Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Finishing mid-pack feels worse than finishing dead last. At least dead last he would have the excuse of being new to the pilot program. Mid-pack means he stands exactly where he's stood since being fast-tracked into the program after Typhon.  It felt easy at first, just like in Lastimosa’s simulations, and he slid right in with no problem.  But as days turned into weeks and the weeks into two months the training became steadily more difficult and he struggled to keep up.  At least the back of the pack have the opportunity to improve.  At least the back of the pack don’t have eyes boring into them at all times, watching and wondering how Tai Lastimosa could entrust everything to a rifleman who can’t hit that last damn target .

Resting his hands on his knees, Cooper takes deep breaths trying to calm his heart after a particularly brutal course.  Since the militia’s Angel City base holds more space than a dropship, the instructors favor physical courses over simulations and rearrange the courses daily to keep prospective pilots on their toes.

“Alright, greenies,” Captain Millert shouts, “Line up!”  Pushing himself up, Cooper shuffles to join the ten other candidates in parade rest, “As you know, I consider days off to be a waste of time!  However, since I am feeling generous, you will be given tomorrow off.  You are permitted to explore the city. However!” Millert somehow raises his voice more when the trainees begin whispering amongst themselves, “If I find out any of you behaved in a way unbecoming of a prospective pilot, you will be removed from my program.  If you are not at roll call Wednesday morning, you will be removed from my program.  IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” the group responds.
“Good!  Now hit the showers: you reek of desperation.”

They immediately break ranks and head to the locker room already discussing plans for their first day off since joining the program.
“Cooper!” Millert calls before Jack can join the others, “Hang back.”
“Yes, sir?” Jack asks, falling back into parade rest as the man approaches him.
“Your times have slipped by fifteen seconds.  What happened?”
“I, nothing, sir,” Jack fidgets, doing his best to look his instructor in the eye.
“You’re a good man, Cooper,” Millert puts a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder, “Tai was a good friend of mine and I trust his judgment.  But if I don’t see improvement in the next few weeks, we will need to evaluate your place in their program.”

Oof.

Millert might as well have punched Jack in the gut.  His throat seems to swell up but he still manages to choke out a “yes, sir.” Millert pats his shoulder, “Good man. Get some rest tomorrow.”

Get some rest tomorrow.

Jack runs the words over-and-over in his mind as he walks to the locker room.  Millert wants Jack to get some rest.  Millert is considering kicking Jack out of the program.  Oh, god, what if Millert is giving them the time off because of him?  Shame floods Jack’s system as he ducks into a shower.  What if everyone falls behind because of him - because Millert thinks he needs a break?  Will they resent him for it?

Turning off the water, he hastily wraps himself in a towel and pads to his locker, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.  His skin prickles.  It feels like everyone is staring at him.

“They’re not,”   he forcefully reminds himself.  In fact, they seem to be discussing going out for drinks that night.  His ears perk. A night out sounds… nice.  A chance to blow off steam and get to know his teammates.  Not wanting to invite himself, he keeps an eye on the two coordinating the night out, Warren and Parker, waiting for someone to approach him.  No one does.  Warren glances at Jack, who offers a small smile in response, but says nothing as people trickle out until it's just Jack standing alone in the damp locker room.

“That’s fine,” he assures himself.  He'll find something else to do.  Sure, as a rifleman he enjoyed going out with his teammates, but he usually spent his days off in a simulator with Lastimosa anyway.  But after his talk with Captain Millert, the thought of training makes his stomach turn.

“Maybe they meant to invite me but didn’t know how,” he reasons, “They don’t know me very well.  It’s always hard to talk to people you don’t know.

His teammates don’t bring up the night out while he sits with them at dinner, acutely aware of the empty spaces to his left and right.  Like he's eating with them but they aren’t eating with him.

“It’s fine,” he tells himself as he sits alone in his bunk after everyone left.  Millert said they could explore the city: he’ll walk around for a while, eat non-cafeteria food from a real food-place, get a drink, and come back.  Tomorrow he could play pool or something with the others in the rec room and properly introduce himself.

Mind made up, he dusts himself off, changes into casual clothes, and marches out of the bunkroom with all the false confidence he can muster.  Until halfway down the hall when he hesitates and turns back to the bunkroom to retrieve his dataknife, casually clipping the sheath to his belt beneath his jacket.  Better safe than sorry, right?

His confidence deflates like a balloon the moment he leaves base and realizes he had no idea where to go for food.  Angel City is big - bigger than any city on Persephone.  Not wanting the guards to notice his hesitation, he chose a random street to purposefully walk down until he feels far enough away to pull out his phone and Google “restaurants in my area.”  According to Google all nearby restaurants are shit and he needs to venture east towards the Garden District. 

Easy enough.  He considers hailing a taxi or risking public transportation but walking sounds nice after being trapped on base.  The night air feels fresh on his face and this way he can see more of the city.  Explore , if you will.  As long as he stays within militia-controlled districts, he'll be fine... 

Militia-controlled districts. As opposed to IMC-controlled districts.

“How do I know if I’m in the right districts?”

There should be checkpoints, right?  There have to be checkpoints.  Because if he wanders into IMC territory with a bounty on his head…  Maybe that’s why his teammates didn't invite him out: they don’t want to put him in danger?   Or maybe they didn't want to deal with the drama of taking him.  Questioning his judgement, he slows and wonders if he should turn back.  Maybe a night alone wouldn’t be so bad?  He can read or something.  Maybe write to his mom?

