Chapter Text
April 20, 2019
Ashland, Oregon
The rooster crowed before the sun crested the ridge, his call beckoning the beginning of the day for the small farm. Dew shimmered on the barn roof beneath the fading starlight, a palpable chill in the air for late spring in southwest Oregon, but Maren Reed was already out the door, rubber boots on and jacket half-zipped, trudging through the wet grass.
Mornings came early on the Reed farm. They always had. The horses trotted to the alleyway gate when Maren pushed open the opposite barn door, nickering their morning greeting. Maren ducked into the tack room and collected two scoops of sweet feed. She returned to the alleyway and climbed over the hanging green gate, and the horses sauntered to their grain pails, conditioned into routine and eager for breakfast.
She started with Arthur, an old, graying bay gelding, before moving on to Nettles, a chestnut mare in her mid-teens. She returned through the gate and dumped the grain scoops back in the tack room. On the wall was a framed photograph of her father atop a black gelding, Lionel, ears forward and tail tossed mid-step. Lionel was thirty-one when he died a few years prior. He was buried on the property with Markus Reed’s cross necklace.
Maren worked in silence, spacing out in the familiar rhythm. Feed, fresh water, drop a flake of hay. Pick hooves, check for scratches, and give each horse two kisses: one on the nose, one on the forehead. By the time the horses were taken care of, the chickens had stirred in their coop and fluttered quickly to the ground when Maren unhooked the latch. She dumped their feed into the two shallow platters, checked the nesting boxes, and when she walked away with no fresh eggs, muttered to the chickens about their laziness.
The kitchen light flicked on as she crossed the yard. Her mother moved like clockwork–coffee, skillet, batter, pour, flip, stir, and on and on. Maren slipped out of her muck boots and abandoned them near the front door.
“Morning,” she called.
“Pancakes,” Lilith replied without looking up, spatula resting in the hand she propped on her hip. In the other hand, she nursed a mug of black coffee. Her voice was soft, warm, and her gaze flickered toward the counter. “Anything come yet?”
Maren’s chest tightened. “Not yet.”
They ate in an easy, undemanding quiet. Lilith asked occasionally about Maren’s work, about her friends, about whether she’d heard from her cousin lately. Maren answered around bites of food and kept an eye on the clock.
At 07:00, Lilith kissed Maren’s cheek and left for her shift at the hospital, where she worked as a nurse. Maren rinsed the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, and returned to her room to dress for the day.
She prodded at her face in the mirror on her way back downstairs, rubbing gently the skin beneath her deep brown eyes. Her brown hair was pulled into a long braid down her back, stray hairs curling around her ears.
Slipping on her shoes at the front door, backpack weighing on one shoulder, she slipped out the door. Her old Chevy pickup creaked in protest when she opened the door, but roared faithfully to life when she turned the key. Red and white, 1993, worn smooth along the steering wheel and on the radio knobs.
She backed out slowly, gravel crunching beneath the tires, and rolled down the driveway. Ashland waited, quiet and still in the early morning, as she made the familiar drive into town for work in the office at the art museum.
When she got home that afternoon, truck rolling up the driveway with a low rumble, she paused at the mailbox and collected the day’s pile.
To Lilith Reed. Bills, junk, catalogue. Maren tossed Lilith’s mail aside.
To Maren Reed. Eager colleges and universities vying for her attendance: University of Oregon, University of Washington, Kansas State University?
Pan Pacific Defense Corps.
The envelope was plain, clinical, official, with the logo stamped clean in the corner. Her stomach dropped. She parked fast, killed the ignition, and tore through the front door, hands shaking. She slapped the letter onto the kitchen counter and walked away.
Her heart pounded harder with each step she took down the hall to her bedroom, the weight of her backpack suddenly sharp and unbearable. She dropped it next to her bed and wanted to lie down–she’d been craving being back in bed since she arrived at work earlier that morning. But she stood frozen, the breeze rustling the leaves of the Oregon oak outside her window.
A chill ran down her spine like sharp claws in her flesh, and she wiggled her fingers slowly to bring herself back. With a shaky inhale, she turned away from her bedroom and returned downstairs. She left the letter on the counter and sat across from it, on a barstool at the kitchen island.
