Pairing: Xiumin/Hongo Kanata (Japanese actor)
Side pairing(s): friends!Xiumin/Dongwoo (Infinite), past!Hongo Kanata (Japanese actor)/Kamiki Ryunosuke (Japanese actor)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3864 words
Warnings: mention of electrodes/implied needles, mention of genocide/massacre, war situation, minor character deaths (previous to narrative)
Summary: "That's Minseok, the Fleet's oldest pilot-in-training." "He hasn't been shipped out yet?" "No one knows for sure, but everyone says it's because he can't Sync up with anyone."
Author's Notes: Thanks for much to K and R at the very beginning, and L before I sat down to write this, for taking the time to talk this out with me. Thank you also to L for looking this over and all your helpful comments.
Listen to
Then Suddenly Everything Changed by Alaskan Tapes while you read this.
His cell nudges when Minseok is in the library, looking up the newest files on the ቫይኪንግ skipin, and he rests his fingers against his temple for a moment. The pressure weighs on his brain, not too much, or at least that's the universal standard, but it always feels more significant.
another aborted mission today. they're impenetrable.
The words are simple, abrupt, to the point, and they don't sound like Dongwoo at all. The pressure on his brain eases, but the words remain.
better luck tomorrow?
Minseok doesn't say the things he'd wanted to say, when Dongwoo got matched up with Howon when they were still in training because that's not why he's here and the ቫይኪንግ aren't thinking about things like the small plans of Fleet students or friendships.
yup! see you soon
Dongwoo, whether right next to him or light years away, is eternally optimistic. Minseok loads the newest report about the aborted mission, and tries to sort the skipin out in his head. No matter how stealthy, the ቫይኪንግ always seem to know the Fleet is coming, always face out and armoured against attack, with a power that doesn’t seem to match the laws of Science, at least not any they’ve discovered. . . .against. . . There's a-something-just lingering beyond his fingers, but when he tries to narrow down the thought, it slips away, leaving him with an empty ringing in his head and a silence from the seat beside him, where Dongwoo used to sit. There's only a plastic cup of caffeine, long-grown cold, and the taste is bitter on Minseok's tongue. He swallows it anyway.
Footsteps pass by, on the other side of the stack, and a voice that he can't place murmurs to a hidden listener, "and that's Minseok, the Fleet's oldest pilot-in-training."
"He hasn't been shipped out yet?" another voice whispers back, words muffled in fabric. Minseok doesn't blink, just keeps running his eyes over the text that's become strangely illegible.
"No one knows for sure," the first voice replies, the whisper growing slightly hoarser in its apparent excitement at sharing a rumour for the first time, "but everyone says it's because he can't Sync up with anyone."
The voices keep whispering, fading down the stacks, but faces of the Fleet Panel keep floating behind Minseok's eyes.
"Yes," he had said this last time, like he always did, "I want to stay in the pilot programme."
The Panel only nodded before leaving. They all knew there was nothing to say.
He's not sleeping when the report hits the grid, just lying in his bunk, silence filling the room, interrupted only by the static of the stars. The silence hiccoughs, jumps and stops and then there's the sound of voices crackling and the distorted beeping of sirens. Minseok shouldn't be on the grid, but no one really cares about a Fleet student who's too old to not have graduated yet, a single in a building full of doubles, where everyone is already training for co-existence.
The Sync.
The room is empty without the sound of Dongwoo breathing. Minseok listens to ships falling through space and wonders who's not coming back, fingers twitching as he sits, huddled up in sheets and wishes he was there, doing something, holding the ቫይኪንግ back, away from planets full of people who just wanted to go on and live their lives in quiet. And then he hears mention of the Sparrow, spine ramrod-straight in bed and his heart is racing in his chest.
"No," he whispers, not even realizing that he's voicing the thought out loud. The Sparrow can't have been shot down. Everyone knows that it's piloted by Ryunosuke and Kanata, Kanata the myth, the youngest graduate to ever leave the Academy.
