Head of engineering: “Look I understand your concerns but I promise you even if Unit-19H was at an uncomfortable temperature we don’t have enough blankets!”
Pilot that hasn’t slept in 52 hours, between sobs while spreading three blankets on top of their mech: “But she’s cold!”
I stagger into the hangar bay. I'm off shift. I'm hungover (possibly still a little drunk). I've slept maybe 30 hours this week.
I'm also cursed with the burden of being really good at my job.
The pager on my wrist sqwawks again like I'm not already in the room and approaching the gaggle of hapless techs.
"Oh thank God you're here," the shift head of engineering says. "She's been at-"
I shut them up with a raised hand and a grunt.
"I need an emergency blanket, a space heater compatible with the mech's cockpit interface, and one of the cushions from the couch in the breakroom."
The engineer blinks at me. I think technically they outrank me, but one of the perks of my job is I don't give a shit.
"Now?" I prompt, sending them into motion. "And get me some fucking ibuprofen."
I drag myself up the gantry to where the pilot is frantically trying and failing to rearrange the blankets on the top of her mech.
Poor thing is sobbing.
I crouch down and help her with her current effort.
"She's cold," the pilot sobs in frustration.
"Yeah, I know," I reply gently. "She told me."
The pilot pauses and stares at me. Her hands are quivering from lack of sleep and whatever chemical high she's on.
I make a mental note to sit down with the shift coordinator and tear him a new one.
"Do you know why she's cold?" I ask.
"She... I..." the pilot says, struggling to form a sentence not consisting of 'she's cold'.
"If you're cold, she's cold," I explain.
A tech shows up behind me with another blanket, but this one's not for the mech. I tear off the wrapper and hand it back to the tech.
I rise and unfold the blanket.
The pilot struggles feebly as I wrap the blanket around her shoulders and wrap her into a tight burrito.
"N-no! She's cold! She can't be alone!"
"Shhhhh..." I whisper to her, "we're not going anywhere."
She weighs almost nothing in my arms. Her frantic squirming dies as I carry back inside her mech. Actually, her whole entire body relaxes.
Cameras whir as 19H tracks our movement. It... (no, the pilot had referred to 19H as 'she') ...she is on dock override, but I know with a high degree of certainty that she's in just as much distress as the pilot.
"I've got your..." a tech says from behind us. He hefts the cushion and the heater.
"Stow the cradle," I say softly. "Stick the cushion up close to the aux ports and get the heater set up after we get settled."
He complies without question. I like that in a tech.
(I think the dumbass head of engineering forgot my painkillers)
With the cradle stowed, there's just enough room for two on the floor of the cockpit. I settle onto the floor with the pilot in my lap.
"Are we going back out?" the pilot mumbles in confusion.
"No, new orders came in," I tell her. "Commandant wants you and 19H to get some sleep."
She makes a confused noise, but falls silent as I slide an aux connector into the jack on her rig. No biochem feedback lines, that'd probably fuck both of them up even more then they already are right now. But there's so much neural bleed that linking them up is the only way to bring them down from this.
(The psychs probably disagree with me on that point, but they can fuck off if they can't be bothered to deal with an emergency like this)
(That's not fair, the psych department here is understaffed and underfunded. And this is hardly a real emergency... yet)
The space heater whirs to life, bathing us in its warmth. The pilot relaxes, really relaxes this time, in my arms. And it's probably mostly my imagination, but 19H relaxes too.
I hug her close to my chest and settle both of us gently so that our heads rest on the cushion.
My body is going to fucking ache tomorrow. I make a mental note to schedule a massage.
"Do you need anything else?" the tech murmers softly.
He's watching us, all curious-like, like he's seeing some kind of magic. He wants to know how I do what I do, but he's too nervous to ask.
That's good, I could use an assistant. I make a mental note to follow up on that.
"No we're good, just-"
But he's already dimming the cockpit lights. Yeah, I definitely gotta follow up with him.
But that's a task for tomorrow.
Right now, with the pilot snuggled up tight in my arms, my task is to start humming some lullabies... Okay, I don't actually know any lullabies, my repetoir is mostly media theme music, and I'm almost certainly way out of tune, but you know what? It gets the job done.
Soon the pilot is snoring softly, and dreaming of whatever it is that linked pilots and mechs dream of.
#my family does this thing#when we've majorly unfucked a room or done chore that we were putting off#or whatever. Any sort of household Improvement.#'Come brag on me.'#I means come look I cleaned/rearranged/did dishes/put away the laundry#and the scripted response is 'oh nice it looks SO much better in here now'#like my mom did this when we were kids.#'girls comr brag on the garage I finally organized it so I can get my car in there'#and we go and 'ooh' and 'aah' and tell her how nice it looked and how she did a good job#and we could have her 'come brag on' us for like doing the dishes or cleaning our rooms#I do it to my wife now too#it's a dialogue that means#'I did a chore and it feels like an Accomplishment even if it objectively wasn't a big thing. Please acknowledge this.'#and#'Wow you sure did do a thing. It has improved our material circumstance even if only in a small way. Thank you for doing it.'#like yeah scrubbing the pans is my Job and it's a Little Task but sometimes it feels like a Big Task#and it's nice to have an Accepted Script where I can just demand 'I have functioned as an independent adult praise me with great praise' - by @thepioden
this may be my age showing but I am a passionate supporter of wires. earbuds? put a leash on those things. wireless keyboard? no, it needs to hold hands with the computer. the ps5 controller I forgot to charge has the staying power of a wealthy nonagenarian with a much younger wife and 14 life insurance policies, but the controller plugged into my pc? that baby will outlive my bloodline. my ethernet cable is like a son to me.
