Chapter Text
Both of you have held lives in your hands. Have danced with death itself—bearing the heavy burden of keeping the living alive.
01
I I SEPTEMBER 30, 2021 . . .
[ THE DOCTOR ] ________________
You were twenty-seven, just a year into moonlighting. A licensed physician—competent, adaptable, a jack of all trades and yet master of none. Apparently, that was enough for the PPDC. Enough for them to entrust you with the group of one of their most valuable assets.
Jaeger pilots.
The agency’s official government support had ended only a year prior, yet the war hadn’t paused to grieve its losses. One Jaeger destroyed before another could be built. Two pilots lost before another compatible pair could drift. The physician you replaced had resigned without ceremony. Whether out of fear of the escalating number of kaiju attacks or the fear with the slow but steady decline of both machines and men, you didn’t know.
Now, you stood in their place. Assigned to one of the Shatterdomes stationed nearest the busiest breach hotspot surrounding the Pacific Rim. The Sydney Shatterdome. People hesitated to work here. Unless they carried a death wish—or no regard for their own life at all. You weren’t entirely sure which category you fell into. Perhaps neither. Perhaps it was simply a hunger for purpose that refused to quiet, no matter how loud the alarms grew.
Today was your first day.
And for the young man seated by the foot of the bed nearest to the window, it seems that it was his as well.
Charles Hansen. Eighteen, according to the file you’d reviewed twice already. The youngest pilot in the dome. It only took him two years to finish academy, and he's already cleared for deployment should a kaiju breach the surface. You wondered, briefly, how desperate the PPDC had become to place someone so young so close to the front lines.
It wasn’t your place to question it. Still, the concern lingered.
Eighteen felt uncomfortably close to another life—fresh out of high school, newly accepted into your dream university and program. Confident. Bright-eyed. Certain that purpose alone could insulate you from consequence.
You gathered the supplies for his mandatory routine checkup, arranging them with deliberate care on a sterile tray. Familiar motions. Steady hands. Just the way you liked it.
Hansen sat at the foot of the bed nearest the window, posture straight, boots planted firmly against the floor. His gaze drifted briefly across the infirmary. Curious, observant, cataloguing his surroundings with a restraint that suggested discipline rather than nerves. Probably his first time here.
“Charles Hansen?” you asked as you approached, one hand holding the tray while the other dragged a chair closer to the bed, repurposing it as a makeshift table.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied immediately.
His eyes dropped to the instruments laid out before him, scanning them with interest rather than unease. There was no flinch, no hesitation. Just attention.
“Nice to meet you, Ranger,” you said, setting the tray down and looping the stethoscope around your neck. “I’m Dr. [ ]. You can call me Dr. [ ]. I'm going to be your primary physician from this day moving forward. Have you been oriented to your schedule yet?”
He nodded once, shoulders squaring reflexively. “Yes, ma’am. I was briefed yesterday. Everything seems… manageable.”
Manageable.
The word gave you pause. You tilted your head slightly, studying him more closely. There was no bravado in his tone. No bravado in his posture either. Just assessment still. Of people, of the new environment.
“Good,” you replied after a moment, professional calm settling back into place. “Then we’ll start with routine vitals—heart, lungs, reflexes, and labs. Standard procedure. I believe the academy follows a similar protocol. Nothing you haven’t done before.”
Another nod. Smaller this time. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—you notice.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “ready when you are.”
You picked up the stethoscope, already aware, though you wouldn’t name it yet, that this would not be the last time those words would pass between you.
You move smoothly from one part of the checkup to the next, practiced hands efficient and unhurried. You notice his eyes track your movements—not invasive, not bold. Attentive. As if committing the space to memory.
It’s common. Few people know where to put themselves when someone else occupies their personal space so completely. Watching becomes something to hold onto. You don’t mind it.
To ease the tension, you speak.
“You’re Sergeant Hansen’s son, correct?” you ask, eyes still on the tablet. “You’ll be co-piloting PPDC’s latest Mark V Jaeger with him.”
“...yes, ma’am. Striker Eureka.” he replies. The answer is careful. Too careful.
You sense his posture tighten, shoulders pulling back as if bracing for something you hadn’t meant to strike. The air shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. You glance up just long enough to catch the way his gaze flickers away.
Ah. Understanding settles quietly.
You remember the request in his file now. Solo clearances, scheduled apart from his co-pilot. Unusual, but approved without comment. Most pilots came in pairs, if only to save time.
