exo: the world from above (1/3)
the world from above
→ baekhyun/kyungsoo, jongdae/liyin ; 31,854 w.
→ living life without knowing if there'll be a tomorrow tends to change people. falling in love does, too. (pacific rim!au)
→ written for everyone, sooenaemoured 2014. sincerest thanks goes out to onyu for putting up with me through my trying hours during this fest, as well as thunggyu, synchronizity and specialises for your constant encouragement! ♥
→ no prior watching of the movie is needed to understand this fic; explanations have been included for readers new to the pacific rim universe! c:
"To Kyungsoo."
In the stillness of the empty control room, the clink of their glasses is sharp, reverberating between the desks of equipment and travelling along the wires of scattered machinery. Kyungsoo raises the rim to his lips, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. The liquid making its way down his throat definitely doesn't seem to be in any kind of rush, moving slowly, leaving a tangy, acidic taste in its wake. Kyungsoo licks the roof of his mouth and sets his glass back on the table; it's been a while since he last had something so sweet.
Opposite him, Minseok downs his entire glass at a go and lets out a long, contented sigh afterwards. "Is this okay, though? You never share this with anyone." He gestures absentmindedly at the frosted bottle perched in the middle of the table, like an unfinished centerpiece patiently awaiting adornment.
Junmyeon laughs. "Today's special, so it's fine."
In accordance with PPDC regulations, alcohol isn't allowed anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of the Seoul headquarters, not even in Marshall Wu Yifan's private store. Intoxication is, after all, something everyone in their line of work couldn't possibly afford. Kyungsoo was pretty sure they'd have to settle with regular-grade grape juice, the kind distributed in the cafeteria during lunch, but Junmyeon had pulled out a bottle of sparkling juice at the last minute with a twinkle in his eye and insisted today was a special enough occasion to share it.
"So how is it that you even have sparkling juice with you?" Kyungsoo challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat.
Junmyeon's sarcasm has extremely rounded edges. The kind of blade that pokes you in the side, but doesn't bruise, barely even hurts. "Maybe I bought it? At a supermarket?"
It's Jongin's turn to grin, one arm casually tossed around Kyungsoo's shoulder as he stares Junmyeon right in the eye. "You actually go out, hyung? If you're not here, then you're over at J-Tech. If you're not at either of these places, you're probably in the cafeteria or conked out in your bunker," he points out.
Junmyeon makes an odd sputtering noise and wrings his hands in front of him. "I-" His mouth moves soundlessly to wrap around the beginnings of an unfinished retort. Prolonged moments of silence make it clear to everyone that Junmyeon has no legitimate rebuttal. "Fine, I asked Chanyeol to get it for me last week," he concedes reluctantly, an embarrassed flush fanning across his cheeks.
No surprises there; Kyungsoo first met Junmyeon four years ago, when he transferred in to local J-Tech from Tokyo HQ. Kyungsoo didn't need to ask to know what position he held in the department - Junmyeon's calm, easygoing demeanour was the giveaway, the signature of a qualified neural bridge operator. His shy smiles and modest laughter belied his real capabilities, though, the kind of startling intelligence and keen eye for detail that threw everyone off-balance and propelled him from J-Tech greenhorn to LOCCENT mission controller in little under a year.
In the span of time they've known each other, Kyungsoo can't recall ever seeing Junmyeon take weekends off, much less go for a breather in the outside world, someplace where the stench of engine oil and the sound of metal against metal can't stick to him like post-rain dew.
Kyungsoo isn't one to talk, though. He barely remembers going out for anything not related to work.
"Last week?" Jongin's question jerks him back to reality, like someone flinging open the curtains to a dark room without warning. There's a slight hint of bemusement seeping into his voice, accusation without malice. "Then you guys must've known about Kyungsoo making the cut for days now."
Minseok only offers a cryptic smile in return and gets to his feet, dusting his shirt lightly. "We have to get going," he reminds Junmyeon, tapping his watch. "Meeting at nine, remember?"
Junmyeon doesn't spare a single drop of juice from his glass. The thick file he picks up from the table reads 'Jaeger Tech' in authoritative, embossed silver letters. His gaze flickers from the text to Kyungsoo, then finally settles on Jongin. The faint traces of a smile linger on his lips, strangely telling under the lighting of the control room. "We at J-Tech tend to know a few things."
It's been three years since Junmyeon was assigned to the main body of Strike Group personnel. Technically- "You're not J-Tech anymore, hyung," Jongin says, subconsciously completing Kyungsoo's sentence.
"Once J-Tech, always J-Tech!" Junmyeon yells his reply over his shoulder, closing the door behind him.
Some things never change, Kyungsoo muses. He rubs his index finger against the rim of the glass, producing a soft, wispy note that dissipates just as quickly as it came in the newfound silence of the control room. Sound is a funny thing: seemingly far away, hard to grasp, elusive - just like today.
"Is Seoul's newest Jaeger pilot thinking about his first big kill already? A Category 3, maybe?" Jongin's questions are always phrased lightly, the end of his sentences seemingly tilting upward in intonation as he grins, but more often than not, they have silent implications. Jongin's never been one to say things directly, mostly because there's never a need to. His teasing, gentle smiles are a constant reminder that he knows the workings of Kyungsoo's mind like the back of his hand.
Today, though, the curl of his fingers against the fabric of Kyungsoo's sweater, marginal but very much purposeful, is enough to give him away. We won't spend much time together anymore.
Kyungsoo swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. "Shush," he says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. "I haven't been officially installed yet. I haven't even been assigned a co-pilot." Fair points, both of them, perfectly reasonable and perfectly true. The argument, though, sounds half-baked even to Kyungsoo's own ears.
Pilot.
Half of Kyungsoo's life has revolved around that one word. It was the star in his sky, the one he'd continue looking for even on nights where the clouds shrouded it protectively, the one he'd keep chasing even on days he fell and scraped his knees. He hadn't given much thought to the day where it would no longer be just a faraway concept.
Pilot Do Kyungsoo, Marshall Wu had announced to the Seoul HQ Shatterdome, will be one half of two pilots manning the newly-commissioned Jaeger, Nova Hyperion.
Kyungsoo can still hear the marshall's deep voice over deafening cheers and applause, looping over and over again in his head like a faultless recording. Surreality seems to come hand-in-hand with an odd sense of listlessness.
"Co-pilot designations, huh?" Jongin's voice is smaller now, more child-like, not the hardened, fiery Kim Jongin that everyone in Seoul HQ knows. This is Kim Jongin, Kyungsoo's friend since middle school, his protector and confidante and best friend personified in a sun-kissed, chiselled boy.
Kyungsoo toys with his fingers, runs them along the smooth, polished texture of the metal tabletop. It's seamless, cold, much like technology and the world they live in. He stares out the glass of the control room at the hollow loading bay, already lined with transport rails. In a week or two, it would no longer be empty - his heart lurches at the realisation that there would be a Mark 4 Jaeger in its place, a marvel with fifteen thousand tanks of diesel per muscle strand, the most advanced digital fighting machine to date. His Mark 4 Jaeger.
He nods slightly. "Yeah. I heard the candidates will start flying in tomorrow."
Jongin inclines his head, following Kyungsoo's gaze. "Minseok-hyung told me the one from Russia touched down this evening."
When Kyungsoo doesn't answer, Jongin clears his throat and scoots closer, the wheels of his chair moving soundlessly against the floor. He rests his cheek against Kyungsoo's shoulder and fiddles with the hem of his sweater. "You're gonna have an amazing co-pilot, hyung. They're sending in only the best for you. You deserve the best," he says, determination seeping into the tenderness of his words.
This feels like middle school all over again, when Jongin would do just this - lean his head against Kyungsoo's shoulder while they sat under their favourite tree in the park, telling him things in such a heartfelt, honest voice that Kyungsoo couldn't help but feel like the one who truly deserved the world and more was Jongin. Just like he always does, Kyungsoo lifts a hand to Jongin's hair, patting it gently.
"You're one of the candidates, Jongin. It could be you, you know. You're pretty close to the best."