No.  No, he can do this.  It’s not like people will recognize him without his helmet anyway.

The walk turns out to be a good idea.  No one stares or steps around him or asks questions like “are you okay” or “have you been sleeping?”  (No, but at least he had a bunk with sheets and a pillow!  As a rifleman he was often given a sleeping bag and told to make it work.  Two to three hours of miserable sleep are reasonable by comparison.)  Walking a reasonable distance, he stops to check his phone again, this time zeroing in on a Mexican tienda called "La Concinera".  The food probably won't be as good as his abuela’s cooking but still worth a shot.  He could use a slice of home tonight.

Pushing through the tienda's door, the smell of Fabuloso and tortillas engulf him, leading him to the back counter like a siren song.  Taking a glance at the menu, he steps forward to greet the middle-aged woman behind the counter.
“Que te quieres, what you want ? ” she asks in an accent so thick it makes his heart ache.
“Tres tacos de carnes asadas con todo por favor, señora.”
“¿Salsa verde o roja?”
“Roja,” he confirms.  His sisters always teased him for choosing salsa roja over salsa verde : unfortunately, he'd inherited his spice tolerance from their dad's side of the family.
“Cinco dolores,” the cook takes his money and holds up five fingers, “Dame cinco minutos, five minute .”
“Gracias."  Taking the opportunity to wander around the tienda , he considers buying a block of queso fresco and begging the kitchen staff on base to store it for him.  

“Tres tacos de carnes asadas!"  the cook calls.  Hurrying over to the counter, he gratefully accepts a to-go bag.
"Bebitas?" she asks before he leaves. Thinking for a moment she’d called him a pet name, Jack smiles, then realizes she’d ask if he wants a drink.
“Oh, uh, no thank you. No gracias.”

Embarrassed, he slinks outside to eat on the curb.  The tacos are good.  Not as good as Abuela’s but definitely in the top five, even if they sit like rocks in his belly.  There's even a slice of queso fresco , beans, rice, and lime wedges - good indicators of quality food.  Military rations must have messed up his palette.

Finishing the plate in record time, he happily licks his fingers clean and wipes them on his pants, still debating buying a block of queso fresco .  The dishwasher on base is definitely sweet on him but he doesn't want to get the man in trouble over contraband cheese.

Leaning back on the curb, he once more finds himself alone with nothing to do.  Only now he's craving Grandma Cooper’s cookies to cleanse the queasy feeling growing in his stomach.  So, like any reasonable person, he googles “cookie places near me” (Grandma Cooper would be scandalized), selects one, and wanders that way after checking the time (20:17, giving him 43 minutes with a fifteen minute walk before they close).

The cookie place smells amazing and the clerk slips him an extra with a wink, but they don't help.  If anything he feels worse and ends up giving the last two to a homeless man.  Hopefully they don't give him food poisoning like they clearly did Jack - he'd feel awful if they do.

Mindlessly roaming for a bit, he eventually stumbles across a children’s park.  Being almost 9pm the park was blessedly empty, meaning he doesn't have to feel foolish or creepy for playing on a swing set as a fully grown adult.  Tipping his head back, he tries to count the stars but only spots a few through Angel City’s light pollution.  On Persephone, Grandpa Cooper would take Jack stargazing on occasion.  BT probably would have liked Grandpa Cooper, Jack thinks.

What he wouldn’t give to have BT here.

They were linked for less than 24 hours, barely enough time to get to know someone, but his loss had left a gaping hole in Jack's mind where the neurolink should be.  The technicians had scrubbed the link and proclaimed it clean, but sometimes, when he’s lying awake in his bunk at night, trying not to feel embittered towards his bunkmates who get to sleep through the night, he can almost feel something stirring within that space.  Abuela always says the dead are never truly gone; that they exist as spirits meant to guide loved ones with invisible hands. Maybe it works the same for titans?  Do AIs have souls?

When Jack first noticed the feeling he went to Field Commander Briggs thinking BT might be alive somewhere.  She listened sympathetically, then explained what he’s experiencing is normal for pilots who lose their titans; kind of like a phantom limb.  Which made sense because BT is dead.  BT is dead and so is Lastimosa.  They died saving Jack and he’s failing them.  He’s going to be dropped from the pilot program and what then?  Go back to 41st?  Is that allowed?  Jack Cooper is supposed to be a hero.  Heroes don’t wash out.

He wants to go home.  He wants to wake up an eight year old and crawl into his parent’s bed because he’s scared and this is all just a bad dream.  He wants to curl up in BT’s cockpit, shut off the optics, and forget the world.  He wants to go back to base and… and what?  Pretend to be asleep when his squad gets back? Pretend he’s not hurt and alone and lonely as hell?

Before he left for the pilot program, Briggs recommended talking to someone on medical because losing a titan is hard, especially if you’re not prepared for it like Jack wasn’t, but he didn’t because he’s fine.  He’s fine, even if he’s breathing too fast and his skin itches and he’s yanking on his hair-

Oh.  He’s yanking on his hair.  That’s probably a bad thing to do.

Taking a deep breath, he holds it for ten seconds before slowly exhaling, forcing his fingers to relax their grip as he does so.  Loose strands of hair stick to his sweaty fingers and palms but not too many, so it’s probably alright. 

He’s fine.

Fine people yank on their hair sometimes. It happens.

His watch says 21:45 when he checks it.  He could go back to base now but the others probably won’t be back until late and he doesn’t want to be there when they do.  He doesn’t want them to laugh at him for being left behind.  Or worse, pity him.  What was the last thing on his list?  Walk around, get dinner, and… oh, yeah.  Get a drink.  Alcohol sounds nice right now.  Is it a good idea?  Probably not, but he’s fine and sometimes fine people drink alone on Monday nights.  It’s normal.