You make a mental note, and just as deliberately, let the subject drop. Your voice stays even as you continue the exam, giving him the courtesy of not asking questions he hasn’t offered answers to.
[ THE RANGER ] ________________
He watches as she steps back to record something on the tablet, giving him space without comment.
Chuck finally exhales slowly through his nose. A breath he didn’t remember holding.
The infirmary is colder than he expected. It looked similar to the rest of the Shatterdome. Same thick metal sliding doors, exposed ductwork ceiling that screamed industrial. It wasn't unpleasant, no—just, more clean. Efficiently organised, each corner of the room utilized. Unlike everything else in this Shatterdome.
He keeps his hands still on his thighs, posture straight, the way he was taught. The way that never draws attention. He’s used to people talking when they don’t know what to do with silence.
But he notices she doesn’t. Instead, she works—quiet, focused, unbothered by his presence beyond what’s required. When she does speak, it’s precise. No wasted words. No false reassurance. Reminds him of his days at the academy.
He also finds himself watching her without meaning to.
Maybe not in the way a pilot instructor watched him during conn-pod simulations—not how he's looking for approval, comments or correction. Just… tracking. The way her hands move. The way she notices things without announcing them. The way she doesn’t react when his shoulders tense, doesn’t comment when his answers shorten.
She’s not trying to get anything out of him.
That’s new, he thought.
Most people here want something—results, drift compatibility, obedience, proof. Even concern usually comes with an expectation attached.
He realizes that he hasn’t been told what to feel. Not how to direct his anger at the Kaiju that took people from them. Or how to perform, to be a good ranger—how to be useful to humanity. Or what he’s meant to be in front of her.
And that was the thing, he didn’t know her enough yet. Not exactly knowing what he was supposed to be in front of her.
The thought settles somewhere uncomfortable inside him.
When she turns back toward him, the stethoscope lifted again, he straightens instinctively.
“Now that that’s done,” she says, “I’ll be collecting your blood sample in a moment. I’m going to be drawing from your non-dominant arm, if that’s alright with you.”
“Of course, ma’am,” he replies, offering his arm almost automatically.
Glancing at his arm, she nods, letting the stethoscope fall back around her neck. She pulls two blue latex gloves from a small rectangular box and slips them on without fuss. His eyes follow the movements of her hands, similar to a cat in a trance of hunting, chasing the light from a laser. Attentive in the way of someone with nothing else to fixate on.
She grabs a ball of cotton from the tray, douses it with alcohol. His outstretched arm—his left—meets the cold, damp sting as she swipes the inside of his elbow, disinfecting the skin. She drops the cotton back onto the corner of the tray and lifts a syringe with a green tip, unwrapping it with practiced ease.
Her free hand braces the back of his elbow. The needle angles low, hovering just above his skin.
“Try to stay still,” she says. “This might feel like a pinch.” delivering it in a way that sounded like it was habit.
He nods once, jaw setting. He doesn’t look away. The needle breaks skin cleanly.
It is a pinch. Sharp, fleeting. More pressure than pain—and then nothing. No fishing. No hesitation. She finds the vein at a glance, clear and raised beneath his skin.
Chuck blinks, an eyebrow twitching as he realized something. Had she skipped a step? There’s no rubber strip cinched around his upper arm.
Her fingers steady the back of his elbow. He feels the subtle shift as the needle advances, just enough—precise, practiced, as if anatomy were second nature.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he says, voice careful. “Aren’t you supposed to… tie my upper arm?”
A dark bloom appears in the barrel as he speaks.
She doesn’t answer right away. She adjusts her grip, eyes flicking once to confirm placement before drawing back the plunger. The syringe fills smoothly, crimson rising in an even line. No rush.
“A tourniquet?” she says, still watching the draw. “Not necessary. Your veins are visible, which is normal. It indicates you’re a healthy individual. We only use them when access is difficult.”
The explanation is delivered so evenly, so assured, that any lingering doubt dissolves.
Chuck exhales, slower this time. “I see.”
He’s had blood drawn before—plenty of times at the Jaeger Academy. Training. Evaluations. Clearances. Always rushed. Impersonal. Someone else’s hands, someone else’s clock.
But…this felt different.
Her thumb stops once the syringe reaches its mark. She releases the tension on his arm without being told, already pressing a fresh piece of cotton into place as she withdraws the needle in one smooth motion. The sting is already gone by the time she presses cotton firmly to the puncture site.
“Hold that,” she says.
He does, fingers closing over the cotton without question.
