prey.

You feel all of Phainon’s emotions wash through you for a second — relief, fear, despair — before he forces all of it down, narrowing his focus to the enemy in front of him. “Looks like it’s just us, now,” he says, more lightly than he feels.

You know what this means. The two of you have to kill it, or it doesn’t matter that your friends managed to escape — everyone will die, anyway.

The kaiju comes for you through the drifting wreckage, dragging its broken body towards Khaslana like a nightmare that refuses to die. Still relentless. Still terrifying.

“Still with me?” Phainon murmurs, and you feel him in the Drift, reaching out for you even as fear gnaws at your insides. You take a deep breath and nod.

“Always,” you answer. Mem chimes in as well.

“Don’t forget I’m here, too!”

Phainon laughs a little at that. “We’ll be counting on you for defense then, Mem.”

The kaiju charges. The water resistance drags down every movement, but you hit the reactor vents, and the additional force is enough for Khaslana to slide to the side just quick enough to dodge the monster’s massive claws. Phainon brings the massive chain sword around in a sweeping arc.

“Hide behind the left shoulder is an estimated 40 percent weaker,” Mem announces, and Phainon lunges.

The serrated teeth bite into a weak spot at the kaiju’s flank — already damaged by Nikador’s blast — shearing off a plate of armour and drawing a fresh gout of blue. Bellowing, the beast retaliates with a massive claw slashing across Khaslana’s chest. The Jaeger staggers, alarms blaring the same message.

“Torso structural integrity compromised by 26 percent.” Mem sounds almost worried.

“We can’t trade blows like this,” you grit out, feeling the phantom pain in your own ribs. The plasmacaster on Khaslana’s right arm is fully charged, but you can’t waste any of your shots on its thick hide. “I need a clean shot.”

His mind formulates plans and discards them in a matter of seconds, before he finally settles on one he deems reasonable. “I’ll open it up,” Phainon responds. “Just make sure you’re ready.”

You follow his lead and the two of you push Khaslana forward, right into the beast’s guard in a reckless brawl. Phainon works the chain-sword like a saw, grinding it deeper into the wound he’d already created, a brutal, desperate act, sacrificing stability for damage.

The kaiju rears back, trying to dislodge you. And as it does, its maw gapes wide in a silent roar of agony.

“Now!”

You’ve been waiting. The plasmacaster hums to life, ready to unload the clip straight into the beast. But the angle is poor, and the kaiju is twisting furiously, its head turning away.

“It’s no good!” you shout, straining with the effort of holding the kaiju in place with the chain-sword. “I can’t get a proper lock!”

The Cat VIII writhes again, and red alarms pop up all over your HUD again. The structural integrity of Khaslana’s arms are wearing down the more the kaiju struggles, and you know that you don’t have much more time before the monster rips off one of the Jaeger’s limbs entirely. You have to act before that, and Phainon knows it too.

In the Drift, you feel his decision. A final, all-or-nothing gamble. Phainon wrenches the chain-sword free, and with a surge of power from the straining reactor core, he rams the entire Jaeger forward, shoving the limb holding the sword directly into the kaiju’s open mouth, jamming it open.

The move leaves you completely exposed, pain flaring down your left arm as the neural pathways scream. The kaiju’s claws rake down Khaslana’s front, shedding armour. But the maw is held wide open.

“Do it!” Phainon’s shout is an amalgamation of strain and determination.

You’re already moving. You don’t need to aim. You just fire.

The plasmacaster discharges point-blank into the Cat VIII’s throat, followed by a volley of torpedoes discharged by Mem. You empty the clip, firing again and again until the plasmacaster overheats, and the light that erupts from within the monsters is blinding, even through the murky water.

The kaiju convulses once, a final, catastrophic scream, and then goes still.

For a moment, there is only disbelief. The stunned silence that follows is louder than the raging alarms and alerts that had been going off during the battle. You wrench your gaze from the dead leviathan to Phainon, almost afraid that it might move the second you take your eyes off it.

Phainon’s face is pale, strained with the same pain that your drivesuit is relaying to you. Khaslana is damaged beyond repair, you’re sure. But his eyes meet yours, and in them, you don’t see the finality of the deep or the certain grasp of death. Instead, you see a flicker of the same, impossible realisation.