There’s a bar about ten minutes away - he remembers passing it after leaving the cookie place, around where he met the homeless man.  The bar especially stuck out to him because they used vintage neon lights instead of holo displays.  The homeless man is still sitting on his corner when Jack passes him again, happily munching on his cookies without a trace of food poisoning.  

Jack nearly turns back around when he walks through the door and immediately spots three IMC grunts sitting together at a table.  Had he crossed into an IMC district without noticing?  Did he miss a checkpoint?  Is this an IMC bar?  Everyone else looks like civilians.  Maybe this bar was some sort of no-man’s land?

 Whatever it is, it's too late to run without raising suspicion.  He’d come for a drink and that’s what he was going to do, IMC be damned. Resolved, he marches himself up to the bar and settles on a stool.  “What can I do for you, kid?” the bartender asks, deflating Jack a bit.  He’s twenty-eight years old.  Does he really look like a kid?
“Uh, tequila with lime please.” He wants to bash his head against the counter.  Tequila with lime?  Really?  He doesn’t even like tequila.  But when the bartender hands him his glass he dutifully takes it and painfully gulps down half.  Better than nothing, he supposes.  Maybe if he gets drunk fast it’ll taste better.

Two drinks in and nothing is better.  In fact, the sick feeling in his gut has turned to an all-consuming emptiness.  The bartender keeps giving him looks.  At first, Jack’s paranoid brain thinks the man recognized him from IMC wanted posters but he now suspects the man is worried he's going to have to throw out a miserable drunk at closing time.  Jack's considering asking for a Corona to wash the tequila aftertaste out of his mouth when a group of pilots push through the door, loudly jostling each other despite obvious signs of recent injuries; one man’s entire arm is immobilized against his chest by a sling.  The pilots ignore the other patrons as they push through, happily flopping onto the tables nearest Jack, who grimaces and pulls his tequila closer.  He’s oddly protective of something he doesn’t even want.  One of the women, a short brunette with an asymmetric pixie cut, greets the bartender.

“Alice Slone?" he shakes his head, "Never thought I’d see you around these parts again. Thought you’d run off and made something of yourself.”
“Hey, Mike,” she leans over the bar, her posture far to loose to be sober, “We’re planetside on medical leave and I wanted to show these core babies what a proper drink tastes like. You mind if I serve us?”
“Come on back,” the bartender waves her over and turns to help another customer.  Grinning, the woman jumps over the counter and begins rifling through the bottles lined up on the back wall.
“Your name is ‘Alice’?” one of the group, a man with a ruined eye and butterfly stitches across most of his forehead, snorts.
“You’re a grown man called 'Johnny'.” the woman, Alice, deadpans back.  Johnny growls as the other pilots snicker and clap him on the back.  They look familiar but Jack can't quite place what squad they were part of.  Not SRS, but he’s definitely met them before.  Somewhere.  Shrugging internally, he returns his focus to his drink, slowly spinning the weeping glass against the hardwood counter.

“What do you want?” Alice asks her team once the bottles are arranged to her liking.
“Whatever’s on tap.”
“Budweiser.”
“Budweiser Lite, please.”
The last member, a Chinese woman with a prosthetic arm, just shrugs.

Alice scowls at them all, “I have not divulged a piece of my past for you unoriginal fuckers to drink horse piss.  I'm making proper cocktails and you lot are going to shut-up and enjoy them.  Understood?”  The men grumble but Alice doesn't seem to care about consent as she selects a specific bottle from her line-up.
“Imhara,” she points at the oldest looking of the group, a mustached man with his arm in a sling, “What base?”
“Uh, saki.”
“Acceptable.”  Alice’s mood improves with each cocktail she creates.  It's mesmerizing watching her work, giving her shakers little flips and flourishing bottles like a street magician, somehow creating works of art out of pure liquid.  Each time she finishes a drink she points to the next person and demands a base, shooting them down if she deems their choice boring or unoriginal.  Jack couldn’t help a twinge of disappointment when she finishes the last drink, an old-fashioned for a German man who could probably palm Jack’s skull like a basketball.

“What about you? What do you want?”
Looking up, it takes Jack a moment to register she's not only pointing her mixing spoon at him but also offering to make him a drink.
“What?”
“Leave him alone, Slone,” the mustached man in the sling scolds.
“He looks gutted," Alice defends, "No point in drinking if misery’s sitting two feet away.” Jack wants to sink through his stool and into the ground.  Does he really look that bad?
“Don’t worry about her,” Johnny leans forward in his seat, “She’s pissy because they took her off the good stuff.”  The Chinese woman and German snorts.
“Watch it, you little berk,” Alice swings her mixing spoon warningly, “I had six broken ribs and a collapsed lung.  What’s your excuse?”

“Addiction,” he states so matter of factly Jack blinks in surprise.  Normally pilots weren’t allowed to have any history of substance abuse.  Then again, everyone knows Barker is an alcoholic, so exceptions obviously exist.
“I’m sorry about them,” arm-in-sling says to Jack, his mustache lifting in a friendly way, “Do you want a drink?  It’s on us.”
“I, uh,” he almost says 'no' but the desire to see Alice do the thing again wins out, “Yeah, that’d be nice.”
Alice lights up, “What’s your base, love?  Tequila doesn’t seem to be working.”  She gestured towards his untouched third glass.
“I take it Corona is out of the question?” Alice absolutely deadpans but the sound of her companions covering their laughter with coughs makes it worth it. “Whiskey, please," he amends, "Or rum.” She studies him for a long moment, then nods like he's passed a test he didn't know he was taking,
“Acceptable.”