Kyungsoo can feel the upturn of Jongin's lips against the cotton of his sweater. "We'll be the most kick-ass Jaeger pilot duo in history."
Their conversations always end when they feel like they've said all they want to say. The ensuing silence is comfortable.
As he walks down the corridor, exchanging polite greetings with the people milling around or passing him by, it occurs to Kyungsoo that this could very well be one of his last days in trainee accommodation. In a few days' time, he'd move to the pilot bunkers, only a few minutes' walk away from the loading bay for maximum accessibility. He'd be mingling with unpredictability, rubbing shoulders with uncertainty. Working around circumstances and playing with fire would be the description most apt for the job.
Kyungsoo has a set routine of waking up at six thirty in the morning. He's in the shower by six forty most days, out the door by seven, at the cafeteria by fifteen, depending on elevator traffic. Repetition has always been a faithful companion of his, like a cassette on loop. Mundane at best, but somehow reassuring, in its own strange way. Kyungsoo is often reminded that humanity functions in a way that defies the logic they preach. Despite the impending danger looming over them, the world continues to spin, cocooned in blissful ignorance. The threat of extinction could be hanging in the air, but humanity still finds time to worry about petty things like material wealth, love, routines. It's an odd world to live in, but it's still their world, and in a few days, he'll join the ranks of those tasked to safeguard it.
By the time he arrives at the cafeteria, having excused himself as gently and quickly as he can from everybody who stops to offer him their congratulations, the large display above the open metal doors reads 7:38 in angular, red font.
The tape of the cassette is starting to come loose; the sound is beginning to jar.
The half hour that's slipped by Kyungsoo thankfully hasn't cost him; the line for breakfast isn't particularly long. As she hands him a tray of food, the cafeteria lady cooes her congratulatory wishes at him. "All my food must've done you some good, boy!" Chanyeol had told him this once, but Kyungsoo had written it off as mere exaggeration: if there's anywhere in Seoul HQ that word gets out the fastest among non-Shatterdome staff, it'd be the cafeteria. News spreads like wildfire here, blazing hot and near impossible to put out, be it a K-Science mishap or an all-out brawl in the Kwoon combat room.
Kyungsoo attempts to untangle his shirt collar from the notch of his jacket while balancing his tray of food at the top of the stairs. For a newly-approved Jaeger pilot graduate, his inability to multitask efficiently at anything not related to work is painfully apparent. The plastic cup of coffee on his tray might be tilting far too dangerously to the right-
"Careful, I don't think kimchi paste looks too good on white shirts." A hand reaches out to steady his tray, returning its level to a safe 180 degrees flat. Kyungsoo returns a runaway roll back onto its plate and looks up to meet a pair of bright, inquisitive eyes that belie the serene voice that had spoken. Much like his tone, the small smile that lifts the edges of the speaker's lips hints at amusement. "I'd shake your hand, but I wouldn't want both our trays falling over."
Kyungsoo finds himself hard-pressed not to return the tentative grin. Whoever this person is, he seems to have mastered the art of breaking the ice with strangers, slicing right through it like a hot knife through butter.
"Kim Jongdae," the man says.
"Do Kyungsoo; nice meeting you." It's been a long time since anybody has set him at such complete ease during their first conversation. The lightness is foreign, a far cry from the usual weight of expectations bearing down on him like one extra book in an overloaded backpack.
Jongdae's jaw goes slack and he blinks at Kyungsoo a few times, as if trying to clear a fog that's settled over his eyes. "Are you ser-" he begins. Readjusting his grip on his own plastic tray and rearranging his features into something less surprised, he directs a sheepish smile at Kyungsoo. "Who would've thought? Good ol' me saving Seoul HQ's newest pilot graduate from a breakfast disaster. Congratulations on your promotion."
"Thank you," is Kyungsoo's simple, shy reply. He knows he really should make an effort to be more eloquent in cases like these, but words have never been a close friend of his. He's never found himself particularly mindful of this shortcoming; he doesn't need words in the Drift. Succinctness has always been right up his alley anyway.
It suddenly strikes Kyungsoo that although Jongdae's Korean is just as natural as any local's, he's never seen Jongdae's face around these parts, in all his years here. "You're one of the pilot candidates, aren't you?" Kyungsoo ventures, although he's almost certain of the answer.
Jongdae adopts a mock regal tone, the grin on his face spreading to its full width. "I leave myself in your able care."
Kyungsoo gestures for Jongdae to follow him as he descends the steps to the main seating area of the cafeteria, scanning the crowd for any sign of either Jongin or Chanyeol, both of whom are the only ones tall enough to be seen over the sea of hungry cafeteria-goers. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Chanyeol waving a long arm animatedly at him, a piece of lettuce in his mouth.
"Do you sit with a pilot posse or something?" Jongdae speaks up as they weave their way through the crowd, narrowly avoiding the muscled arm of a big brute. "Because that'd be kind of overwhelming."
Kyungsoo can't help but chuckle at the comment. "Nah. I'll be honest with you, we're more a motley crew than a posse."
When he draws closer, he sees that the total headcount of the table has been brought to six. Junmyeon and Minseok are seated opposite each other, deep in discussion about J-Tech's newest open secret, the revamped cannon prototype. "Morning," Kyungsoo announces his arrival, slipping into the seat next to Jongin and motioning for Jongdae to do the same.
"Who's this?" Chanyeol flashes Jongdae a look of intrigue while trying to squeeze an oversized lump of kimchi into a folded piece of lettuce with limited success.
"Hi," is the nervous response that tumbles past Jongdae's lips, bringing all action at the table to a halt. Seated next to Chanyeol, Jongdae looks substantially smaller, both in stature and bearing. His earlier confidence seems to have retreated to the very tip of his tongue. Kyungsoo gives him an encouraging nod and mouths, they're nice, promise. "I- uh, I'm Kim Jongdae, and frankly, I'm just hoping to survive the week and be a pilot."
The soft clink of Jongin's chopsticks against the edge of his bowl is drowned out by Chanyeol's laughter, rough and loud like waves battering the foot of a cliff, amplified by the cafeteria's strangely excellent acoustics. Jongin extends a hand across the table, a grin teasing the edges of his lips upward. "Pilot trainee, Seoul-based, Kim Jongin." Kyungsoo can't say he's not impressed by Jongdae's seemingly contagious easygoing vibes. Very few people have made Jongin comfortable enough to offer the first greeting, standard introduction or not, much less coerce a smile out of him so soon.
Almost as if echoing his sentiments out loud, Chanyeol exclaims, "I like this one already!"
"This is the early bird I told everyone about," Minseok says over a mouthful of bread. "He's the pilot candidate from Russia."
When Kyungsoo argues that he hasn't been told, that he had to hear the news from Jongin secondhand, Minseok raises both palms defensively. "That's because you were too busy being congratulated by everyone. Russia sent him out the moment we paged international Shatterdomes about your co-pilot recruitment."
Fifteen minutes into breakfast is all it takes for them to feel like they've known Jongdae for years. He eagerly gives detailed answers to Junmyeon's enquiries about the newly-revamped Soviet Jaeger commissioning policies, shares stories about his gruelling days as a Russian trainee with Jongin, jokingly thanks Minseok for the glowing recommendation he'd been given to everyone.
"I have a feeling we'll be best friends!" Chanyeol's proclamation comes as he reaches over to steal a bit of Jongdae's pickled radish - a sign for the better, since he only ever attempts to nick food from people he considers close to him.
In a lot of ways, Kyungsoo realises, Chanyeol and Jongdae bear striking similarities. Easy to get along with, personable, all sunny smiles and boisterous laughter that serve to divert attention from the gloominess of the world. Chanyeol's lighthearted nature always reminds him that there are still simple pleasures in life, a temporary distraction, a decoy of sorts.
"You haven't lost your accent at all, though." Junmyeon's polite observation brings Kyungsoo back to the conversation at the table. He gestures in Jongdae's direction with his spoon. "Gyeonggi-do, right?"
Jongdae grins into his glass of water. "Siheung, yes. You've got a good ear."