"Kanata," people whisper in the corridors, "who has a Spin so Tilted that it comes out level again." Of course, no one knows the real story, because no one knows the real person, except probably Ryunosuke, his Sync-pilot, and Shota their sharpshooter, but Ryunosuke just smiles and says nothing, and Shota scowls and does the same.
Kanata, the myth, just keeps flying, and taking down skipin, and never coming back down to the ground.
Sometimes, when he's sitting in the library, scrolling through the reports, Minseok wonders if Kanata is running away from something.
"Sparrow down behind ቫይኪንግ lines," an electronic voice crackles over the grid, and Minseok's heart skips a beat.
The Academy is awash with the news in the morning, that Sparrow is down behind enemy lines in a mission gone horribly wrong. Thanks to Kanata's piloting, the ship is relatively undamaged, nothing Shota can't sort out, but Ryunosuke is dead.
"That's the end of the myth," Minseok hears a student sighing over their breakfast, and he balls his fingers into tight fists, keeping this mouth shut.
"All they can do is send a pilot to Sync up with Kanata and get Sparrow back so someone else can pilot it, but who's going to be able to Sync up with him, especially now that his Sync-partner is dead?" There's laughter, the sound of students for whom the ቫይኪንግ are just pictures on a screen, like the villains in combat simulations, where it's so easy to press RESTART.
"Guess it's time for a new myth," another student jokes, his words garbled as though his mouth is stuffed full of food, and Minseok pushes his tray away in disgust, the sound of the metal shrill as it scrapes over the surface of the long tables.
There's a nudge to his head then; Minseok winces and grabs his tray, dumping it in the refuse chute before he checks his cell, expecting to see a message from Dongwoo about the demise of his personal hero. Despite his jokes, Dongwoo always knows when things are serious.
He stares at the screen, brow furrowed as the pressure nudges his head. It's not Dongwoo, who's probably on a mission right now anyway, Minseok realizes, and he hopes his friend is okay.
The message on the screen is from the Fleet Panel.
Your presence is requested.
Standing in front of the panel feels like déjà vu: a kind of sick repetition that usually haunts his dreams before they twist into nightmares of darker things. Minseok doesn't blink, just stands before them, feet firmly pressed to the floor, the fingers of his left hand folded around the narrow bones of his right wrist.
"We presume that you've heard about the fall of the Sparrow." The Cardinal's voice is heavy, like the droop of her eyelids, but Minseok can see her eyes darting around beneath, quick and precise.
"Yes, sir," he replies carefully. He's still not sure what the Panel wants; when the only reason they've summoned him before was to inquire as to his determination to remain in the pilot programme. In the midst of the fallout from Ryunosuke's death and Kanata's impending decommissioning, he doubts that the Panel can be very much concerned with the status of a single lingering pilot student.
"We have always been well-informed of the medical assessments of all the students in the Fleet, particularly the pilot programme," the Machine says, leaning forward in his seat, sharp elbows resting on the arms of his chair. Minseok swallows. He's always known that they've known about his Tilt of his Spin, but it's never been mentioned before, an all too obvious blemish that no one remarks upon, like a smudge on a stranger's face.
There's a pause, as though the Panel is waiting for Minseok to reply, but they've forgotten to voice the question. Finally, the Tempest clears her throat, a soft, polite sound that belies her reputation.
"We need to send someone to collect the Sparrow," she says. "Our resources are stretched thin; we have no one to send."
Minseok doesn't mention his Tilt. He doesn't have to.
"I accept," he says, voice hollow, before he turns and exits the room.
I'm expendable. The thought echoes through his head, mirroring the fall of his feet along the floor of the corridor. It's something he's always known, someone with his past especially, and yet it's different when he's told it to his face, without even an attempt at platitudes to cushion the harsh reality.
It's not the first time Minseok's been in a Coracle, but it's different now, not just a skip around the system or maintenance. He's never been claustrophobic, but the space around him feels so small, the vastness of the Space around him more significant.
This is how it starts, he thinks, watching his hands, untrembling, fingers resting lightly on the controls even though the autopilot is on right now, slipping through the darkness between the stars.