He allows himself to openly watch as Alice creates his drink, absolutely entranced by the confidence of her movements.  To his surprise, instead of handing him his completed drink, she takes it with her around the counter and places it in front of an empty chair next to mustache man.
“Come on then,” she gestures to Jack, ignoring mustache’s warning groan.  Her accent is familiar but Jack can’t quite place where from.
“I, yeah. Okay.”  Abandoning his ill-fated tequila, Jack scrambles off his barstool to sit in the offered chair, Alice on one side and mustache on the other.  Once he's settled Alice makes introductions, starting with herself.
“Alice Slone.”  She points to the man with a ruined eye, “Johnny McIntyre and Opal Barry.”  The Chinese woman looks half asleep sitting next to McIntyre, her head resting on folded arms, “She’s off caffeine,” Alice explains, then points to the enormous German on Barry’s other side, “Johann Richter, and Imhara.” Mustache man, Imhara, nods in greeting.  Richter does too but appears far more invested in how many napkins he can stack on Barry's head.

“Just Imhara?” Jack asks mustache man.
“Nance won’t tell us his first name,” Alice sighs, taking a swig of her drink.
Imgara frowns at her, “I looked up that word.  It don’t like it.”
“My money’s on Carl,” McIntyre says, leaning forward to scrutinize Imhara, who raises an eyebrow.
“Adolphus,” Richter disagrees.
“Why would it be in German?” McIntyre points out, “His last name is Japanese.”  Richter counters that “Carl” isn’t Japanese either.
“We’re decently certain he told Barry but she won’t admit it,” Slone tells Jack, leaning closer to be heard over the two men arguing.
Lifting her head off the table, Barry smirks at them in a distinctly self-satisfied way as Richter's napkins flutter to the ground, “I ain’t no snitch.”
“She would have told me,” McIntyre ceases his argument with Richter to eye Barry suspiciously, “You would have told me, right?”  She shrugs and lowers her head back into her arms.
“When you kids are old enough to fight in two wars, you can call me by my first name,” Imhara informs them smugly.
“He better not have told you,” McIntyre grumbles at Barry, then swings around to point a finger at Jack, “What’s your name, scrub?”

“Uh, Cooper,” Jack stammers, not wanting to scare them off like he had his teammates.
“Just Cooper?” Imhara’s mustache moves upward as he parrots Jack’s earlier words.
“Yeah, just Cooper.”
“Well, son,” Imhara raises his glass, “Welcome to our disaster.”
“From the gentleman in the corner,” Mike the bartender interrupts, blessedly taking attention off Jack by placing something green and white in a tall glass before a once-again sleeping Barry.
“Whas'it?” she mumbles when McIntyre nudges her. Noticing the drink, she blinks at it slowly, “What is this?”
“A mojito,” Slone leans back in her chair and crosses her ankles, “You’ll like it.”

“Huh.” Barry sniffs the mojito suspiciously before passing it to McIntyre to take an experimental sip.
“It’s good,” he confirms, handing it back to Barry to try. She does and nods as well.
“I like it.”
Watching the exchange with fascination, Slone shakes her head, “Sometimes I forget the pair of you aren’t human 'til you do shit like this.”
“What are they?” Jack whispers to Imhara.
“Current theory is four lizards in a trench coat,” he stage-whispers back.

“Oh.”
“Well, there's no avoiding it,” Slone sighs and raises her glass in a toast, “As promised: here’s to getting our asses kicked and saved by Barry, who will never let us forget it.”
“Fucking right I won’t,” Barry waves a triumphant finger without lifting her head, “Shit’s going in my eulogy.”
“Cheers, mates,” Alice ignores her.
“Cheers,” the others echoes, including Jack.  Taking his first sip of the drink Slone prepared for him, Jack smiles for the first time that night.  It tastes like rum and hope.
“Rough month?” Jack asks once everyone had taken a drink.
McIntyre snorts, “Typhon was a shitshow.” Jack couldn’t agree more.

Quick, think of something to talk about.

“So, why is she like that?” he gestures toward Barry.
Richter guffaws, “You know the artificial energy drinks that come in the cans?”
“Yeah.”
“She drinks four or five every day.  (“It’s ‘cause I got shit to do,” Barry grumbles into her arms.)  The boss threatened to ground her completely unless she cut back.  (“Like a dick.”)”  The table rattles as Richter thumps Barry on the back, “You will be fine, kleine liebchen.   Your heart will thank you.”

Assuming they call their commander ‘boss’, Jack smiles tentatively, “Sounds like a tough boss.”

“He’s good at what he does.” Guilt flashes across Imhara’s face, “Should we have invited him?”  Jack shifts in his seat, uncomfortably reminded of his own exclusion tonight.  Then again, most people don’t enjoy drinking with their superior officers.
McIntyre scowls, “Let the bastard drink alone.  I’m still pissed.”
“Splitting up was a bad call,” Imhara tactfully concedes, “But the rest is on us.”
“Job got done.  That’s all that matters,” Alice says firmly as she stands, “Who needs a fresh one?”
Everyone does.