Against all the odds, against all of Professor Anaxa’s calculations…

“Target neutralised,” Mem reports.

You won.

Then Khaslana’s forward visor groans. A hairline crack creeps over the glass, splintering into more with every second. Your stomach plummets.

“Phainon—” you start, but the words drown in a shriek of tearing metal as a corner of the reinforced glass gives way to the pressure of the deep. It shatters in a spray of jagged fragments.

And the ocean surges in.

The world is a cacophony of screaming alarms and rushing seawater. Khaslana’s hull groans all around you, its systems flickering and dying. The frame had been irreparably damaged from the move Phainon had pulled to give you the opening you’d needed, but to have the Conn-Pod breached was the worst thing that could possibly have happened.

But the two of you have succeeded, either way. The mission is a success. Soon, the Breach will be sealed. The world is saved.

And you are going to die here.

“I can override the Jaeger controls to drag this big guy’s body to the Breach and self-destruct Khaslana,” Mem says, and you see the numbers and commands suddenly pouring through the displays, almost as quickly as the water rushing into the Conn-Pod. “The two of you need to go now.”

You share a single glance with Phainon. Your final, coordinated action is a neural disconnection, and the world fractures back into two separate entities. The water is up to your ankles now, and there is no more time to waste.

You hit the release mechanism for your escape pod. The harness snaps down over your chest, locking you into your seat. You wait for the pod to drop, for the lurch, for the violent ejection towards the surface, to life.

Nothing happens.

“Your pod, now!” Phainon’s voice is raw over the comms, cutting through the chaos. He hasn’t activated his own pod. His eyes are on you, somehow already sensing that something is wrong even without the Drift. The realisation settles over you, distantly, like a wave at the ocean’s surface, far, far above.

Phainon won’t leave without you.

You exhale a ragged breath and slam a fist against the release mechanism for your own pod again. Nothing. The mechanism is completely wrecked, crushed by the kaiju’s last, desperate strike. And despite this, a cold, serene calm washes over you.

“It’s jammed,” you say, surprisingly calm. The words feel like a simple statement of fact — the evacuation pod is jammed, the wrecked harness that was supposed to keep you safe now binds you to your coffin, and you are going to die here, drowning miles beneath the surface. “Phainon—”

“No.” He doesn’t even let you finish. Phainon abandons his own pod, sloshing towards you through the flooding Conn-Pod even as the lights and displays spark dangerously overhead.

You think you’re going crazy. “Phainon, don’t be stupid!” you hiss viciously, shoving at his chest, but he’s immovable, blue eyes flashing with stone cold determination. Gods, you hate that part of him right now almost as much as you love it. “There’s no time!”

“No.”

“Your pod is still working!” You’re shaking from fear — fear of drowning, fear of the pain, fear of death, but most of all, the fear that Phainon will die here with you. A pointless, foolish death. “Don’t be ridiculous, Phainon. Go!”

“I’m not leaving!” He snaps back, his voice cracking as he yanks hard at the straps. They don’t budge in the slightest. The water is higher now, spilling into your boots and icy cold. The argument is futile, and you both know it. “Not again! Never again!”

You want to sob. He’s not listening. The sound escapes you, regardless, and Phainon just looks at you with fire in his eyes before all the fight drains out of him. His hands come up to cup your cheeks, his touch gentle amidst the chaos. The alarms blare and the metal shrieks, but his voice drops to a shaky whisper, meant for you alone.

“I bought the house,” he says, the words rushing out, a frantic confession against the dying of the light. “Just this morning, before you woke up. I was looking up renovation videos online. And calculating the cost of dog food.”

Tears mix with the saltwater spray on your face. “Phainon, please…”

“None of it matters,” he insists. His forehead presses against yours, and his own eyes squeeze shut as the alarms continue to scream. “The house, the dog, the damn window… none of it means a thing if you’re not there. It’s just an empty house.”

The water is at your knees now. You weep and clutch at his chest, unsure whether to pull him closer and push him away, and Phainon makes the choice for you. He ignores your struggling hands and wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against him like he’s never going to let you go.