He wonders if the ቫይኪንግ will catch him, even though the Coracle is Cloaked and less than a blip on the tutka. Is this how it ends? The faintly blinking lights of the controls don't have any answer.
The cell in his pocket doesn't nudge his brain either, and Minseok almost misses the intrusion, his mind too light with the pressure gone.
be careful he imagines a message from Dongwoo saying; or maybe go get 'em! He tries to picture his friend's face, but his memory is blurry, and only the picture of 해모수 lingers.
He hasn't thought about home in years. He doesn't let himself linger now. There's a shot of Dongwoo and him on his cell, more than one from their time as roommates, friends, fellow Fleet pilot students, but he doesn't reach for that either, watching the emptiness around the Coracle for the shadows of the ቫይኪንግ skipin, or a glimpse of the Fleet ships, the muted silver shields of the Valkyrie or dull grey fog of Calypso.
Instead, the Coracle slips in between the obstacles of the asteroid belt and his final destination is blooming across the screen of the controls before Minseok has time to adjust himself to the fact that he's here to do something impossible.
The Sparrow is so much bigger than the Coracle, and yet it seems small for the weight of its presence. Or maybe that's just because of the way Shota is glaring at him.
"Kim," he says, instead of hello. Minseok just nods, slipping out of the Coracle's hatch, from where it's docked onto the underside of the Sparrow. You'd never know that the Sparrow hadn't just landed for a quick breather; there's no visible damage to the hull, and the only wear and tear seems to be the the sharpshooter's temper. There's a smear of black under one of his eyes, and Minseok wonders if he's the one who's done most of the repairs, though he's too smart to ask.
The anger skimming the surface of Shota's eyes looks suspiciously like what he saw in his own after 해모수-but he's not going there, not today. Minseok waits, and Shota seems to thaw, just a little, but it's enough.
"Don't hurt him," he says, and for a flickering moment Minseok thinks he's talking about Ryunosuke-but he's already dead his unhelpful thoughts offer-before he realizes that Shota is talking about Kanata.
The dryness in his mouth turns to ash; he's never Synced with anyone successfully before, and he knows the odds of a pilot re-Syncing with a new Sync-partner after the traumatic loss of their former one-or not even traumatic, just a loss in general-Minseok could make as many promises as he wanted to, but they would all be empty.
"They're going to decommission the myth," the voice of the faceless student swims through his head again. His fingers itch, burn in an attempt to keep them from curling into fists. Shota wouldn't understand.
You're dispensable, he remembers, and disagrees. Maybe, for the ቫይኪንግ, 해모수 was dispensable, just another minor obstacle in a bid to take over another corner of the stars. What is a planet, after all, but a speck of dust in eternity, lives scattered like ashes to fade into the void? Maybe, for the Panel, a lingering Fleet pilot student is dispensable. There are so many prospective students swimming up the lines, bright minds, simple in their shallow Spins, uncomplicated by the burdens of the past. But Minseok feels the missing pressure in his brain from the cell that's offline here, behind the enemy line where he only carries himself, his past, and his own memories of his lost homeworld. It feels like freedom.
Kanata isn't what Minseok is expecting, sitting on one side of a small table in the galley that looks more like a glorified closet, but then, when someone is a myth, it's hard to know what to expect. His forearms rest on the table, bare to the elbow, blue veins lightly raised across the surface of his skin, but he doesn't look fragile, doesn't look like someone on their way to decommissioning.
Kanata looks sharp, a bow-string pulled taut and waiting too long to be fired. The curve of his spine over the edge of the table, head hanging over his hands, isn't defeated. It's strangely expectant, not hopeful. Minseok feels like he's watching someone waiting for the other shoe to fall, not so they can curl up in defeat, but so that they can leap with razor claws and tear the enemy to shreds.
He barely spares a thought to wonder where Ryunosuke is. Minseok doesn't want to know.
"Fleet pilot-in-training Kim Minseok," he says, quietly but not softly, "reporting for duty."