“How long have you been pilots?” Jack asks once Alice returns, curious to learn more about his unlikely companions.  There were several “ oof”s and “ too long”s .
“Opal and I… ten years?” McIntyre asks Barry.
“Almost eleven,” she confirms.
“Huh.  Feels longer…  Much longer,” he contemplates for a moment, eyes blankly locking on the grain of the wood table before ultimately deciding his drink is more important than the passage of time.
“I and Imhara are relics from the Titan War,” Richter gestures between himself and Imhara, who somehow seems even more tired, “Slone burst from the womb with a titan in hand.”
“How would that even be possible?” Barry scoffs into the table.
“My parents own industrial titans for their shipping yard.” Alice sounds like she’d explained this several times, “What about you, Cooper?”
“I’m just in the training program right now,” he admits, tugging on his jacket zipper.
“Who’s your instructor?” Barry peaks an eye out from between her arms, “Might still know ‘em.”

“Captain Millert.”  Barry doesn’t recognize the name, but Alice does.
“John Millert?  Medium build, blonde, hates days off?” she asks expectantly, like she already knows the answer but wants confirmation regardless.
“Yeah, ‘cept he’s more gray now.  Did he train you too?”
Slone snorts, “Not a chance in hell, the pompous bastard.  I practically helped him set up the damn program before he complained so much they transferred me.  Little buggah couldn’t handle being told he’s wrong.”
“Really?” Jack leans forward, “When was this?”
She grimaces like she hadn’t meant to say that much but answers his question anyway, “Back in the early days of the Angel City Marauders, after the Garden District riots.  I was the closest thing we had to a pilot until we gained traction.”
“I thought you only handled industrial titans?” Jack points out.
“My father was ano IMC pilot during the Titan Wars.  He had enough friends to get away with keeping combat titans.”
“Loose tonight, aren’t we?” Imhara nudges her.
Slone blanches, “Must’ve been that moonshine earlier.”

“Why do you all keep doing it?” Jack asks once they’ve settled back in. 
“Too old for a career switch,” Imhara sighs.
“I enjoy a good fight,” Richter states casually.
“Lack of marketable skills,” Barry says at the same time McIntyre says, “Giant robots.”  They side-eye each other, then nod and repeat what the other said.
Alice takes a long sip of her drink, “If you do something well, you might as well be paid for it.”

“Have you all had the same titans this whole time?”  He shouldn’t ask it, he knows he shouldn’t.  Losing a titan is a personal thing and none of his business, but… but maybe if they, these experienced pilots, had lost titans too…
“Richter loses them like socks in a dryer,” McIntyre snickers.  Imhara, understanding the gravity of Jack’s question, kicks McIntyre under the table and shoots him a stern look.
“Johnny and I’ve been pretty lucky,” Barry sits up fully for the first time, “Our firsts were mostly auto.  Now I’m able to grab ZAP and BUD’s data cores if things go south.  ZAP and I have been linked for six years now; I think I’d go insane if something happened to him.”

Damn. Most titans barely make it to three.

“I’ve lost four,” Imhara smiles distantly, “Everyone does eventually, son.  That’s the sad reality of being a pilot”
Jack nods, “Do you ever feel them in your head sometimes? Even though they’re gone?”
“For the first couple of weeks.  It goes away faster if you link to another titan.”
“What if it doesn’t though?”
“It does,” Imhara assures Jack, like a parent comforting a child before bed.  Only Barry seems to take him seriously, studying him like an unexpected puzzle.
“Huh,” Cooper contemplates for a moment, “What if it’s been almost three months and you can still feel them?”
“What are you doing linking with a titan in training?” Alice tilts her head.
“It was an emergency situation.  I was made a provisional pilot for less than 72 hours.”
“And your titan didn’t make it?”
“No.  But I can still-” he puts down his drink to rest his elbows on the table, tapping the right side of his head “-I still feel him right here sometimes.”
Imhara nods along, “Severing the link suddenly can be traumatic, especially for new or improperly trained pilots.  It’s possible your psyche is trying to cope with the sudden loss of the neurolink.”
“That’s what my commanding officer said.  I don’t know, I guess it just feels weird,” Jack clears his throat, looking around at the table, “Sorry, I kind of ruined the mood. Heh.”  He smiles awkwardly.

They’re going to kick me out.  They’re going to kick me out and I’m going to have to sit alone in the corner.

“You know…” Slone says slowly, “I think it’s time for more drinks.  Do you play cards?” she asks Jack specifically.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Good.  We’re going to play, we’re going to drink, and we’re going to celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
“Imhara finally getting out of his split,” Barry mumbles and sinks back into her arms. Imhara, right arm still in a sling, raises his glass in a mock salute.

“What kind of card games do you play?” Jack asks once Alice returns and distributes fresh drinks.  His in particular is a pretty shade of red that tastes like orange juice when he takes a sip.
“No gambling,” Richter explains, producing a deck of fifty-two face cards from one of his pockets and handing it to Slone to shuffle, “Slone always wins.”
“And she cheats,” McIntyre agrees.
“I don’t have to cheat with the likes of you,” Slone informs the two men, “Now what do we want to play?  Rat slap, BS, scum, go-fish?”   None of the games sound familiar except go-fish, an odd choice for adults but who was he to judge?  The collective decides on rat slap for now and Barry, who’d perked up after two coffee cocktails, explains the rules by tapping Jack’s arm to get his attention.  

Players take turns laying down cards until someone lays a face card.  Depending on the face card - ace, king, queen, or jack - the next player in line has a certain number of opportunities to beat the face card with another face card and keep the round going.  If the next player is unable to beat the face card, the player who laid the face card takes the whole pile.  If doubles or a sandwich are played anyone could slap and take the whole pile, regardless of their turn.  Players win by collecting the whole deck.