“Together,” he whispers. There’s no trace of panic now, and he’s smiling at you gently, blue eyes soft. Blue like the waves that are about to drown you, blue like the sky above that you will never see again. You look into them as he holds you, and in them you see the entire future you’ll never have, the reason he’s choosing this instead. “I promised.”

The old man and woman in the sinking ship.

He holds you tighter, and you close your eyes, ready to meet your end in his embrace.

Suddenly, a sharp, pneumatic hiss cuts through the noise.

Your escape hatch, previously dead and dark, suddenly glows with a green, active light. The mechanism grinds, groans, and then slides open with a definitive clunk.

Both of your eyes fly wide open, staring in stunned disbelief. “Wha—”

“Whew! I successfully managed to hack into this bad boy,” Mem’s voice chirps over the internal comms, her tone absurdly cheerful amidst the ruin. “Took me a second. That last hit really scrambled my primary processors.”

The sound of Cyrene’s voice, so familiar and bright amidst the crushing darkness, is so profoundly jarring that you can’t process it for a second. Then, a wave of gratitude so dizzying hits you so hard that you think your knees almost buckle. You’re so grateful that you think you might cry again. Or maybe you’re already crying — it’s impossible to tell with the spray of seawater, the tears that had already been streaming down your face.

“Mem, I—”

“Ah, ah, no time for waterworks,” Mem interrupts, and her voice sounds impossibly fond, almost like the old friend whose memories she carries. “Enough of that in here already… Your pod is primed and ready.” You suddenly realise that you’ll have to leave her too, to be crushed by the darkness and the cold and the waves. Again. Dying a second time. She seems to be able to detect the emotions in you somehow, because her voice softens. “Go and live, okay? I saw the shells…” Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes burn. “Thank you. I’ll always be there for the two of you. Always.”

There is no time for farewells, and no time to mourn. For a moment, it feels like you are abandoning Cyrene a second time. But then your pod locks into place with a series of heavy thunks, harness tightening over your chest. “Phainon, go!” you shout.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He gives you one last look, a silent promise to see you at the surface, before he turns and wades back to his own pod. The cover to yours slams shut, and then with a violent lurch, you’re ejected upwards, the pressure slamming you back into the seat.

In the flooding Conn-Pod, Phainon hesitates for a second longer. He places a hand flat against the console, a final gesture.

“Thank you, Cyrene,” he whispers. There is too much grief and gratitude to ever be put into words, too much that he never got the chance to say to her. But if Mem could smile, Phainon thinks that she would be.

“I know,” she whispers.

And then his pod launches into the vast emptiness of the sea, shooting after yours.

A moment later, far below, Khaslana sinks silently into the Breach with the kaiju’s corpse in its arms, a macabre embrace. Its reactor goes critical, and the Jager that carries the final fragment of your friend’s soul explodes in a silent, brilliant bloom that lights up the entire ocean, a final, glorious funeral pyre in the deep.

You don’t know how long it takes for you to reach the surface. It feels like an eternity and no time at all before the escape hatch unseals and you tear the harness off you immediately, sitting up to shove it open. It opens to a clear, blue sky. A sky that you thought you’d never see again, the colour of Phainon’s eyes.

Phainon. Phainon.

You scramble to your feet, nearly falling as it bobs beneath you on the waves. It’s just an endless expanse of blue in every direction, bright fluorescent green dye spreading in the water around you. But you don’t care about any of that, just glance around desperately with a desperate cry lodged in your throat until you spot it.

A hundred meters away, Phainon’s pod bobs behind yours. And your heart sinks when you see a jagged piece of shrapnel from Khaslana’s explosion embedded in its side, tilting it precariously.

No. Not now. Not after everything.

You don’t think. You just leap into the water and swim, muscles burning and saltwater stinging your eyes, but nothing is worse than the cold fist fear forms around your heart. You reach the damaged pod, hauling yourself onto its slick surface. It takes a couple of attempts for your fingers, numb and clumsy, to fumble with the external manual release for the hatch. It groans open, and you all but fall inside.

The scene inside steals the breath from your lungs. Phainon is slumped in the harness and deathly pale, a stark contrast to the vivid crimson blood trickling from a nasty gash at his temple. It stains his white hair a gruesome red.