There's a pause, and Minseok wonders if this is where the inevitable begins to happen. His knuckles would be white by now, but he's keeping his fingers loose and relaxed at his sides, the strain of that somehow harder to bear
"Hongo Kanata," Kanata says, reeling back in his seat, eyes locking with Minseok's in a smooth motion, like training the crosshairs on a target. His voice isn't loud, but it cuts the silence more effectively than a shout; soft, deep without being low, and raspy, as though he hasn't spoken in a long time.
Minseok doesn't bother wondering if that's true or not.
"Do you need to rest?" Kanata asks, and Minseok blinks, losing the trajectory of this conversation.
"No?" he replies, the truth of the statement trailing upwards into a question. Kanata ignores the tone.
"I've been waiting," he says, and stands, unfolding himself from the seat like paper and wire unfolding, a coiled spring stretching to launch itself at the void. Minseok barely keeps from stepping back in surprise.
"Sir?" he asks, uncertain.
"Kanata," Kanata corrects him, stepping past him down the corridor that leads to the bridge. Minseok's had a lot of time to study; he knows the Sparrow's floorplan like the back of his hand.
It's Kanata he doesn't know, following along behind him, footsteps falling in the wake of a shadow.
Even though Minseok's never been able to Sync with anyone before, he knows how it works. Kanata slides into his seat, reaching up for the helmet and pulling it down over his head. It fits him like a glove, as it should; he's been using it for years after all.
Minseok tries to show his apprehension about taking his own seat, an interloper in a spot that's not really his. There's no sign of an accident here either, which almost makes it worse. Minseok doesn't know anything about Ryunosuke at all.
The helmet is new, a spare by the looks of it, the metal shiny and unscratched in contrast to the well-maintained but older stem that connects it to the centre of the Sparrow. Slipping it over his head feels like a blindfold, until the system starts running through, adjusting and adapting to fit his skull, the electrodes snaking out to sink into his skin.
He always blinks, this time no different from any other, and waits for the nausea to set in, the vertigo and flashing behind his eyes, bleeding over into his vision as his mind tries and fails to Sync with the interloper.
Breathe, Kanata says-thinks-and Minseok follows the sound of his voice that isn’t a sound at all, the words-thoughts-unexpected, as nothing spins at all. There's just a burst in his head, a tingling feeling that extends from the base of his spine, beneath his skin to the furthest extremities of his fingers and toes, before it circles back to the space behind his eyes, prickly but not exactly painful as he opens his mouth and takes a mouthful of air. The first gulp tastes like salt and copper, sticky on his tongue, and then he's breathing and everything is the same, except it's slanted, just a bit, not enough to unbalance him.
Good, Kanata thinks and it sounds, maybe, like a smile. Minseok turns, the helmet light on his head, neck moving unimpeded, but Kanata is already talking into the comm, face turned slightly away and shadowed.
"All systems set," he says, and Minseok can hear Shota's voice in response.
"Green," he says, voice floating over the speaker, and Minseok feels almost bewildered.
That's it? he has to ask, even though he regrets it as soon as the words have left his mouth, making him sound as experienced in successful Syncing as he is.
Not that Syncing is something anyone normally gets experienced at, at least not with a new Sync-pilot. After all, pilots only Sync up once.
Kanata doesn't sound annoyed though, when he turns to meet Minseok's eyes, and tilts his head slightly to the exact angle that Minseok feels like his brain is slanted. He can’t help himself.
But. . .I have a Tilt, he thinks the words spilling through his mind, a fact of life that he's always had floating in the background of this thoughts.
The corner of Kanata's mouth curls up in the tiniest of smirks, even though the skin around his eyes is shadowed with exhaustion. So do I," he thinks.
Minseok wonders if two people have Spins so Tilted that they balance, or if, like the rumours say, Kanata is so Tilted that he comes out level.
Kanata starts up the engines, and he decides it doesn't really matter anyway. The hum of the Sparrow fills his head, swims up beneath his skin, and he looks out at the dark cresting above the short horizon of the asteroid.