The needle is capped immediately, disposed of with a soft click into the clear plastic container. Then peels off her gloves with a loud snap as she discards the cotton and latex into the bin. Only then does she look back at him.
“Apply pressure for about a minute,” she adds. “You shouldn’t bruise.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The words come easily.
Chuck doesn’t miss how quickly she’s moved on.
She calls out past him, voice calm and practiced, toward the black curtain separating their workspace from the rest of the infirmary. A moment later, a medical technician answers.
“Baker,” she calls.
A man swivels halfway in his chair. A mug in hand.
“So you’re the new Hansen who’s got me up at seven-thirty on a Thursday to run a CBC,” he says, raising a lazy hand in greeting. “Kyle Baker.”
He doesn’t bother standing, sliding back behind the curtain like a hermit crab back on it’s shell once he has the blood sample in his hands.
Chuck notes the cup in his other hand. So that’s where the coffee smell came from.
She returns to Chuck a moment later, already back on task. “I’ll need you to remove any metal items,” she says politely.
“Yes, ma’am.” He unfastens the belt of his cargo pants and slips it off, then removes his dog tags, setting both neatly on the bed. She nods once and gestures for him to follow.
They pass through a sliding door into another room, colder and brighter, dominated by a machine large enough to demand its own space. A woman sits at a computer console, fingers poised over the keyboard.
“Ranger Hansen,” she says, gesturing, “this is Ms. Asya Shastri, Sydney Shatterdome’s radiologic technologist. Asya—Ranger Charles Hansen. Striker Eureka’s pilot.”
She glances up from the monitors and gives a brief nod. “Nice to meet you, Hansen. I’m Asya. We’ll start with your routine X-ray.”
Asya stands and gestures toward the adjoining room. He follows without comment.
[ THE DOCTOR ] ________________
You wait until the door seals shut before you exhale.
Not because anything went wrong. Because nothing did.
From the other side of the door, your voice carries evenly. “You won’t need radiologic imaging every other week. Once every two months is standard—unless we suspect internal injury.”
You then make a note on your tablet—routine, impersonal. Vitals normal. Labs pending. No abnormalities observed. Cleared for duty barring imaging review. The words come easily. They always do.
Through the thick glass, you can see him standing where Asya positioned him, spine straight, chin lifted just enough to comply with instructions. Still and composed. Already slipping back into the shape the world expects of him.
Eighteen. You shake the thought away and return the stylus to its slot.
A low chime sounds overhead—status update, not an alarm. Somewhere deeper in the Shatterdome, machinery hums louder, heavier. The kind of heavy, echoing sound that has reverberated these walls for the past few years.
When Ranger Hansen returns, his belt and tags back in place, you’re already standing by the door.
“All set,” you tell him. “You’re cleared. Pending lab results. If anything comes up, I’ll have you notified.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies. He hesitates—not enough to be insubordinate. Just enough that you notice.
“Thank you,” he adds, after a beat.
You meet his eyes then. Just briefly.
“You’re all set.” you repeat, keeping your tone neutral, accompanied by a flat smile. Professional. Something he can accept without misinterpreting.
His shoulders ease a fraction. He nods once.
Outside the infirmary doors, the Shatterdome is already shifting gears. Voices over comms, boots striking metal walkways, the low thrum of something massive being finished.
He turns to leave. You stop him—not with your voice at first, but with the weight of it waiting. “Ranger Hansen.”
He pivots back almost immediately. “Yes, ma’am?”
This time, you let yourself soften just a degree. Not as a physician. Not as a woman. But as someone who understands what it means to walk toward danger because someone has to.
“...be careful out there.”
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Then his mouth quirks—not a smile. You think it's something akin to confusion yet incredulousness.
“Yes, ma’am.” He replies, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue.
And then he’s gone—swallowed back into the machinery of war, leaving behind the faint scent of antiseptic and the quiet certainty that this will not be the last time you see him walk away.
Meanwhile, Chuck, on the other side of the hall, tells himself it’s just respect. Oh how wrong he would be as the seasons change.
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I I DECEMBER 16, 2021 I HAWAII INCIDENT MEMO
STRIKER EUREKA MADE ITS FIRST SOLO DEPLOYMENT TO FIGHT AGAINST CAT IV, CERAMANDER ; RANGER CHARLES HANSEN’S DRIFT COMPATIBILITY AND PERFORMANCE DURING KAIJU ENGAGEMENT WITH HERCULES HANSEN IS OPTIMAL.
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