Three turns in and Barry quickly takes the lead.  For someone half asleep, moves like a shark, snapping up doubles and sandwiches before anyone registers the card played.  McIntyre unsuccessfully accuses her of cheating several times and is forced to put cards at the bottom of the pile as punishment.  Jack grins along as the others mock them mercilessly, though it was abundantly clear Imhara and Richter secretly hope McIntyre will catch his sister, who soundly wins three games in a row before being toppled by Richter.  Richter then demands they instead play BS, a bluffing game in which those caught lying had to take a shot, and the cards were redealt.

Slone proves why the others wouldn’t play gambling games with her.  She definitely counts cards, not that anyone can prove it.  At least, not until she lays down a card she claims is a queen.   Double checking his cards, Jack mentally confirms he does, in fact, have all four queens. “BS.”

All eyes turn to him.  Then to Slone.  And back to him.  She stares Jack down, daring him to rescind his accusation as Imhara reaches over and flips the card she’d laid down.  A three. The table goes absolutely wild as Richter, Barry, and McIntyre lose their minds, Richter actually grabbing Jack by his jacket and planting one directly on his lips.  Slone just sighs good naturedly and adds the pile to her hand, giving Jack a quick wink while their companions are distracted .

They play a few more hands, Jack even winning one, before McIntyre, frustrated that his bluffs keep getting called, demands a new game.
“Do any of you know how to play king’s corner?” Jack offers as Barry elbows her brother hard and tells him to chill in a low tone.  
“New game?” McIntyre immediately perks up after being scolded.
“Yeah,” Jack confirms, “Pass me the deck and I’ll teach you how to play.”

Imhara catches on first, successfully winning the third and fourth hand before Richter, Barry, and McIntyre catch up.  Only Slone remains unable to win, much to the other’s delight, and her swearing becomes increasingly creative with each turn.  Jack has no idea what a ‘crab biscuit’ is but he likes her accent.

Five or six (maybe seven) drinks later, Jack’s almost certain his life depends on touching Imhara’s mustache.  It’s a really good mustache that somehow emotes exactly what the man is thinking.  Which, at the moment, seems to be along the lines of “are they going to brawl over go-fish?

“Richter, you scrub, I know, ugh , I know you have- have the, uh , the nine.  Give me your goddamn nine!” McIntyre punctuates each word by slamming his fist on the table as he shouts at Richter, who clearly has the nine but still denies it.  Imhara begins to stand when Mike the Bartender shouts last call, distracting the table long enough for Imhara to clumsily snap up the cards and tuck them into his jacket.  Noticing a few strays, Jack did his best to grab them and hand them to the man, who nods his thanks.

“Wait, I wasn’t done,” McIntyre growls and points a finger at Richter, “He’s cheating.”
“ Ich ?” Richter points to himself innocently.
“Yes, you!” McIntyre shoots to his feet, “You- You dummkopf !”
“McIntyre,” Slone snaps before he can lunge across the table.
“Sorry, Slone.”

Mumbling something about idiots and time, Slone checks her wristwatch, “Hell, it’s almost two am,” she grumbles and stands, almost tripping before using the table for balance, “Come on, loves.  We’ve got a long walk.  McIntyre, don’t forget- forget, uh , forget her.  Your sister,” she vaguely waves at Barry, who’d fallen asleep sitting up in her chair after losing the first hand of go-fish.

Collecting their belongings, the six stumble out into the night, tripping over abandoned tables and chairs as they go.  Standing on the curb, it quickly becomes clear none of them were in a state to walk alone. “Alright,” Imhara slurs, looping his good arm through Jack’s right while Slone supports them from Jack’s left,  “Let’s all link arms and walk like perfectly normal, sober adults.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yup.” Slone and Jack nod along, aware of how ridiculous they look but too drunk to care.
“Okay.  Bracing himself, Imhara takes a step  and nearly takes all three of them down when his knees buckle.  It takes a few moments to stabilize themselves, Slone and Jack laughing too hard to help, but eventually they manage to walk forward in a roughly straight line, all three leaning heavily against each other.  Richter, McIntyre, and Barry fare much better: Barry, having slept through most of the night, barely drank anything at all while McIntyre and Richter seem experienced enough the alcohol had little effect on their motor skills.  The two behemoths simply take turns carrying Barry on their backs as she dozes.  Comfortably sandwiched between Alice and Imhara, Jack marvels at the bright holoscreens surrounding them, each advertising a different business or product.  He’s warm despite the night’s chill and his stomach finally settled from earlier.  In fact, he can’t quite remember why he’d been so sick.

They’re passing a convenience store when McIntyre stops mid-step and looks at the group.
“I’m hungry.”
“You two’re always hungry,” Slone tries to tug the others along.
Barry perks up from her place on Richter’s back, “Food?”
“Cookies sound nice,” Jack pipes up, smiling sheepishly when Slone flops her head against his shoulder and mumbles something that sounds like “traitor”.
“Imahara?” she calls upon the voice of reason.
“Seaweed snacks,” Imhara hums, dragging Jack and Slone along as he switches directions to beeline the walk-up window.

Tapping politely, he waits for the store clerk to open the folding window.  “Hi, uhhhhh…” he coughs awkwardly, suddenly forgetting how to human, “Uh, Slone?”
She snorts and lets go of Jack to step in front of Imhara. “Hi.  Can we get the- the,” she snaps her fingers, “Seaweed snack things?  Like three of them?  Cookies, uh,” she points at Jack, “What kind of cookies, Cooper?”
“Chocolate.  Or snicker.”
“What he said.”  The clerk nods and types it down on their tablet.