What did it say? Did she make it in?
Nausea surged in her stomach. She’d have to leave home. She had never left before, not even for a summer camp or a long trip away with friends. It had always been home.
But what if they rejected her? That possibility hurt worse. What could she have done?
Maybe there was something wrong with her?
She ground her teeth together and shot up from the bar stool, nerves forced down long enough to just tear the letter open.
Three sheets of paper were inside.
Maren Reed,
We thank you for your application to the Pan Pacific Defense Corps Jaeger Training Program. You have been accepted. Congratulations!
Your term will begin on May 1, 2019. You will train alongside other candidates from across the United States and have the opportunity to meet current Jaeger pilots, tour Shatterdomes, and learn from Kaiju scientists, Jaeger technicians, and Shatterdome personnel.
Travel itinerary, boarding passes, and processing identification are included in this letter and can be viewed online using the PPDC.GOV portal. Transportation will be provided from Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport to Anchorage Shatterdome. Entrance Processing will occur at Anchorage Shatterdome. You will be transported to the Jaeger Academy at Kodiak Island following completion of Entrance Processing.
Attached is a list of recommended items to bring.
Together, we can end this war.
Dustin Kreiger
Secretary General
Pan Pacific Defense Corps
She read it once. Then again. Then a third time, until the words echoed inside her like a second heartbeat.
She was going. Eleven days from now, she was leaving. Leaving behind this kitchen, this house, the horses. Her mother. The ghost of her father still lived there, etched into the wallpaper and the carved wooden bannister, like sun shining through the cracks in the floorboards of the hayloft. Leaving the last place she had known him.
She set the letter down carefully, smoothing the pristine folds until the paper lay flat. She looked up at the kitchen before her. Sun streamed through the window, igniting the yellow walls and washing the fridge in light. It cast a glare on a photo of her, three years ago, her hand hoisted above her head by the referee after she won her first wrestling match. It was pinned to the metal door by a teal blue magnet with a bird emblem in the center.
She looked down at the second sheet of paper. The packing list, as promised. Office addresses and work numbers for program contacts. The third sheet detailed her itinerary, including boarding information for a flight from Portland on April 30. It didn’t matter the way she thought it would. This didn’t feel like a victory, and she certainly didn’t feel like celebrating.
The house creaked around her, a familiar groan in the ceiling, right where the attic beams held fast against the wind. She used to imagine it was her father, the click of his boot heel against the shingles. When she was younger, she believed the house would speak to her if she gave it the attention it needed.
She abandoned the letter on the counter and turned towards the living room. Her legs felt far away, like they weren’t hers, as they carried her to her father’s recliner. Brown suede, worn especially at the headrest, where he would turn his head between Lilith and the television every night for nearly fifteen years.
Light filtered through the sheer sage green curtains and illuminated the dust floating in the still air. She sat down in her father’s chair, the cushion giving in to her weight. The molded figure of her father still sat large around her, like he embraced her even from the past. She pulled her feet up into her chest, wrapped her knitted Aztec blanket around her legs, and waited for her mother to come home.
Lilith arrived home after work to find Maren standing at the kitchen island, the letter spread flat in front of her, her hands braced like she might fall through the floor.
“You got it?” Lilith asked, voice barely a whisper.
Maren nodded.
Lilith didn’t speak at first. She stepped around the counter and sat beside her daughter. The silence stretched long enough that Maren started to feel the seconds ticking on the clock crawl across her skin.
She was eleven years old, almost twelve. Maren clung to her father tightly as he walked toward the door, dragging a rugged suitcase behind him. Hay and Old Spice wafted into her nose as she tugged at her father’s shirt. He had picked up a contract hauling cattle down to southern California.
“I don’t want you to go,” Maren whimpered, tears collecting in her deep brown eyes.
“It’s only a few days, bluebird.” Markus rubbed his thumb along Maren’s cheek, wiping away tears as they slipped from her eyes. “I’ll bring you something from the beach in San Francisco, huh?”
“It can’t be too different from Portland, I imagine.” Lilith chimed in, freeing Markus of Maren’s desperate iron grip. Lilith kissed Markus goodbye, he tousled Maren’s hair, and then he hopped in his truck to drive out to the farm where he would load the cattle and leave. As Markus pulled out of the driveway, Maren looked up at the whiteboard by the door, detailing the household’s schedules in several vibrant colors. August 9th, 2013.