"Really?" Jongin leans back in his chair, his breakfast tray wiped clean in front of him, without so much as a grain of food left. It used to save Kyungsoo a lot of trouble not having to throw out any food when Jongin came over for dinner. "Kyungsoo-hyung's from Gyeonggi-do too, Goyang, actually."
The grin Kyungsoo directs at Jongin is returned in similar fashion, shoulders bumping and hands brushing under the table. Sometimes Jongin knows him better than he knows himself - one of several side effects of having grown up side-by-side through years of friendship. Kyungsoo can't say he minds, though; it's good to have someone remind him of who he is from time to time, to catch him from being swept away by the merciless currents of the world.
Kyungsoo obliges Jongdae a high-five. "I moved to Seoul when I was a kid, so I've kind of lost my accent. Small world, though, huh?"
"The world is tiny. We're just insignificant pawns in a bigger game."
The voice that had answered isn't Jongdae's. It's sandy, nasally, almost, like alcohol on the rocks and the lapping of waves against the shore. Yet, it retained a certain smoothness to it, an enticing sound that draws you into the inviting arms of the water.
Kyungsoo spots him first.
A young man with hooded eyes, partially concealed behind a thick fringe of jet black hair and the peak of his cap, sits idly at the next table. His breakfast lies untouched in front of him, a silent spectator to the soft drumming of his fingers against the metal tabletop. By all means, a calculated, steady rhythm, but mildly off-putting. It sounds like the build-up to an explosive chorus, the calm at the eye of the storm.
His all-black getup is disarming, conveniently inconspicuous. He could easily be mistaken for a shadowy J-Tech figure, a specialist who spends his days holed up brainstorming the specs for the next generation of Jaegers. He could be K-Science, the prodigy who analyses twice as quickly as his colleagues harvest Kaijuu organs.
Call it instinct, call it intuition, but Kyungsoo knows neither of these are the case. The unwavering pair of eyes staring back at him is strangely reminiscent of a needle dipped in fire before vaccination. Fine but potent, dull but precise. They speak of all the hours he's spent in the training room, of all the years of being beaten down by intense physical and mental training.
This man, if anything, is a pilot in the making.
That defiance bleeding out of his eyes into his stare, caged by the iron bars of obedience and chained by the cuffs of responsibility, isn't alien to Kyungsoo. He's seen that look often enough, usually in the mirror.
His answer carries over the quiet murmur of the cafeteria and the aisle of distance between them. "When you're in a Jaeger, you're not. You don't need to run away from the storm. You face it head-on."
The stranger doesn't seem fazed in the slightest, not acknowledging Kyungsoo's answer, if he heard it at all. Kyungsoo watches him stand up and brush his hair out of his eyes - still as impassive as ever, but the most minute tinge of curiosity registers in the pursing of his lips. His gaze roams slowly over everyone seated at the table, like a parched bird drinking in the scenery to satiate its thirst, before landing on Kyungsoo. In a quieter voice, less bold but equally telling, he says, "Storms are there for a reason," and spins on his heel, walking away in the opposite direction.
Tense silence blankets the table for several long moments, broken only when Junmyeon folds up the plastic wrap on his tray. Kyungsoo keeps his eyes fixed on the direction of the man's departure, holding his breath, as if he might suddenly decide to come back.
"Who the hell was that?" Jongdae sounds two parts confused, three parts miffed.
Junmyeon and Minseok exchange cautious glances; a transfer of information through their small window of telepathy, made of an innate understanding of each other's thought processes and built by months of working together. Sometimes, Kyungsoo ponders what it would be like if they'd both been fit enough to be pilots. Would they have made the cut? Would they have been Drift-compatible partners?
Minseok is the first to concede. "That was Byun Baekhyun, another one of the pilot candidates. He's local, but he's been with the Academy in San Francisco nearly half his life."
Next to him, Jongin purses his lips, unmoving stare fixated on his cup of coffee, as if coercing answers from the plastic. The Jaeger Program in San Francisco has been nothing short of being held in the highest regard; its prestige and resourcefulness are common knowledge among anybody in this line of work. But if this man - no, Byun Baekhyun - had been prolific enough to be the solo representative they'd chosen to send here, surely Seoul HQ would've caught wind of such a character.
"What's he even doing as a pilot?" The question slips past Jongin's teeth in a growl. "He sounds like he doesn't even like the idea of being in a Jaeger."
The smooth grind of wood against tile punctuates their conversation as Junmyeon stands up. "The San Fran base didn't provide much information about him. But he's got an impressive track record."
He can't be that impressive, Kyungsoo wants to say, but he bites down on his tongue to stop the reply in its tracks. If it's anything Kyungsoo's learnt about Junmyeon in all the years they've known each other, it's that he never exaggerates. He tells things as they are - receives, analyses, concludes. It's one of Junmyeon's defining qualities as head of the LOCCENT control room.
"No," Minseok says, exhaling slowly and deeply, the same way students do when they've spent too many minutes on the same examination question. The variables have been set, but the formulas and answers to the problem elude them. "Impressive doesn't even begin to cut it. He's flawless. He's the physical specimen of an ideal Jaeger pilot. I gave them clearance, I would know."
Chanyeol picks the uneaten roll off Jongdae's plate and chews it slowly, as if the act of eating bread might be able to help piece together the puzzle that hangs heavy in the air around them. "You said San Fran didn't give you much info about this guy. Then, are they keeping it from us?"
The cassette has broken. In his mind, Kyungsoo switches to the radio. An ominous tune is playing, but you never know what song would be on next.
"There's none."
Kyungsoo knows for a fact that all combat rooms are standardised in Jaeger bases throughout the world. Maintaining certain regulations, PPDC had announced, would be necessary to help trainees readjust their mindsets after relocation. Being transferred from one base to another depending on demand after they graduate from the Academy is hardly uncommon, after all. A combat room in Beijing would feel and look no different from one in Sydney; familiar terrain for all trainees to minimise culture shock.
He remembers the first time he set foot in Seoul HQ's combat room. Everything had been exactly the same as the one he'd gotten accustomed to in London, each detail replicated down to a T, from the temperature to the layout of the room. Seven years overseas, immersed in hardcore training under the Jaeger program, had elevated London into more of a home than Gyeonggi-do ever was. The Seoul base felt frighteningly similar, blurring the lines between here and there - the same mildly cooling air on his skin, the same bright crimson banner on the wall with the golden seal of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps embroidered on the front, the same unfeeling metal walls boxing him in. There is no escape, they seemed to say.
Fight or die - the same way you would in a Jaeger.
"Never really changes, does it?" Jongin always adopts a more hesitant tone whenever he says something with the intention of coaxing Kyungsoo out of his thoughts.
Kyungsoo diverts his gaze from the metal partition he'd been staring at to his fingers, clasped primly in front of him. "Sometimes, when I don't think about it, I feel like I'm back in London."
People call this strange feeling of nostalgia 'homesickness'. Kyungsoo had brought this up once, during his second month back in Seoul, when everything still felt foreign and the lilt of Korean on his tongue was alien and slow. He'd felt like a bear coming out of hibernation. Jongin had only frowned at him and asked, "How can you call it homesickness when London isn't even your home?"
You belong here, hyung. This is home, Jongin's eyes seem to say, then and now. He's right about this, or rather, he's never been wrong - the Republic of Korea will always be Kyungsoo's rightful home. He was born here, raised here. But he could never shake off the feeling of being incomplete, of waiting for someone or something to fill the gaps of his existence. It'd been a subconscious part of his reason for enrolling under the Jaeger program and being shipped off to Europe. His superiors and trainers at the Academy called this his fighting nature, his calling as a pilot.
Maybe they were right, Kyungsoo thinks, as he bids Jongin goodbye with a good luck, I'll see you on the mat, and begins making his way to the far end of the room, where Minseok awaits him expectantly, clipboard in hand. Maybe today, he'll find his co-pilot, his other half in mind and body. He mulls over the thought as he shrugs off his jacket, turning the idea around in his head like inspecting a coin.