“Phainon?” Your voice comes out smaller than you thought, a broken plea. You’re stumbling to his side in an instant, ripping the harness off him and cupping his face in your hands. His blood smears across your palms, your fingertips. “Phainon, please!”

You shake him, gently at first, then more desperately. There is no response. His head lolls to the side, and a wretched sob rips from your throat, raw and terrified. This can’t be how it ends. Not like this. Not after the Breach, not after the sacrifice, not after—

You’re about to lose it completely, the world on the verge of dissolving into a blur of tears and despair, when his eyelids suddenly flutter.

Then they open.

His blue eyes are bleary and unfocused, swimming with confusion and pain. He blinks a few times, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, as if trying to place where he is, who he is. The explosion, the pod, the cold water. And then his gaze lands on you, and then a slow, dazed smile spreads across his pale lips.

“Oh, wow,” Phainon breathes, the words slurred. His hand reaches up to clumsily brush a tear from your cheek. “It’s really been… a shit day at work, huh.” He shakes his head slowly and then groans. “I’m going to take the longest vacation of my life… Let’s go home?”

The ridiculous absurdity, the sheer simplicity of the question — complaining while bleeding in an evacuation pod after saving the world — makes you choke out a wet laugh. You lean forward and press your lips against his in a kiss that tastes of saltwater, blood and a future that feels like grasping sunlight in your hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

The nearest airport is a two hour drive away, in the city of Lethe.

“I told you we shouldn’t have let Dan Heng have the aux cord,” Stelle grumbles. She’s crammed in the backseat, somewhere between Castorice and March, and the car is filled with the sounds of orchestral strings. “We’ve been listening to Xianzhounese traditional music ever since we left the airport. I think I’m about to fall asleep.”

“You fell asleep even before the car left the airport,” Dan Heng answers without missing a beat, fingers drumming along the steering wheel as he navigates the car down the sandy roads, the quaint roundabout. “Caelus, help me check where the—”

“The sign says This Way to The Beach,” Caelus says, pointing, before he realises Dan Heng can’t see him. Castorice groans, slumping with her head against the rest. All this circling is starting to make her dizzy. “Just get out at the one with all the little blue houses… yeah.”

“Why does it say The Beach?” March wonders aloud as the car turns into the narrow street. “Do you think that’s the name of the beach?”

“Who would name a beach The Beach?” Stelle mutters, before she throws herself over the center console in an attempt to grab the aux cord. Dan Heng smacks her hands away all without taking his eyes off the road.

March snickers. “You and Caelus would, for one. You literally named a baby Dromas Dromy!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t name him Dromas, did I?”

Hyacine waves her hands in an effort to placate the two of them. “I think Dromy is a perfectly cute name for a Dromas…”

Mydei just sighs from where he’s riding shotgun, sharp eyes scanning the rows of houses by the sea. They’re homely, not in the same way his apartment back in Castrum Kremnos is, but he can appreciate the charm — even more so with the evening sun dipping towards the horizon, washing the pale blue houses in a warm, golden light. He continues to observe them silently, until he finds one that matches the slightly blurry pictures that Phainon had spammed in the group chat. “I think we’re here.”

The twins are already tumbling out of the car, the second it pulls to a stop. March and Hyacine follow at a more sedate pace, Hyacine supporting a slightly giddy Castorice, who’s blinking owlishly in the soft light. Mydei and Dan Heng step out last, and then all of them are standing in a loose cluster on the pavement, looking up at an unassuming blue house that looks exactly the same as the ones to the left and right of it.

“Guess this is it,” Stelle says, already bounding up the short path to rap her knuckles cheerfully against the door.

It swings open almost immediately to reveal you behind it. “You guys made it!” Your smile widens as you take in the sight of them all gathered on your doorstep. “Come in, come in! I’m nearly done prepping for dinner. How was the flight? I heard there was a delay…”

They file into the cozy interior, and of course Castorice’s keen eyes are the first to make a full sweep of the living room. There’s a notable absence of a fluffy white presence, of barking. “No dog,” she notes softly, almost sadly.