“You knew it would come,” Lilith murmured, studying Maren’s drawn expression.
“I thought I’d feel proud,” Maren confessed. “But I don’t. I don’t think so? I feel like I’m leaving something unfinished.”
Lilith nodded. “You are. That’s what it means to grow up. There will always be more to finish here–I’ve been trying to finish it all for fifteen years, and believe me, there’s always more for some reason.”
Maren chuckled weakly.
“But you can’t stay just because of that,” her mother confirmed.
A knot tightened in Maren’s stomach. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“You’re not leaving me,” Lilith said, taking Maren’s hand in hers. “You’re going where you need to be.”
“But what if I don’t make it? What if…what if I’m not good enough?”
Lilith leaned forward, pressing her shoulder into Maren’s. “You are. You’re my daughter. And your father would be so proud.”
He had not returned Lilith’s phone calls. He did not answer his boss. The tracker in the rig was nowhere to be found. In San Francisco, the world ended.
Lilith sat in Markus’s chair in the living room, legs set wide as she braced her elbows on her knees, staring at the television but not seeing anything. Maren rocked between her mother’s legs, ears covered, her purple Care Bear clutched to her chest as anxiety gnawed at her heart.
The cattle hauler was emptied in Coalinga, just like it was supposed to be. Markus had gone through San Francisco, just like he said he would. Three days after the attack, his body was retrieved from the hauler, wrecked on the northern side of San Francisco Bay. He was religious, not in a practicing way, but he had clutched his cross necklace in his large hands. When his fists were pried open during the autopsy, a photograph of Maren and Lilith atop their horses fell onto his chest, ruined from the sweat of his palms and the humidity of the bay in summer.
When the call finally came, it was pouring. The phone rang once, twice, and Lilith answered without a word. Then she nodded, creaked out one single, soft “okay,” and hung up.
Maren stared at her mother’s hands. Nimble, delicate, with a freckle on the left one. Maren had one in the same spot. “What if I’m not ready?”
“No one is,” Lilith sighed, swiping a thumb across Maren’s knuckles. “Not for this kind of thing, with what they’ll ask you to do. But that’s how we grow.”
Maren sighed, then inhaled shakily as she held down her tears.
“Your father would’ve cried,” her mother said, voice trembling despite the wistful smile gracing her lips. “Great, big, fat tears, and stained the collar of his shirt when he used it to wipe his nose.”
They shared a giggle at the image–her big, brave father, with his wide hands and sturdy shoulders, weeping like a baby at her accomplishment.
“I think he would’ve driven you to the airport in Portland himself, and cried the whole way back.”
Maren scoffed through the sob racking her body. “He would’ve bought a boat and taken me to the island.”
Lilith laughed softly as she rose from her seat. “He definitely would have. Come on, I’ll make tea. We can start your list.”
“List?”
“Your packing list,” she said, scraping her index finger along the edge of the paper. “But I’ve got a better packing list with things you can’t forget, because no one knows better than mothers.”
April 23, 2019
Ashland, Oregon
Three days later, Maren turned eighteen.
She protested any large celebration, but thanked the texts and Facebook messages as they came through. At work, her colleagues put up a banner, brought vanilla cupcakes with swirled yellow and blue frosting, and decorated the museum’s activity board with large, colorful letters: “Maren can vote!”
When she returned home from work, her mother had taken off early from the hospital and waited for Maren in the kitchen. On the kitchen island was a lemon cake, layered with cream cheese frosting, and eighteen melting candles. A framed photo of her father was situated next to the cake. Lilith beamed at Maren as she walked in, eyes glittering in the candlelight.
“Happy birthday, my baby,” Lilith whispered, extending her arms. Maren settled into her mother’s embrace, holding back tears.
“Blow out your candles, and we can take the horses out.”
Three puffs, and the candles extinguished into ribbons of smoke. Lilith plucked the candles from the cake and set them in a bowl of water in the sink, then slipped on her boots and guided Maren outside.