Minseok's light smile always makes Kyungsoo feel more reassured, somehow. He acknowledges and respects, but never bears his expectations down on anyone. It feels liberating. "All geared up?"
Kyungsoo grins as he does some basic stretching, loosening his muscles, taut with tension and nerves. The combat room feels stuffier now, with fellow trainees, pilot candidates and spectators alike pouring in to witness the physical part of the co-pilot selection tests. "I don't have a suit yet, so no gearing up."
"That may be, Pilot Do, but I certainly hope the gears inside are already up and running," comes a deep, silken voice behind them both. A hushed quiet falls over the room as Marshall Wu Yifan himself strides in, decked in a uniform as green as lush fern, golden blond hair neatly pushed back and sharp eyes that seem to pierce through everything they see, hard but not unkindly.
Kyungsoo watches with amusement as the newer trainees and foreign pilot candidates gawk the sight of Marshall Wu, standing tall with all the regality and posture of a highborn prince. The Marshall is a clear head taller than everyone else, all except Jongin and a few other freshmen trainees Kyungsoo can't put names to. Excited but muted chatter spreads throughout the room the moment Marshall Wu turns away, as if everyone had been holding their breath and had exhaled as one.
He can't fault anybody, though; it's Kyungsoo's first time being in such close proximity to the Marshall himself, and he'd be lying if he said Wu Yifan doesn't live up to everything that's been said about him. A retired pilot, Guangzhou-born and one of the first to be groomed at the Jaeger base in Vancouver. Statistics show he isn't just a pretty face, though - he boasts an impressive repertoire of twenty-four drops and twenty-four kills.
"Kris, nice of you to join us early," Minseok chirps brightly, sliding the clipboard into his hands.
There's a hint of a smile at the corners of the Marshall's lips and in the tone of his reply. "You and Junmyeon are the only ones who ever call me that anymore."
He skims briefly through the list of candidates and returns it to Minseok, then extends a hand to Kyungsoo in greeting. "Pilot Do, you have my apologies for not personally congratulating you on the day of your appointment. You were a cut above your peers in training; it was a pleasure to have chosen you to join our ranks," he says curtly.
This close, Kyungsoo can see the sincerity in the crease of his brows and a sense of justice as hard and sharp as the angular line of his jaw. Nearly beside himself with awe, he barely manages to remember formalities, gives the Marshall the firmest handshake he can muster and bows deeply in return, albeit a few seconds later than he probably should've. "The pleasure is entirely mine, sir. Thank you for the faith you've put in me."
"I trust you've met at least part of your co-pilot candidates?" Marshall Wu poses the question just as Minseok excuses himself to round up the test takers. They watch the room fall into a noisy flurry of activity as spectators part to make way.
Kyungsoo sees Jongin at the front of the pack; he's taken off his jacket, lean, muscular arms strong at his side, eyes burning with all the intensity of molten lava. Jongdae stands a few paces away from him, taking deep breaths and staring ahead with a chilly kind of resolution. All traces of his cheerfulness and sunny smiles seem to have disappeared, replaced by an icy focus that looks deadly enough to kill.
Fire and water, hot and cold, Kyungsoo muses.
The rest of them are sturdy young lads lined up along the wall, some standing alone, others in clusters. Their stances are classic overconfident, crossed arms and sweeping gazes, each thinking himself better than the other while they burn with a sense of false pride and justice. Kyungsoo's seen the likes of them before. That's why he is where he is today and they aren't.
All in all, they're nondescript enough for Kyungsoo to dismiss. All, he notices, except a beautiful woman who looks like she'd belong on billboards more than she would in a Jaeger base. Her smile is as gentle as the soft brown tresses grazing her shoulder blades, but there is composure and agility in the tilt of her lips, in the way she carries herself. The only girl in the room, but she isn't even fidgeting, merely gazing coolly at the mat of the arena, as if the material were the most interesting thing in the world. Kyungsoo makes a mental note to be wary; he's never seen anyone quite like her.
"Yes," Kyungsoo replies, "I have. I spoke to some of them this morning."
Marshall Wu doesn't oblige him an answer; instead, he watches the crowd put themselves in order. Kyungsoo should be warming up, running tactics and strategies through his head one last time, or profiling everyone and coming up with possible weak spots. The last thing he should be doing is looking intently at the audience, scanning, searching.
Byun Baekhyun is pressed up against the wall at the very end of the line, arms crossed and staring right at Kyungsoo with his veiled grey eyes. What are you still doing? they seem to ask, speaking to Kyungsoo even if his mouth isn't moving and his face remains as impassive as ever. Shouldn't you be getting ready?
Kyungsoo's heart skips a beat, almost like an affirmation. Baekhyun diverts his gaze elsewhere, almost like he's gotten the message.
The Marshall's voice resounds clearly through the room, ricocheting off the walls and echoing in Kyungsoo's ears. It's the kind of voice that sounds like it's been polished to be heard over the booming sounds of battle. "Welcome to the first half of the co-pilot selection tests. I am Shatterdome Marshall Wu Yifan and I will be overseeing your tests today. Minseok-sshi, if you will."
"Each of you will challenge Pilot Do Kyungsoo one-on-one on the mat with these wooden staffs." Minseok gestures towards two wooden sticks lying in the middle of the makeshift arena; not long enough to be overbearing, but solid and heavy enough to be a challenge. "The first person to be two points ahead of the other wins."
"Thank you." Minseok's always been one to remember his manners, Kyungsoo thinks dryly. "Each of you will challenge Pilot Do Kyungsoo one-on-one on the mat. The first to gain a two-point advantage wins."
Quiet murmuring ushers in the first round, like a muted starting gong. The middle of the mat has never seemed further away as Kyungsoo takes deep breaths, closes the distance with slow but steady strides, picks up one of the sticks. The wood feels smooth under his fingertips as he tests its weight; it's just right. Like a symmetrical graph, his opponent mirrors his movements, a boy taller and bigger than Kyungsoo but with substantially less experience under his belt, if the uneasiness in his eyes is anything to go by.
You never bring emotions into the Drift. You never panic, Kyungsoo recites in his head, crouching low. He takes a deep breath.
There are no clocks in the combat room, not even a counter. By the sheer number of times Minseok has called, "Game, 2-0!" or "Game, 3-1!" though, Kyungsoo can tell the better part of an hour has passed, at the very least.
Jongdae's lean build does wonders for his agility. His strokes are faster than Kyungsoo had ever expected them to be, delivering a torrent of blows one after another, as condensed and as heavy as a sheet of rain falling on zinc. Their match had concluded at 6-4, in Kyungsoo's favour.
As Kyungsoo had predicted, Jongin went down with a score lower than Jongdae's, finishing at 4-2. No fault lies in Jongin - he's a brilliant trainee, and were it anybody else, Kyungsoo has no doubts that Jongin would emerge victorious with a 2-0, but Kyungsoo knows Jongin like the back of his hand, knows how to analyse his center of gravity and read the slightest flicker in his eyes. Kyungsoo's surety and confidence in Jongin is rivalled only by his surety and confidence in himself.
The physical test did bring its fair share of surprises, though. One of the candidates, a boy easily no older than sixteen, caught Kyungsoo under the arm with an odd backhand stroke that was strangely reminiscent of a tennis move. Breathtakingly light, the woman he'd seen earlier moved with all the artful swiftness of a dove, her calculated strokes sparse but dangerously precise. She bowed graciously after he took the win, and Kyungsoo found it easy to smile genuinely back at her.
Kyungsoo wipes sweat away from his brow and waits for Minseok to announce the next name. He can hear the soft scratching of the tip of the pen against too-thin paper. Military bases like these tend to cut corners wherever they can. "Byun Baekhyun," Minseok calls, looking up.
It takes every ounce of Kyungsoo's willpower not to shoot upright, ramrod straight, at the sound of the name. Hearing about Baekhyun, seeing him in person, listening to him speak - none of these will define him better than actually feeling the strength of Baekhyun's strokes, or being on the receiving end of his combat techniques.