“Freezie pops!” Barry shouts behind them from her brother’s back.
“Freezie pops,” Slone repeats, “The shitty fructose ones.  Richter, McIntyre, what do you want?”
“Powdered donuts.”
“Bread.”
“Powdered donuts, bread—  Bread?”
“Ja.”
“Okay, bread.”

“Alrighty.  I’ve got seaweed snacks, snickerdoodle cookers, freezie pops, powdered donuts, and a loaf of bread.  Anything else, honey?” the clerk asks.
“Did you want something?” Jack reminds Slone.
“Yes!  Thank you, yes.  Peach ring gummies.” “Okie dokie, folks.  Just wait right here and I’ll be back,” the clerk shuts the window, then reappears seconds later.  Leaning heavily against Imhara in Alice’s absence, Jack marveled at the clerk’s inhuman speed, “That’ll be $35.67.”
“You fuckers are paying me back,” Slone warns as she pats her pockets for her wallet.  Everyone mumbles their assent and happily accepts their treats.

“Half for you,” Barry splits her freezie pop and hands part of it to McIntyre, who offers her half his bag of donuts.
“Good looking donuts, ja ?” Richter muses to Jack. It takes some cajoling before McIntyre reluctantly trades some of his donuts for cookies and bread, which he splits with Barry. “Snickerdoodle?” Jack offers Slone.  Her lips twitch like she’s going to say “no” but instead she accepts one of his cookies in exchange for a handful of gummies.  No one wants Imhara’s seaweed snacks and he doesn’t seem interested in any of their food either.

“Do you want to see pictures of my daughter?” Imhara suddenly asks, already digging through his pockets.
“Uh, yeah.” Jack swallows the last bite of cookie and leans over to look at Imhara’s phone.  Imhara only has four pictures of the little girl with black hair but he presents each one like pieces of art.
“These pictures are old,” he apologizes, “They’re old.  My wife and I…  She won’t send me more.  Kairi’s nine now.  Absolutely brilliant.  She stole Hawk and crashed her.  It was amazing.  You should have- You should have seen her, Cooper.  She wants to fly so bad but I want— I want her to do better, you know?”
“She’s beautiful,” Jack agrees.  He has no idea who Hawk is.
“Isn’t she?” Imhara’s eyes shine as he tucks his phone away.  For the first time all night he seems truly happy.

“We’ve got to move one, loves,” Alice says, encouraging them to link up again. “Barry, get your brother,” she gestures to McIntyre, who apparently decided the sidewalk is a great place to nap.  He grumbles and swats at Barry’s hands as she tries to get him onto his feet, then squeaks indignantly when Richter hauls him up and throws him over his shoulder like the man weighs nothing.  Honestly, Jack wouldn’t be surprised if Richter could carry them all home at the same time.

Home.

Realization hits him like a suckpunch to the gut.  He has no idea where he is.  None of the buildings look familiar.  Instead of bright lights and active streets, at some point they’d entered a more subdued district made up of warehouses.
“Where are we?” he mumbles.
“Upper Industrial District,” Slone tells him, “Don’t step in the puddles.”

Industrial District…  That doesn’t seem right.  He’s pretty sure the Militia base is in the Financial District.  Or was it the Fishing District?  Food District?  Why aren’t they going back to base?  Does the Militia have multiple Angel City bases?

What did Slone tell Mike the Bartender?  Planetside for medical leave.   That makes sense, he reasons.  They’re part of a different unit temporarily stationed in Angel City.  That’s why he recognizes them but doesn’t know them.  It makes sense they’d return to their own base at the end of the night but he needs to go back to his.

“Wait, this is the wrong, uh, wrong way,” he mumbles into the side of Alice’s head, “I think I need to… over there.”  He points in a random direction, squints, then points in another, “There.  Maybe.  Maybe, haha, maybe.  I don’t- I don’t know!”  A mad giggle rises in his throat, threatening to choke him.  He doesn't know where he is.  He’s lost and BT’s gone and Lastimosa’s dead.  He doesn’t know anyone in the training program.  He doesn’t fit in, he knows he doesn't fit in.  Tonight just cements it.  Everyone else was hand picked for the pilot program.  He’s just some rifleman who got lucky.  

The giggle turns into a gasping sob and he can't breathe.  

If Lastimosa hadn’t died, if there hadn’t been a mission to uphold, if BT hadn’t trusted him-

Imhara, noticing Jack spiraling but not sure how to stop it, knocks his forehead against the top of Jack’s head hard enough to halt his racing thoughts. “You’re drunk and we’re tired.  We’ll get you home sober in the morning,” Imhara promises through a mouthful of hair.
“Okay.  Okay,” Jack agrees, leaning heavier against Imhara as they approach a warehouse, “I’d like that.”

It’s funny that they’re staying in a warehouse instead of a base or dropship but before he can puzzle out why, his foot catches on the lip of a pothole.  Yelping, he nearly knocks over Imhara and Slone as he tries to catch himself without stepping in the tepid water.  They’re able to stabilize themselves before he falls flat on his face, not that it matters because his body feels like a noodle and he can’t bring himself to cooperate when Imhara tries to pull him back into standing position.