Nettles played noisily with the copper roller on her bit as Maren led her out into the barn alleyway. In the stall next to them, Arthur’s ears flew back as Lilith tightened the cinch, and the bay gelding’s soft pink nose swung back to bump against her side. Lilith tutted at him and pushed back against his head with her elbow. They rode to the furthest reaches of their property, admiring the new blooms in the pear trees and the steady progress of the alfalfa, and paid a visit to Lionel’s grave.
That night, when they returned from a dinner out in Ashland, Lilith sat on Maren’s bed and flipped through photo albums. Maren dug through her clothes and reestablished the three favorite shirts she was taking with her to Basic.
April 30, 2019
Portland, Oregon
05:45
Maren stood before security in Portland International Airport at 05:45. Lilith waited warmly at her side, one comforting hand rubbing small circles on Maren’s shoulder. It was her first flight, and she’d have to do it alone. The weight of her backpack and duffel bag felt unbearable. She turned into her mother, wrapping her arms tightly around her last support.
Lilith hummed softly, swaying gently from one foot to the other. She ran her fingers through Maren’s long brown hair, catching small tangles that tugged briefly before releasing. Maren let go and stepped back, looking at her mother with teary eyes.
“You’ve got it,” Lilith reassured her. “I’m just a call away.”
Lilith leaned forward and placed a kiss on Maren’s forehead, pinched her cheek endearingly, and pushed her subtly toward the TSA gate.
Maren passed through, slipped back into her shoes, and cast one last look at her mother.
The airport was quiet this early in the morning, but certainly wasn’t comfortable–bright and liminal and heavy with the scent of stale coffee and recycled air. Maren kept her fingers tucked tightly beneath her backpack strap, checked her gate and departure time three times, and boarded when military passengers were called forward at 06:15.
She was about to tuck into her window seat when a breathless woman with three children paused beside her, a baby held tightly against her chest.
“I think you’re in our row,” the woman said, apologetic and exhausted.
Maren offered a smile and gestured to the two open seats beside her. As the mother juggled bags, the middle boy, no older than five, took off. His mother shouted his name in exasperation, but an older woman sitting across the aisle grabbed him with a swift hook around his tiny arm and scolded him with a single look.
The boy, dejected, scampered back to his mother. The oldest child, another boy, maybe seven years old, sat between Maren and his mother. “Do you know how to draw a fox?”
Maren blinked, then smiled. “I might.”
She spent most of the flight turned sideways in her seat, coloring animals with the boy while the baby slept against her mother’s chest. The older woman across the aisle stepped in and took charge of the little escape artist, forming a lopsided team of strangers.
The mother’s name was Jazmine. She was headed back to Anchorage–for good. Maren didn’t ask more, but the older woman did.
“You have family in Anchorage?” the woman asked gently. “Someone to take care of you?”
Jazmine’s eyes flicked to her children, then the window. “I have two brothers stationed there. They’re always there if I need saving.”
“Let me give you my number,” the older woman said, scribbling it on the corner of a coloring sheet the middle boy was working on. “I live in Sutton-Alpine. If you need anything, you just give me a call.”
Jazmine smiled, grateful but tired, eyes crinkling at the corners.
When they landed, the boys gathered around Jazmine like ducklings in a row, and she mouthed her thanks as they gathered their things. The older woman stayed behind to help the little family to the baggage claim.
Maren returned the smile, then shuffled out of the plane with her backpack and duffel bag, and into the sudden hush of the Anchorage terminal.
Anchorage, Alaska
10:56
Transport from the airport to the Shatterdome arrived in the form of a fifteen-passenger bus with the PPDC logo printed on the front doors. Maren stood just outside the sliding doors near the baggage claim, watching from afar as officers milled outside the bus. She waited until someone else boarded the bus first, a young man with a gray backpack, before she moved forward and presented her papers.
It was a silent trip, though not far. The Anchorage Shatterdome looked more like a fortress than a government facility, boxy and brutalistic, towering high above the skyline and dramatically changing the coastline. A set of massive billowing flags atop three flagpoles, the United States, Alaska, and Pan Pacific Defense Corps, whipped noisily overhead as they stepped out of the transport van.
The soldier who searched Maren was methodical. Hair slicked back in a tight bun, expression unreadable beneath the brim of her cap. Maren flinched when the patdown moved across her shoulder blades, then exhaled when she was waved through. She grabbed her bags quickly and kept moving.