Kyungsoo's eyes follow Baekhyun as he takes brisk steps onto the mat, picking up the wooden staff and immediately sliding into position, not even bothering to take in its weight or length. Baekhyun's gaze is on him, fixated on his feet, undoubtedly waiting for the smallest tilt in his position. Everyone else had fire in their eyes. It didn't matter what kind of fire it was - some were burning wild and free, some were fake flames that looked frightening but never burned, some were chilly, focused tongues of fire.
Byun Baekhyun's eyes, he realises, are devoid of even the smallest of sparks, two lifeless, barren expanses of torched land.
The standard "Start!" barely registers in Kyungsoo's ears before they're both moving; Baekhyun coming at him like a thunderbolt in the dark and Kyungsoo dodging like a pup frightened by its roar. Baekhyun's blows are hard, relentless, striking him again and again and waiting for him to react a second too late. Kyungsoo doesn't oblige him the delay, and manages to tap the side of Baekhyun's shin.
"1-0," comes Minseok's cool voice from the sidelines. Baekhyun freezes, arm slowly retreating to his side as they part. Kyungsoo's head feels oddly like a spirit level slowly being tilted back to its original position.
They stare each other down in silence, Baekhyun's chest falling up and down in even measures as he tightens his grip on the staff. Kyungsoo sees opportunity peeking in through the sliver of his door and seizes it, lunging forward, striking in the same unorthodox order that has won him hundreds of one-on-one matches just like this one. Baekhyun parries it with a horizontal block, jabs him in the side, and falls back. Baekhyun hasn't even broken a sweat, he notices disdainfully.
Minseok's gaze flickers between them both as he scribbles something on his clipboard, interest bubbling beneath the surface. "1-1."
Don't think. Clear your mind. Let your body and your reflexes speak your conversations for you in the combat room. The memory chimes at the back of Kyungsoo's mind as clear as a bell. His trainer used to repeat this time and time again, circling the mat and sending in a neverending stream of opponents to face him.
The last thing Kyungsoo remembers thinking is if Baekhyun wants a dance, he's more than willing to comply. He plunges underwater then, the currents of concentration drowning all his emotions and thoughts.
Kyungsoo only vaguely registers his movements, much less keep track of how much time has passed, but when he comes to a complete halt, one end of his wooden staff pressed flat against the column of Baekhyun's neck, it feels like all the world has stopped with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jongin watching him with surprise in his expression, gaze fixated on Kyungsoo but thoughts obviously running in all directions. The trainees, the spectators, the Marshall himself, even - the whole room appears to be stunned into silence, intrigued on varying levels.
It feels as if he's really been underwater for a long, long time, and he's just resurfaced to a group of people anxiously wondering if he'd ever come back.
"Game," Minseok's steady voice shatters the silence. "10-8."
Baekhyun pulls away, slowly, but not warily, the weight of his gaze almost too heavy to bear. His expression is hard to read - it's not as stoic as it was before, but it's definitely not a prominent display of any kind of emotion, like he's toeing a line so fine the naked eye would have trouble picking it out. Kyungsoo notices that his features have softened somewhat, though, his gray eyes liquid metal instead of cold steel. If Kyungsoo squints, curiosity might've been fringing the edges of his irises, but Baekhyun looks away then, spins on his heel and leaves the mat.
Minseok calls the next candidate, his clear voice receding into the background, like the faraway, subtle sound of waves by the sea. Kyungsoo follows Baekhyun with his eyes, watches his receding back until he disappears into the throng of onlookers.
Kyungsoo doesn't even remember what the following opponents look like, doesn't recall how their match goes, only that he emerges victorious. All he sees, even as the collision of wood against wood sends tremors down the length of his arms, is the way Baekhyun's slender fingers tighten over his staff when he loses, the way Baekhyun's black hair falls in tufts onto his pale forehead, the way the edges of Baekhyun's lips might've tilted ever so slightly upward.
It's a beautiful kind of haunting.
"Did you see her, though? She was amazing!" Jongdae wrings his hands in front of him is what is supposed to be an approximation of how much he's in awe, the words spilling out of his mouth, a byproduct of holding it all in for more than an hour. "The only girl in the room, but she was slaying, I tell you. I've never seen anyone like her."
Jongin snickers and makes an offhand comment about how Jongdae should stop placing special emphasis on every other word. "You should go say hi to her, then, hyung," he says, playful tone implying that Jongdae shouldn't just stop at hello. Jongdae's face promptly burns bright red in response, pink even till the tips of his ears.
On any other day, Kyungsoo would smile, join in the bantering, maybe even give Jongdae an encouraging pat on the back. Today, though, he can scarcely pay attention to an entire conversation at a go, picking up only the occasional line and voicing a short reply before sinking back into the deep fray of his thoughts. The only thing he can hear, even over the din of the lunchtime rush as he walks the corridors with Jongin and Jongdae by his side, is Marshall Wu's deep voice, somewhat robotic over the static of the Shatterdome-wide intercom.
"The following people are to report to the main LOCCENT control room at 1430 hours sharp." The Marshall had paused briefly, then, "Pilot Do Kyungsoo, Kim Jongin, Kim Jongdae, Byun Baekhyun. Please be punctual."
The sharp click that always succeeded intercom announcements brought everyone in the cafeteria to a complete standstill for a moment, then the excited chatter and congratulatory wishes started pouring in left and right. Jongdae and Jongin had to pry themselves away from the crowd when the clock showed 2:00pm, smiling so hard their faces looked as if they were going to split in half.
Kyungsoo walked behind them, a contented smile lingering on his lips. His happiness that Jongin and Jongdae had both made the cut for the final part of the co-pilot selections - the Drift test - had only made up part of the reason behind his smile, the other half was the relief that came with sharing the spotlight with somebody else.
In the modern world, Jaeger pilots are as prolific as rockstars. They are, after all, saviors of the realm, protectors of the Earth, guarding the coastlines against kaijuu, horrific alien creatures that come from the dark depths of the Pacific Ocean. A good twenty, thirty years ago, people like politicians or monarchs or pop stars might've been all the talk, but not anymore. Fame and fortune have always been at the very bottom of Kyungsoo's list of priorities; he could be an anonymous pilot for all he cares. Faceless and nameless to the world, and the only thing people would know is that he fights for the survival of mankind.
Unfortunately, things don't work that way, and pilots skyrocket to fame upon appointment. The whole world will know who he is. The whole world will dissect him, scrutinise him, depend on him. Nobody seems to wonder if pilots ever need people to depend on, on a personal level.
Kyungsoo feels more comfortable now, though. There aren't as many pairs of eyes on him now; most of them have diverted their attention to Jongin, all six feet of brazen, fierce fire, and Jongdae, someone Kyungsoo would best describe as a newly-forged blade wrapped in deceivingly soft silk. It's easier to think about this than recalling images of Byun Baekhyun leaning against the railing of the stairway leading down to the cafeteria, watching Kyungsoo intently from his vantage point. Even after turning his back on Baekhyun, Kyungsoo can still feel the searing intensity of his gaze, chipping away at his resolve.
"Which floor is LOCCENT on again?" Jongin asks no one in particular, staring at the control panel of the elevator with furrowed brows.
"Hold the door, please!"
Jongin presses the 'open' button long enough for a familiar figure to hurry into the elevator, steps swift but soundless. Soft, brown tresses, even softer doe-like eyes - Zhang Liyin looks Kyungsoo in the eye, pushing a tuft of hair behind her ear. "Congratulations, sir," she says, extending a hand in formal greeting. "I didn't get to wish you earlier, but I'm confident you'll make a great pilot."
The firmness and strength of her handshake surprises Kyungsoo. She'd make a wonderful addition to any base who would have her, he can feel it in the curve of her fingers against his. "Just 'Kyungsoo' is fine," he corrects her gently. "You were absolutely amazing on the mat. I have confidence that you'll be a pilot very soon as well." Formal words, but he hopes his tone conveys how much he means what he says.