“Damn it, Slone, what did you give this kid?” Imhara gripes while doing his best to hold onto Jack with one hand.
“Same shit I gave the rest of you.  He just drank more.”  Slone adjusts her grip on Jack’s other arm to better pull him onto his feet, “Come on, love, let’s get you to bed.”

Huh…  Slone.  

Her name is Slone. Slone and Richter.  Richter has a German accent and Slone sounds… like something.  He’s heard her accent before but he’s not sure where.  For a moment that matters but then it doesn’t.

Slinging Jack’s arm over her shoulder and wrapping hers around his waist, Slone helps him limp through the front door and down a dim hallway until they reach large hangar doors.  The lump reappears in his throat at the sight, he knows what’s behind those doors, but Richter’s punched a code into a control panel and the doors woosh open.

Several titans stir within their docking bays, optics whirring curiously as they watch their pilots shuffle in, giggling and shushing each other like children.  “Don’t wake the boys up,” Barry hisses, “We’ll never get them to go back to sleep.”  As if on queue, a northstar darts forward to retrieve Imahara, plucking him off his feet and shoving him in her cockpit before returning to her docking bay to power down.  

Now supporting Jack alone, Slone yawns and relaxes into his side as his head lolls on her shorter one.  “That’s Hawk.”
“Ah,” is all he says. So that’s what Imhara meant when he said Kairi stole “Hawk” and crashed her.

From what he can see in the lowlighting, there are about four bedrooms and what looks like an office conjoined with the main hangar, but, instead of sleeping separately, an unspoken decision is made to drag the mattress out and make a nest near an ion titan with cots as barriers.  Not quite sure what to do, Jack sits on the ion’s pede.  He must have drifted off at some point because the next thing he knows he’s being nudged awake and gently lifted to his feet.  

“Thanks,” he mumbles as the ion stabilizes him.  It might be his imagination but he thinks the ion titan makes a soft humming noise before withdrawing its hand.  The titan next to the ion, a scorch, takes interest in him as well.  Crouching as low as it can, the scorch slowly extends a finger and pokes Jack’s chest hard enough he falls backward.  The ion catches him in its palm before his ass hits the ground and lifts him protectively to its chassis with a warning rumble.  Releasing a burst of steam in response, the scorch reaches for Jack again but the ion knocks its hand away.  Another scorch peers over the first one’s shoulder and waves at Jack, who hesitantly waves back.  The first scorch blows a gust of scalding air and steps toward Jack and the ion, reaching out once more but stops when one of the pilots starts shouting.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Barry blocks the scorch, standing between it and the ion holding Jack, “Leave him be, BUD.” If titans could scowl, BUD would be. “Yeah, yeah, grumble-grumble,” Barry flaps her arms at the two scorches, “Go back to sleep.  Slone!  Tommie’s got Cooper.”

“Hmmm?” Already half asleep, Slone stumbles from the nest to Tommie’s docking bay and pats the ion’s leg, “Let ‘im down, love.” The ion refuses, holding Jack closer to its chest. “Tommie,” Slone’s tone takes a warning edge, “He’s not for you.  Put ‘im down.”  Tommie slowly obeys, lowering her hand to the ground and gently tipping it so Jack can slide off and onto his feet.  “Good girl,” Slone mumbles, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, “C’mon then, Cooper.”

Still hesitant and running on only half-capacity, Jack allows himself to be tugged into the nest with everyone else.  McIntyre lays with his head in Barry’s lap while she sits propped against a support pillar, still awake but just barely.  Richter’s spread like a starfish with one leg slung over McIntyre’s, taking up most of the space.  Bumping Richter’s arm out of the way, Slone sits heavily in a pile of blankets and pulls her boots off one at a time, throwing them randomly out of the way before blinking owlishly up at Jack, patting the spot next to her.

Accepting the invitation, Jack lets Slone nudge him into place so she can wrap blankets around him.  Seemingly unsatisfied, she rubs an eye viciously and rearranges the blankets twice more before nodding to herself and curling up behind him.

As Jack’s eyes slowly close he hears the hiss of a titan hatch opening.
“Not sleeping with Hawk tonight?” Barry mumbles, her head lolling as she crooks a tired smile.
“I’m too old to sleep in a cockpit,” Imhara tells her, grunting as he climbs over the makeshift barrier to lay down near Jack.
“You’re only forty-five.”
“Convert that to pilot years and I’m practically dust."

If Imhara is dust, Lastimosa would be a fossil.  

Despite himself, Jack smiles at the thought of Lastimosa in a museum display next to dinosaur bones and pottery shards.  Did Lastimosa and Imhara know each other?  It’s definitely possible - Lastimosa was a veteran from the Titan War as well.  Maybe they’d been friends?  It’s a nice thought.

In the warmth of their nest, the ache of losing BT and Lastimosa didn’t seem so bad.  They’d be proud of him, he thinks, for getting out and making new friends.  For the first time since Typhon he feels almost normal.  Almost safe.

Sometime during the night Jack wakes up panting, the empty spot in his brain threatening to suck him down and drown him. 

He's trapped, there’s no way out, he’s going to suffocate—

Someone reaches out - Imahara, he thinks - and sleepily soothes a hand up and down Jack’s arm until his breathing evens out and he's able to sink back into the blankets.  Behind him, Slone shifts and pushes her forehead into the back of his neck.  The feel of her breath on his skin grounds him, reminding him he’s okay.  If experienced pilots feel comfortable enough to sleep in the open, to sleep with him, a stranger , then they must be safe.  He can see the silhouettes of the titans resting in their docking bays.  The air smells like oil, machinery, and gun smoke.  Like BT.

This is nice.