Voices rose in scattered laughter along the line. Someone chuckled as his friend tripped over his own boots; a girl cackled at an inside joke. The whole place buzzed with first-day nerves, but already people were bonding, forming the first connections that would become teams, units, copilots.
Maren had spoken to no one. Her skin prickled as realization set in–she had no one here.
She watched the next person pass through security from the safety of the inner corridor, then traced her gaze up to study the cold, clinical architecture. A bulletin board filled with vibrant community fliers caught her eye as she continued down the hall.
Anchorage Municipal Choir, Yoga Thursdays, Wall Climbing Club– bump–
She ran straight into someone. She whipped her head around and let out a startled yelp. “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t–I’m–”
He was young, handsome, and stood straight as a board. He extended a hand to steady her, a bewildered look on his face. “Ope. Helps if you look where you’re–hey! Same dot!”
Maren blinked, confused by the diversion from a scolding to sudden camaraderie. He pointed at his badge, which sported the same bright red dot as hers.
She picked up her own badge and looked at it upside down, then twisted it right-side up.“Same dot,” she murmured.
“Well, shit,” a second man stepped in, grinning wide. “Welcome to the gang!”
The two bumped shoulders–rather, the second man ran into the first–and the first man extended his hand in greeting. “Robb Kaska.”
Robb was tall, taller than he’d looked at first, and broad across the chest and shoulders. His hand enveloped Maren’s, the warmth of it catching her off guard. His honey brown hair was styled in a military regulation cut that she was becoming unnecessarily familiar with. Blue-gray eyes brightened with his smile, dimples forming arrows in his cheeks that accentuated the upward curl of his lips.
“Maren Reed."
The second man jostled his hand into the mix, playfully pushing Robb’s hand out of the way before grabbing Maren’s hand in a more enthusiastic greeting. “Simon Peter Galvan. You can call me Simon.”
Simon was a touch shorter, a tad leaner. His skin was two shades darker, and his hazel eyes squinted with his grin. Brown hair, longer on the top, framed his temples. His nose was slightly crooked, a scar across the bridge telling the tale of an old break. His hand was rough to the touch, crisscrossed with old burns and nicks.
Maren smiled back. “Nice to meet you.”
“First time processing?” Robb asked, guiding them into easy conversation. Simon stepped to Maren’s other side as they walked down the hall.
“Yeah. First time on a plane, too,” Maren replied, glancing up sheepishly.
“First time for me, too,” Simon joined in, swinging his duffel bag forward and back as he walked. “Except the plane part. Planes are no problem, but this…”
He gestured broadly as the hall opened into a larger atrium filled with round tables, each sporting a PPDC official and a colored sheet in the middle of the table, like a homing beacon for wayward souls. “This is all new territory.”
Maren was the first of the three to spot the table with the bright red paper. A terrifying man was seated in one of the chairs, heel resting atop the opposite thigh, and his frigid gaze locked onto hers. He rose from his seat and extended his arm into the air.
“Red,” he ordered, his voice cracked through the air like a rifle shot.
Robb, unfazed, adjusted the strap of his bag and moved forward with no reluctance. Simon cast a glance between him and Maren, who looked up with wide, uncertain eyes.
“I’ll let him eat me first, huh?” Simon chuckled, tugging Maren forward by the strap of her backpack.
They arrived at the table together, a few paces behind Robb in all his discipline and confidence. The man was more formidable up close. Shorter than his dominating voice, but commanding respect all the same.
Peppered black hair was cut close to his scalp on the sides, longer at the top, just like everyone else here. A scar stretched diagonally across his lips, pulled into a stern frown, and his dark eyes regarded them with little enthusiasm.
“Names?”
“Robb Kaska,” he replied, well rehearsed in quick responses to ranking officers.
“Simon Peter Galvan.”
“Maren Reed.”
The man checked a single box next to their names on his sheet, but several remained empty. There was much to do.
“Welcome to Red Squad,” he said gruffly, returning the clipboard to the table. “I’m First Sergeant Russel Valdez. Sergeant, Sir, or Valdez will work just fine.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Robb parroted, as if on autopilot.