Flying, here on the Sparrow, a real ship and not a simulator with a virtual Sync-pilot who always feels off, is like stretching a muscle Minseok didn't know he even had, slowly uncramping as he extends, hands on the controls that are only an accessory to the real piloting that's happening in their heads. At first he lets Kanata pull more of the weight, but Kanata doesn't just take it, even though Minseok suspects he could. Instead, he keeps pushing the awareness of the ship, the expanse of the space outside-detectable by the tutka and the rest of their instruments-over to the centre of their shared consciousness, there at the helm of the Sparrow, and Minseok stops standing back and takes a mental step up to stand level with Kanata.
There's a deep sadness lurking there, further at the edges of Kanata's mind, only soft waves of the sea lapping over into their consciousness, but rather than a weight, an anchor dragging them over towards the bottom and the dangers of the shared subconsciousness, it feels familiar, a match to the dark spots in his head where he keeps his childhood, and the 해모수 disaster.
It's not that his Tilt is gone, but rather that he feels a counterpart. Minseok lets his awareness slip away from the composition of their mental landscape, and looks ahead, out at the dark where the ቫይኪንግ skipin are swarming, lead by their flagship, shields unbroken by the Fleet ships, shifting-in their circling approach-ever closer to the vulnerable planets of the outer Edge, less outer than it used to be.
There's a pressure, not like the feeling of his cell nudging his brain, an external trespass, but rather the simple awareness of a presence.
Minseok wonders if this is what skipin feel like, the vibration sharp and metallic in a way that his mind wants to slide off of, but he keeps his focus on it and feels the mental nod from Kanata that yes, these are skipin, the ones they have to avoid in their flight back to the Fleet Command.
It's probably due to the fact that he was still adjusting to feeling what he'd always before only read about, Minseok thinks later, that he took so long to realize what was right beneath his nose.
But once he does feel it, it's so glaring obvious that he can't figure out why no one else has realized it, until he thinks about where they're coming from, and what it took to get them there. Ryunosuke, dead. The Sparrow, grounded, albeit temporarily, and only relatively undamaged thanks to the skill of Kanata's solo piloting, something that they've all been trained to recognize as extremely dangerous to the integrity of the mind.
Wait, he thinks, and orders the sudden flashes of intuition into a coherent flow of thought that he floods into their Sync, Kanata's mental question shifting to resolve.
"Prepare to fire on command," Kanata says into the comm, the sound of his voice startling to Minseok in the small space of the bridge, forgetting about Shota and everything else in the rush of a first Sync.
Shota doesn't protest, just replies a moment later. "Green."
Rather than skirting the skipin, they approach from behind, Cloaked and completely silent. Minseok remembers his thoughts, back in the library, talking to Dongwoo. Always face out and armoured against attack.
He doesn't look at Kanata, but he can feel their matching grins, teeth bared and smiling as they approach from behind, firing.
The ቫይኪንግ aren't ready for them at all, and as bright blossoms bloom across the void, flagship completely destroyed and the rest of the armada scattering, the Sparrow zipping and darting in preparation for when the skipin will collect and attack, Minseok laughs to the sound of destruction as something unfolds in his chest.
It doesn't make what happened on 해모수 okay, his family-their new start-gone forever, buried beneath the sound of opening fire. It doesn't erase the complete eradication of አገራቸው at first contact, the word ቫይኪንግ adopted in commemoration of the first people who fought against the hostile invaders and perished, sending warning to the Fleet and the neighbouring planets. But it feels like taking control, setting a Spin at full-Tilt and letting the Sync rip out to finally do something that makes a difference.
Kanata, an arm's breadth away but closer-their shared consciousness holding the Sparrow steady as Shota delivers hit after hit, lifting the Cloak for mere nanoseconds each time rather than depend on the lower-strength Shields that allow for outward fire but don't defeat the ቫይኪንግ tutka-exhales, and Minseok hears himself inhale with him, the Sparrow humming beneath his skin, singing in his blood. This is the opposite of an aborted mission, this is a resurrection against the odds, this is exactly where he's supposed to be.
Minseok doesn't have to say anything at all.