If Liyin is flattered at all, a small, gentle smile is the only thing she has to show for it, as she turns to press the buttons for the third and fifth floors of the building. Kyungsoo remembers now - third is Weapons Analysis, fifth is LOCCENT - and murmurs thanks to her on everyone's behalf.
Liyin congratulates Jongin and a very red-faced Jongdae on successfully making the shortlist, speaking briefly about her intention to stay in Seoul, possibly as J-Tech staff, instead of returning to Beijing, where she'd come from. Jongin shifts slightly, taking shelter behind Kyungsoo, lean body easing into the space between Kyungsoo's back and the elevator wall.
When the display above them reads '3', the elevator comes to a smooth halt, the computerised beep too shrill to Kyungsoo's ears. Liyin waves them goodbye, casts one last look back at Jongdae and steps out the open doors. Her exit is as silent and graceful as her entrance three floors down, but Kyungsoo notices that her smile is a lot wider, a lot shyer.
Jongdae's eyes follow Liyin as she leaves, looking at her retreating back like she's the person who hung the moon and the stars in his sky. How nice it must be, Kyungsoo muses, to have someone admire and love you like that. Although he can't say for certain if this is love - they've only just met, and Kyungsoo doesn't even know what love is supposed to be like - it looks pleasant, nonetheless.
It's soft, beautiful, so different from the way Baekhyun looks at him, yet startlingly similar, in a way he can't quite place.
That very gaze is the first thing that greets Kyungsoo when he steps past the threshold of the main LOCCENT control room, nearly fumbling with returning his access card to his pocket. Baekhyun is in a fresh set of clothes, he notices; a V-necked tee and jeans to replace the singlet and trackpants he wore in the morning. He's still decked completely in black, though, his eyes even darker than the fabric of his clothing.
By the control panel, Wu Yifan looks every inch the renowned Marshall he is, still standing tall and proud in his neatly-pressed uniform, deep in a hushed discussion with Junmyeon.
To call the room a flurry of activity would an understatement. LOCCENT is the brain of the Jaeger programme, the heart of all the action, the central part of the magic that takes place here at Seoul HQ. Mission controllers receive data about kaijuu activity in the Breach, run Jaeger pilots through all the necessary protocol and instructions. On-deck marshalls command missions and convey instructions directly to the pilots themselves, all through the communications systems in this room.
Chaotic would be the only word to describe the scene before him, but it's an organised sort of chaos. Everybody knows where they belong, every move and step and push of a button done with purpose. Kyungsoo takes a deep breath, relishing in the grim excitement that flows into his lungs.
Junmyeon's opening greeting is short and simple. "Afternoon, gentlemen." Jongdae falls into step beside him, the seriousness and deadly focus from this morning taking him over again, and Kyungsoo can't help but marvel at how well he compartmentalises. Barring emotions from influencing the concentration needed and decisions made in a Jaeger is the most difficult thing to do. Physical strength and strategic thinking wouldn't be of any use without a clear mind.
"Congratulations on being shortlisted for the second part of the co-pilot selection tests. You've beaten a lot of talented competition to get here." Junmyeon gestures towards the room behind him, at the men and women tirelessly bent over their stations, analysing graphs and working machines, at the screen of fortified glass that separates the loading bay and the control room.
It strikes Kyungsoo that he was in one of the secondary control rooms only a few nights ago, the hollowness of the empty room echoing all around him. Jongin had felt warm next to him. The action goes on here, he tells himself. This is an upgrade. This is the upgrade.
The loading bay had been empty then, a large blue chamber with enough volume to keep several reservoirs of water. Through the glass, he can see the midriff of a Jaeger, metallic and beautiful and sharp, even from the back.
"In that loading bay is a Mark 4 Jaeger, the newest, lightest and fastest of its kind to date. I am aware you've been practicing with mock Mark 3 Jaegers at the Academy, but rest assured, the fours are no different in the Conn-Pod. It's just their firepower, so don't worry about having to adjust," Junmyeon says reassuringly, crisp voice carrying over the soft beeps and mechanical sounds of the control room.
Junmyeon continues, "You'll each take turns Drifting. Once you've established neural handshake, you boot up one weapon of your choice. No firing, of course. We'll be looking out for your neural frequencies, Drift strength, emotional stability, among other things."
The Marshall has joined him on the floor, sweeping them all with a critical gaze. "Pilot Do, if you'd lead the way to the Conn-Pod. Kim Jongin will go with you first."
Kyungsoo tries not to look back as he walks away with Jongin, not even when he brushes shoulders with Baekhyun.
Their trip to the Drivesuit Room is silent; the only sounds being the shuffle of feet and the monotonous, standard commands of the Drivesuit technician team. A large timer attached to the wall begins counting down the moment they step into the room - both Jaeger pilots are to be outfitted in tailor-made suits in seven minutes tops, in accordance with preset time constraints.
Only when they're safely cocooned in the Conn-Pod does Jongin exhale loudly, a wolfish grin creeping onto his face. "This is really happening," he breathes, documenting the surreality in his words. The deep grumble of the pod's metal walls grinding against the deployment tracks signals the beginning of their drop, to the test that awaits them both. Kyungsoo looks out the glass; the body of the Jaeger is fast approaching. He wonders if the adrenaline coursing through his veins is just a convenient cover-up crafted by his body to deal with anxiety. Maybe it's the pressure change in the pod.
Kyungsoo smiles at Jongin through his helmet. Jongin looks even taller in his white Drivesuit somehow. "We'll do this together. Deep breaths." He isn't sure who he's talking to.
Jongin lifts a fist, encased securely in metal. "The most kick-ass pilot duo in history?"
The Conn-Pod connects with the main body of the Jaeger almost seamlessly. Kyungsoo wouldn't have known the drop was over, if not for the latching of metal onto metal and the control interface coming to life in vivid shades of red and blue and green.
In the growing darkness of the Conn-Pod, Kyungsoo lifts a fist and bumps it against Jongin's. The soft, reassuring chink strikes a chord in his heart.
one | two | three
→ baekhyun/kyungsoo, jongdae/liyin ; 31,854 w.
→ living life without knowing if there'll be a tomorrow tends to change people. falling in love does, too. (pacific rim!au)
→ written for everyone, sooenaemoured 2014. sincerest thanks goes out to onyu for putting up with me through my trying hours during this fest, as well as thunggyu, synchronizity and specialises for your constant encouragement! ♥
→ no prior watching of the movie is needed to understand this fic; explanations have been included for readers new to the pacific rim universe! c:
"To Kyungsoo."
In the stillness of the empty control room, the clink of their glasses is sharp, reverberating between the desks of equipment and travelling along the wires of scattered machinery. Kyungsoo raises the rim to his lips, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. The liquid making its way down his throat definitely doesn't seem to be in any kind of rush, moving slowly, leaving a tangy, acidic taste in its wake. Kyungsoo licks the roof of his mouth and sets his glass back on the table; it's been a while since he last had something so sweet.
Opposite him, Minseok downs his entire glass at a go and lets out a long, contented sigh afterwards. "Is this okay, though? You never share this with anyone." He gestures absentmindedly at the frosted bottle perched in the middle of the table, like an unfinished centerpiece patiently awaiting adornment.
Junmyeon laughs. "Today's special, so it's fine."
In accordance with PPDC regulations, alcohol isn't allowed anywhere within a fifty-mile radius of the Seoul headquarters, not even in Marshall Wu Yifan's private store. Intoxication is, after all, something everyone in their line of work couldn't possibly afford. Kyungsoo was pretty sure they'd have to settle with regular-grade grape juice, the kind distributed in the cafeteria during lunch, but Junmyeon had pulled out a bottle of sparkling juice at the last minute with a twinkle in his eye and insisted today was a special enough occasion to share it.
"So how is it that you even have sparkling juice with you?" Kyungsoo challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his seat.
Junmyeon's sarcasm has extremely rounded edges. The kind of blade that pokes you in the side, but doesn't bruise, barely even hurts. "Maybe I bought it? At a supermarket?"