“Yes, sir,” Simon and Maren followed, more unsure than their…schooled counterpart.
“Have a seat,” Valdez gestured to the empty chairs, and the trio sat obediently. “I’ll send you to your checkpoints while we wait for the rest. Galvan.”
Simon perked up, halting mid-motion with his bag hanging from his hand, dangling just above the floor.
“Medical. Won’t take long,” Valdez said, pointing the end of his pen toward a fluorescent hallway marked with medical insignia.
Simon nodded, finally abandoning his bag on the floor and sauntering off to complete his task.
“Kaska,” Valdez sucked in a breath and tutted, pen twirling between his fingers as he decided where to send Robb first. “Administrative. Take your paperwork.”
“Yes, sir,” Robb affirmed, going on his way.
“Reed.” The length of silence after he uttered her last name made Maren’s blood chill. He glanced up at her, just once, before letting out a long breath. “Administrative.”
Maren nodded and murmured a “yes, sir,” before setting off after Robb on the other side of the room. She let out a sigh of relief as she walked away and pinched her file tightly between her fingers, forcing herself to breathe in slowly despite the nervous heat radiating from her body.
Two other cadets waited in line between her and Robb, who was nearing the end of the table already. At least it would be quick.
The officer at the start of the table looked at her once.
“File.”
Maren handed it over, and the officer flipped through it.
“Identification.”
She offered her badge, and the officer stared down the bridge of his nose at her photo on the card, then up to her face, and nodded his approval.
“Next.”
The next officer grabbed her file from the first one’s hand, placed a large stamp on one of the papers, and handed it back to Maren. She nodded to her left, and Maren stepped to the side.
The third officer asked her name, then filtered through a cabinet and withdrew a navy blue folder. Maren’s service number was stamped on the tab.
“Here’s your bunk designation and rotation schedule for the duration of Basic. Good luck.”
Robb waited for her at the end of the line, arms folded, files tucked beneath his arm. He gave her a nod as she approached.
“You’ve done this before?” Maren asked, her voice quieting. A cadet at the green table met her eyes as she swept by before she turned to look up at Robb.
“Not quite,” Robb replied. “But I’ve done similar. Army. Four years.”
Maren blinked. “Oh. That explains…a lot.”
Robb smirked, canine tooth poking through his lips. “I’m trying to look less like a grunt. Is it working?”
“I’m sure,” Maren let out a small laugh.
His satisfied hum curved quickly into a discontented grumble. Maren shifted her eyes forward. Someone new sat at their table–sharp, unreadable, watching them approach like a hunter watches prey.
“Wallis Bruner,” Valdez stated before they could ask, though his explanation only raised more questions.
Wallis was lean and muscular, her sharp features slicing her portrait into view. Her skin was reminiscent of cappuccino, a satisfying brown that wisped warmth and comfort. Her hair was dark and wavy, tied into a ponytail, baby hairs curling around her face. Her nose was a straight line, bumped slightly at the bridge, and pulled her angular features together at a point. Her eyes were steel gray, a shocking contrast, and they pinned Maren to the floor with their cool, calculated sweep.
“Maren,” she offered. “And this is–”
“Robb.”
Wallis nodded with a hum.
“Kaska. Reed. Medical,” Valdez ordered, never looking up from his checklist.
Simon approached from behind them, a little paler than before, a cotton ball taped to the crook of his arm. “Hope you ate this morning, because I sure didn’t.”
“Bruner. Galvan. Administrative,” Valdez ignored Simon’s commentary, sending him to the next station without remorse for the nauseating blood draw. Wallis rose dutifully from her chair and walked with Simon, who extended a shaking hand to her in greeting.
In Medical, a military nurse gestured them into a set of chairs, trays with vials and alcohol wipes already prepped. Maren bit her cheek through her shaky inhale as the military nurse drew a vial of blood from her arm. Next to her, Robb closed his eyes and let out a soft, slow exhale as the needle was withdrawn from his arm and the bandage taped firmly to his skin. Maren’s nurse did the same, dabbing away the well of blood that quickly followed the needle’s retraction.
Simon was right–she really should’ve eaten something before. Her stomach churned, and from the expression on the nurse’s face, she was paling quickly. She was handed a puke bag and a small plastic bag with ice and sent back to Valdez.