You laugh, shutting the door behind Dan Heng. “Oh, Snowy’s out. She was so energetic all afternoon, I asked Phainon to take her out on a run to tire her out. I was worried she’d be a little too enthusiastic when you all arrived… I’ll let him know you’ve reached. Mem?”

“I called Phainon the second the doorbell camera detected their faces,” Mem’s voice chirps happily from a small speaker on the bookshelf, and Dan Heng stares at it for a long moment, before he glances at you with a shake of his head.

“I can’t believe you guys are using one of the most advanced RAGs in technological history as an AI home assistant…”

You shrug, a wide, unapologetic grin spreading across your face. “Well, it’s what Cyrene would have wanted, I think. She would have used her talents for the medical field if not for the Kaiju war… Besides, I’m a war hero, so I could twist the UN’s arm a little.” You glance fondly at the little speaker on the shelf. “Didn’t want Cyrene’s work to be used to fight the IPC’s wars, or things like that. One of the Stonehearts — Aventurine, was it? — offered me a huge sum in credits for the architecture and the weights. I told him it wasn’t for sale. Mem’s family. The professor helped, too.”

“Prof Nax?” Hyacine looks up from the fake potted plant by your bookshelf, eyes widening. “Isn’t he still in Penacony’s Paperfold University College doing his fifth PhD?”

“Fine arts and philosophy…” March snorts, looking immensely entertained by the idea. “What did he say… he wanted to challenge himself because wormhole physics was getting too boring?”

“I still think he’s trying to flirt with the General,” Stelle says, bluntly.

“Ex-General.”

“Yeah, who would have thought she’d been a fashion designer before she became a Ranger…” Caelus muses, making a face as you guide them all toward the dining table. Mydei sets down the bottles of deep-red pomegranate juice — a local specialty — he’d brought from Kremnos. It’d been a monumental pain in the ass to get them through airport security, but he’d refused to come empty handed.

The table is laid out with a comforting spread, but there’s a noticeable, almost glaring absence of one particular item.

“Oh no,” Castorice observes as she takes a seat. “What happened to the tomatoes?”

You let out a long, weary sigh, the sound of a seasoned gardener defeated by nature. “They died. A tragic case of… well, us. So we replaced them with the zucchinis.” You gesture to a dish of grilled squash in resignation. “We’ll try again next spring. Next time’s the charm, right?”

Hyacine, ever the scientist, pokes at a piece of zucchini with her fork. “Might be a problem with the soil composition. I can take a sample and analyze it back at the K-Science lab for you. Run a full analysis.”

“Would you?” Your expression brightens. “Thank—”

The door swings open, and a gust of cool, evening air sweeps in, carrying the scent of the sea. Phainon steps inside, flushed from his run and white hair slightly damp with what might be sweat or sea spray. His eyes are bright. But the most dramatic entrance is made by the blur of white fur that shoots past his legs.

Snowy barrels into the room, claws clicking as she skids on the wooden floor, before she launches herself at the nearest person — Caelus. He lets out a startled "Oof!" as he’s nearly bowled over by the enthusiastic Samoyed.

"Hey! I saw the car outside," Phainon says, his voice a little breathless, a wide, genuine smile spreading across his face as he takes in the full, noisy table. His gaze finds you first, his expression softening slightly, before he greets the rest of the visitors. “You guys made it! With the way Mydei was texting, I thought all of you were going to be held up for terrorism investigation!”

Stelle snickers as Snowy makes her rounds around the table, demanding pets from everyone with insistent nudges of her wet nose. “March thought she forgot her passport and tried to bribe the security agent.”

“I panicked!”

“Sorry we’re late,” Phainon adds, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. He sounds perfectly, utterly happy. “Someone decided she needed to try and herd a flock of seabirds.” Snowy wags her tail so hard her entire body shakes.

“Bork!”

The next hour is a warm, chaotic symphony of clattering cutlery and overlapping conversations. You ask Mem to play a little music and Robin’s latest album hums out over the speakers at a perfect volume. Phainon slides into the seat beside you, his knee pressing comfortably against yours under the table. He immediately turns to Mydei. “So, how’s the new arm faring? Any feedback issues with the neural interface?”