It's Jongin's turn to grin, one arm casually tossed around Kyungsoo's shoulder as he stares Junmyeon right in the eye. "You actually go out, hyung? If you're not here, then you're over at J-Tech. If you're not at either of these places, you're probably in the cafeteria or conked out in your bunker," he points out.
Junmyeon makes an odd sputtering noise and wrings his hands in front of him. "I-" His mouth moves soundlessly to wrap around the beginnings of an unfinished retort. Prolonged moments of silence make it clear to everyone that Junmyeon has no legitimate rebuttal. "Fine, I asked Chanyeol to get it for me last week," he concedes reluctantly, an embarrassed flush fanning across his cheeks.
No surprises there; Kyungsoo first met Junmyeon four years ago, when he transferred in to local J-Tech from Tokyo HQ. Kyungsoo didn't need to ask to know what position he held in the department - Junmyeon's calm, easygoing demeanour was the giveaway, the signature of a qualified neural bridge operator. His shy smiles and modest laughter belied his real capabilities, though, the kind of startling intelligence and keen eye for detail that threw everyone off-balance and propelled him from J-Tech greenhorn to LOCCENT mission controller in little under a year.
In the span of time they've known each other, Kyungsoo can't recall ever seeing Junmyeon take weekends off, much less go for a breather in the outside world, someplace where the stench of engine oil and the sound of metal against metal can't stick to him like post-rain dew.
Kyungsoo isn't one to talk, though. He barely remembers going out for anything not related to work.
"Last week?" Jongin's question jerks him back to reality, like someone flinging open the curtains to a dark room without warning. There's a slight hint of bemusement seeping into his voice, accusation without malice. "Then you guys must've known about Kyungsoo making the cut for days now."
Minseok only offers a cryptic smile in return and gets to his feet, dusting his shirt lightly. "We have to get going," he reminds Junmyeon, tapping his watch. "Meeting at nine, remember?"
Junmyeon doesn't spare a single drop of juice from his glass. The thick file he picks up from the table reads 'Jaeger Tech' in authoritative, embossed silver letters. His gaze flickers from the text to Kyungsoo, then finally settles on Jongin. The faint traces of a smile linger on his lips, strangely telling under the lighting of the control room. "We at J-Tech tend to know a few things."
It's been three years since Junmyeon was assigned to the main body of Strike Group personnel. Technically- "You're not J-Tech anymore, hyung," Jongin says, subconsciously completing Kyungsoo's sentence.
"Once J-Tech, always J-Tech!" Junmyeon yells his reply over his shoulder, closing the door behind him.
Some things never change, Kyungsoo muses. He rubs his index finger against the rim of the glass, producing a soft, wispy note that dissipates just as quickly as it came in the newfound silence of the control room. Sound is a funny thing: seemingly far away, hard to grasp, elusive - just like today.
"Is Seoul's newest Jaeger pilot thinking about his first big kill already? A Category 3, maybe?" Jongin's questions are always phrased lightly, the end of his sentences seemingly tilting upward in intonation as he grins, but more often than not, they have silent implications. Jongin's never been one to say things directly, mostly because there's never a need to. His teasing, gentle smiles are a constant reminder that he knows the workings of Kyungsoo's mind like the back of his hand.
Today, though, the curl of his fingers against the fabric of Kyungsoo's sweater, marginal but very much purposeful, is enough to give him away. We won't spend much time together anymore.
Kyungsoo swipes his tongue over his bottom lip. "Shush," he says in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. "I haven't been officially installed yet. I haven't even been assigned a co-pilot." Fair points, both of them, perfectly reasonable and perfectly true. The argument, though, sounds half-baked even to Kyungsoo's own ears.
Pilot.
Half of Kyungsoo's life has revolved around that one word. It was the star in his sky, the one he'd continue looking for even on nights where the clouds shrouded it protectively, the one he'd keep chasing even on days he fell and scraped his knees. He hadn't given much thought to the day where it would no longer be just a faraway concept.
Pilot Do Kyungsoo, Marshall Wu had announced to the Seoul HQ Shatterdome, will be one half of two pilots manning the newly-commissioned Jaeger, Nova Hyperion.
Kyungsoo can still hear the marshall's deep voice over deafening cheers and applause, looping over and over again in his head like a faultless recording. Surreality seems to come hand-in-hand with an odd sense of listlessness.
"Co-pilot designations, huh?" Jongin's voice is smaller now, more child-like, not the hardened, fiery Kim Jongin that everyone in Seoul HQ knows. This is Kim Jongin, Kyungsoo's friend since middle school, his protector and confidante and best friend personified in a sun-kissed, chiselled boy.
Kyungsoo toys with his fingers, runs them along the smooth, polished texture of the metal tabletop. It's seamless, cold, much like technology and the world they live in. He stares out the glass of the control room at the hollow loading bay, already lined with transport rails. In a week or two, it would no longer be empty - his heart lurches at the realisation that there would be a Mark 4 Jaeger in its place, a marvel with fifteen thousand tanks of diesel per muscle strand, the most advanced digital fighting machine to date. His Mark 4 Jaeger.
He nods slightly. "Yeah. I heard the candidates will start flying in tomorrow."
Jongin inclines his head, following Kyungsoo's gaze. "Minseok-hyung told me the one from Russia touched down this evening."
When Kyungsoo doesn't answer, Jongin clears his throat and scoots closer, the wheels of his chair moving soundlessly against the floor. He rests his cheek against Kyungsoo's shoulder and fiddles with the hem of his sweater. "You're gonna have an amazing co-pilot, hyung. They're sending in only the best for you. You deserve the best," he says, determination seeping into the tenderness of his words.
This feels like middle school all over again, when Jongin would do just this - lean his head against Kyungsoo's shoulder while they sat under their favourite tree in the park, telling him things in such a heartfelt, honest voice that Kyungsoo couldn't help but feel like the one who truly deserved the world and more was Jongin. Just like he always does, Kyungsoo lifts a hand to Jongin's hair, patting it gently.
"You're one of the candidates, Jongin. It could be you, you know. You're pretty close to the best."
Kyungsoo can feel the upturn of Jongin's lips against the cotton of his sweater. "We'll be the most kick-ass Jaeger pilot duo in history."
Their conversations always end when they feel like they've said all they want to say. The ensuing silence is comfortable.
As he walks down the corridor, exchanging polite greetings with the people milling around or passing him by, it occurs to Kyungsoo that this could very well be one of his last days in trainee accommodation. In a few days' time, he'd move to the pilot bunkers, only a few minutes' walk away from the loading bay for maximum accessibility. He'd be mingling with unpredictability, rubbing shoulders with uncertainty. Working around circumstances and playing with fire would be the description most apt for the job.
Kyungsoo has a set routine of waking up at six thirty in the morning. He's in the shower by six forty most days, out the door by seven, at the cafeteria by fifteen, depending on elevator traffic. Repetition has always been a faithful companion of his, like a cassette on loop. Mundane at best, but somehow reassuring, in its own strange way. Kyungsoo is often reminded that humanity functions in a way that defies the logic they preach. Despite the impending danger looming over them, the world continues to spin, cocooned in blissful ignorance. The threat of extinction could be hanging in the air, but humanity still finds time to worry about petty things like material wealth, love, routines. It's an odd world to live in, but it's still their world, and in a few days, he'll join the ranks of those tasked to safeguard it.
By the time he arrives at the cafeteria, having excused himself as gently and quickly as he can from everybody who stops to offer him their congratulations, the large display above the open metal doors reads 7:38 in angular, red font.
The tape of the cassette is starting to come loose; the sound is beginning to jar.
The half hour that's slipped by Kyungsoo thankfully hasn't cost him; the line for breakfast isn't particularly long. As she hands him a tray of food, the cafeteria lady cooes her congratulatory wishes at him. "All my food must've done you some good, boy!" Chanyeol had told him this once, but Kyungsoo had written it off as mere exaggeration: if there's anywhere in Seoul HQ that word gets out the fastest among non-Shatterdome staff, it'd be the cafeteria. News spreads like wildfire here, blazing hot and near impossible to put out, be it a K-Science mishap or an all-out brawl in the Kwoon combat room.