Robb waited for her again, a wry smile barely gracing his lips, and gave her a brief pat on the back. “Sure are efficient, aren’t they?”
At their table, two more cadets stood, awaiting Valdez’s direction.
Elaine matched Wallis in height, but was otherwise an inverse. She had fair skin spotted with freckles, and copper red hair, braided and draped long down her back.
Cat was short, with hair dyed black atop olive skin and bright blue eyes. Her brows were still dirty blonde; an oversight or a statement, Maren wasn’t sure. She was loud, up front, and completely unashamed.
Valdez sent them to Medical. Maren and Robb waited patiently for their next task, but Valdez raised a single brow and beckoned them to sit. Wallis and Simon approached from the other side of the room, the former nodding once to Valdez before following Elaine and Cat to Medical.
“So good to see you two again,” Simon said, lopsided grin balanced by a tuft of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
The next several hours passed in various checkpoints and waiting rooms, quiet introductions and clipped instructions. By the time the cadets were tossed brown paper bags with sandwiches, chips, and an apple, the final two cadets arrived to complete Red Squad, dragging oversized duffels that looked older than either of them. Matthew and Justus stuck close together, both young men from Midwestern farming families, and bonded over long harvest days and harsh, sweltering summers.
Matthew Ellis was quiet, his gaze steady beneath the brim of a sweat-stained cap, shoulders broad beneath a faded flannel. He was from Nebraska, raised on a cattle ranch, and his hands were callused by years of labor at eighteen. Stocky and strong, with sandy blond hair and ruddy cheeks.
Beside him, Justus Mora talked with his hands, his words tumbling out faster than his breath. He was a nineteen-year-old wheat farmer’s son from western Kansas, raised beneath the expanse of wind turbines spotting the landscape. Skin like caramel, dark hair buzzed short, and seemingly an all-knowing irrigation system expert. Storm tracking was his hobby.
Red Squad chatted amongst themselves as they waited for the final briefing, returning the same courtesy Matthew and Justus had provided. Robb was twenty-one and was from north of Dallas, Texas. Simon, eighteen, was born and raised in northeastern New Mexico. Wallis, nineteen, was from Minneapolis and took comfort in Alaska's chilly climate. Cat was from Connecticut and turned twenty last September. Elaine was nineteen, raised in North Carolina, but most recently had lived in Texas.
Maren enjoyed the view from this table. She sat between Robb and Simon. Catherine, across the table, was the most enthusiastic and quickly set in on what Maren could only assume was ill-informed flirting with Matthew. Elaine and Wallis held their conversation but joined the group long enough to exchange greetings. Justus bantered with Simon, and Matthew listened intently to the conversation around him.
The room fell silent as a man in a deep blue suit mounted the podium at the front of the room. He stood straight as a board, mountain-wide shoulders cut clean against the beige cinder block wall behind him. They knew exactly who he was. On one side of him stood Bruce and Trevin Gage, green suits neatly pressed. The Romeo Blue pilots held a similar air of authority, but were easily outshone by the man at the podium.
“Hello,” he said, voice crackling through the microphone. “I’m Marshal Stacker Pentecost. I oversee operations at the Anchorage Shatterdome.”
Pentecost took a pause and surveyed the crowd. PPDC employees were familiar with this speech, which is delivered every few months at new cadet orientations. The cadets themselves, Maren and her table included, sat slack-jawed at the legend in front of them.
During the silence, two men entered the room, both in deep blue flight suits beneath worn black bomber jackets. On the left breast, a pinup girl with a machine gun, outlined by a red dot. Their boots thudded against the floor before they realized all eyes were on them. With sheepish smiles, they veered toward the unoccupied side of the stage and stood at attention.
Pentecost’s expression shifted from distant reverence to a sharp flicker of irritation.
“Sorry, sir,” one of them whispered, the apology clipped and practiced.
The younger of the two caught Maren’s eye and offered a small wave. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners, bright and familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. She smiled back.
Stacker Pentecost cleared his throat. Just like that, the room snapped back to silence.
“It is my privilege to welcome you to the Jaeger Academy,” he began. “This evening, you will be transported to Kodiak Island. Tomorrow, the fight begins."