Mydei holds up the sophisticated prosthetic, its metallic finish glinting in the soft light. The fingers flex one by one. “Better than the original,” he grunts, a flicker of gratitude shines in his eyes. “Hyacine calibrated the pressure sensors. Doesn’t feel like I’m going to crush a beer can every time I pick one up anymore.”

Across the table, Dan Heng calmly intercepts the peas that Caelus and Stelle are flicking at each other as March eggs them on. You sip your pomegranate juice and lean into a conversation with Castorice and Hyacine, who are now deeply engrossed in a debate about soil pH levels and trace mineral deficiencies. Your ill-fated tomato plants might have passed, but it looks like they’ve found a new destiny as an agricultural case study.

As plates are cleared and the last of the pomegranate juice is poured, the group drifts naturally from the table to the large sofa in the living room, chattering about nothing and everytthing. You settle into the cushions, Phainon’s arm a familiar weight across your shoulders, and simply enjoy the ebb and flow of conversation, of being alive, being together.

Eventually, the party moves to the door, pulling on jackets and promising to meet tomorrow for a proper tour of the town. You stand on the doorstep with Phainon with his arm around your waist, Snowy sitting obediently at your feet, and wave as they pile into their car, heading for an Airbnb near the town square.

The moment the taillights disappear around the corner, Phainon sags. He tugs you back inside the house, and before you can say a word, he pulls you fully into his arms, chin coming to rest on top of your head as he lets out a long sigh. “Finally.”

You laugh, the sound muffled against his chest. You raise a hand to flick him gently on the nose. “What do you mean, finally? You’ve been so excited you’ve talked about nothing else for this entire week. You practically wore a path to our front door waiting for them.”

He nuzzles into your hair, his voice a low, contented rumble. “I’m glad they got to see the house, yeah.” He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad we got to see them.” Another kiss, this time to your cheek, his lips warm against your skin. “But I missed you, too.” They brush the sensitive spot just below your ear, then trail down to the side of your neck, making you shiver.

"You were gone for like an hour," you protest, but you’re already melting into his embrace, arms winding around his waist.

"And I missed you for the whole of it.” He leans forward to kiss you properly this time. It’s a deep, slow kiss that tastes of pomegranate and home, a kiss that speaks of a love that has weathered the end of the world and found its rest. Your hands come up to thread through his hair, pulling him closer.

But then, a persistent thump thump thump against Phainon’s leg breaks the moment. The two of you break apart to see Snowy at your feet, her fluffy tail wagging furiously, pawing at Phainon with a demanding whine.

Phainon laughs, a rich, happy sound that fills the room. “I’m a little busy now, sweetheart. You’ll have to wait.”

Before you can protest, he bends and scoops you effortlessly into his arms. You let out a surprised squeal that turns into laughter as he carries you down the hallway toward the bedroom. He pushes the door open with his foot and deposits you gently onto the soft comforter, following you down and capturing your lips with his again.

“So much for tiring her out,” Phainon murmurs between kisses, a grin in his voice. “She has terrible timing.”

“She takes after her dad,” you tease, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. He laughs, a warm sound that you want to listen to forever, and catches your finger between his teeth, nipping the tip lightly.

He’s just started trailing kisses along your jawline, hands starting to roam under your shirt with a familiar, hungry intent when he suddenly freezes. He glances up toward the ceiling with a profoundly sheepish look on his face.

“Right. Sorry, Mem, could you—”

“Already pausing logging of visual or auditory data!” Mem squeaks, still sounding as flustered as the first time she’d caught the two of you going at it. “Let me know when it’s over. I’m shutting myself down, you absolute horndog.”

A soft click signifies her system going entirely offline. Phainon looks back down at you, his expression a mixture of amusement and chagrin. It’s a delightful look on him and you burst into helpless laughter, pulling him back down to you.

“I’m being called a horndog,” Phainon mumbles against your lips, very seriously. “In my own house. After being cockblocked twice. Three times, if you count our friends. Sometimes I regret saving the world.”

You just laugh. “Would you have it any other way?” you ask, letting your fingers slide up to trace the sun tattoo on his neck. Phainon’s eyes soften, and you think you already know the answer.

“No,” he says, and kisses you again.

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