Kyungsoo attempts to untangle his shirt collar from the notch of his jacket while balancing his tray of food at the top of the stairs. For a newly-approved Jaeger pilot graduate, his inability to multitask efficiently at anything not related to work is painfully apparent. The plastic cup of coffee on his tray might be tilting far too dangerously to the right-
"Careful, I don't think kimchi paste looks too good on white shirts." A hand reaches out to steady his tray, returning its level to a safe 180 degrees flat. Kyungsoo returns a runaway roll back onto its plate and looks up to meet a pair of bright, inquisitive eyes that belie the serene voice that had spoken. Much like his tone, the small smile that lifts the edges of the speaker's lips hints at amusement. "I'd shake your hand, but I wouldn't want both our trays falling over."
Kyungsoo finds himself hard-pressed not to return the tentative grin. Whoever this person is, he seems to have mastered the art of breaking the ice with strangers, slicing right through it like a hot knife through butter.
"Kim Jongdae," the man says.
"Do Kyungsoo; nice meeting you." It's been a long time since anybody has set him at such complete ease during their first conversation. The lightness is foreign, a far cry from the usual weight of expectations bearing down on him like one extra book in an overloaded backpack.
Jongdae's jaw goes slack and he blinks at Kyungsoo a few times, as if trying to clear a fog that's settled over his eyes. "Are you ser-" he begins. Readjusting his grip on his own plastic tray and rearranging his features into something less surprised, he directs a sheepish smile at Kyungsoo. "Who would've thought? Good ol' me saving Seoul HQ's newest pilot graduate from a breakfast disaster. Congratulations on your promotion."
"Thank you," is Kyungsoo's simple, shy reply. He knows he really should make an effort to be more eloquent in cases like these, but words have never been a close friend of his. He's never found himself particularly mindful of this shortcoming; he doesn't need words in the Drift. Succinctness has always been right up his alley anyway.
It suddenly strikes Kyungsoo that although Jongdae's Korean is just as natural as any local's, he's never seen Jongdae's face around these parts, in all his years here. "You're one of the pilot candidates, aren't you?" Kyungsoo ventures, although he's almost certain of the answer.
Jongdae adopts a mock regal tone, the grin on his face spreading to its full width. "I leave myself in your able care."
Kyungsoo gestures for Jongdae to follow him as he descends the steps to the main seating area of the cafeteria, scanning the crowd for any sign of either Jongin or Chanyeol, both of whom are the only ones tall enough to be seen over the sea of hungry cafeteria-goers. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Chanyeol waving a long arm animatedly at him, a piece of lettuce in his mouth.
"Do you sit with a pilot posse or something?" Jongdae speaks up as they weave their way through the crowd, narrowly avoiding the muscled arm of a big brute. "Because that'd be kind of overwhelming."
Kyungsoo can't help but chuckle at the comment. "Nah. I'll be honest with you, we're more a motley crew than a posse."
When he draws closer, he sees that the total headcount of the table has been brought to six. Junmyeon and Minseok are seated opposite each other, deep in discussion about J-Tech's newest open secret, the revamped cannon prototype. "Morning," Kyungsoo announces his arrival, slipping into the seat next to Jongin and motioning for Jongdae to do the same.
"Who's this?" Chanyeol flashes Jongdae a look of intrigue while trying to squeeze an oversized lump of kimchi into a folded piece of lettuce with limited success.
"Hi," is the nervous response that tumbles past Jongdae's lips, bringing all action at the table to a halt. Seated next to Chanyeol, Jongdae looks substantially smaller, both in stature and bearing. His earlier confidence seems to have retreated to the very tip of his tongue. Kyungsoo gives him an encouraging nod and mouths, they're nice, promise. "I- uh, I'm Kim Jongdae, and frankly, I'm just hoping to survive the week and be a pilot."
The soft clink of Jongin's chopsticks against the edge of his bowl is drowned out by Chanyeol's laughter, rough and loud like waves battering the foot of a cliff, amplified by the cafeteria's strangely excellent acoustics. Jongin extends a hand across the table, a grin teasing the edges of his lips upward. "Pilot trainee, Seoul-based, Kim Jongin." Kyungsoo can't say he's not impressed by Jongdae's seemingly contagious easygoing vibes. Very few people have made Jongin comfortable enough to offer the first greeting, standard introduction or not, much less coerce a smile out of him so soon.
Almost as if echoing his sentiments out loud, Chanyeol exclaims, "I like this one already!"
"This is the early bird I told everyone about," Minseok says over a mouthful of bread. "He's the pilot candidate from Russia."
When Kyungsoo argues that he hasn't been told, that he had to hear the news from Jongin secondhand, Minseok raises both palms defensively. "That's because you were too busy being congratulated by everyone. Russia sent him out the moment we paged international Shatterdomes about your co-pilot recruitment."
Fifteen minutes into breakfast is all it takes for them to feel like they've known Jongdae for years. He eagerly gives detailed answers to Junmyeon's enquiries about the newly-revamped Soviet Jaeger commissioning policies, shares stories about his gruelling days as a Russian trainee with Jongin, jokingly thanks Minseok for the glowing recommendation he'd been given to everyone.
"I have a feeling we'll be best friends!" Chanyeol's proclamation comes as he reaches over to steal a bit of Jongdae's pickled radish - a sign for the better, since he only ever attempts to nick food from people he considers close to him.
In a lot of ways, Kyungsoo realises, Chanyeol and Jongdae bear striking similarities. Easy to get along with, personable, all sunny smiles and boisterous laughter that serve to divert attention from the gloominess of the world. Chanyeol's lighthearted nature always reminds him that there are still simple pleasures in life, a temporary distraction, a decoy of sorts.
"You haven't lost your accent at all, though." Junmyeon's polite observation brings Kyungsoo back to the conversation at the table. He gestures in Jongdae's direction with his spoon. "Gyeonggi-do, right?"
Jongdae grins into his glass of water. "Siheung, yes. You've got a good ear."
"Really?" Jongin leans back in his chair, his breakfast tray wiped clean in front of him, without so much as a grain of food left. It used to save Kyungsoo a lot of trouble not having to throw out any food when Jongin came over for dinner. "Kyungsoo-hyung's from Gyeonggi-do too, Goyang, actually."
The grin Kyungsoo directs at Jongin is returned in similar fashion, shoulders bumping and hands brushing under the table. Sometimes Jongin knows him better than he knows himself - one of several side effects of having grown up side-by-side through years of friendship. Kyungsoo can't say he minds, though; it's good to have someone remind him of who he is from time to time, to catch him from being swept away by the merciless currents of the world.
Kyungsoo obliges Jongdae a high-five. "I moved to Seoul when I was a kid, so I've kind of lost my accent. Small world, though, huh?"
"The world is tiny. We're just insignificant pawns in a bigger game."
The voice that had answered isn't Jongdae's. It's sandy, nasally, almost, like alcohol on the rocks and the lapping of waves against the shore. Yet, it retained a certain smoothness to it, an enticing sound that draws you into the inviting arms of the water.
Kyungsoo spots him first.
A young man with hooded eyes, partially concealed behind a thick fringe of jet black hair and the peak of his cap, sits idly at the next table. His breakfast lies untouched in front of him, a silent spectator to the soft drumming of his fingers against the metal tabletop. By all means, a calculated, steady rhythm, but mildly off-putting. It sounds like the build-up to an explosive chorus, the calm at the eye of the storm.
His all-black getup is disarming, conveniently inconspicuous. He could easily be mistaken for a shadowy J-Tech figure, a specialist who spends his days holed up brainstorming the specs for the next generation of Jaegers. He could be K-Science, the prodigy who analyses twice as quickly as his colleagues harvest Kaijuu organs.
Call it instinct, call it intuition, but Kyungsoo knows neither of these are the case. The unwavering pair of eyes staring back at him is strangely reminiscent of a needle dipped in fire before vaccination. Fine but potent, dull but precise. They speak of all the hours he's spent in the training room, of all the years of being beaten down by intense physical and mental training.
This man, if anything, is a pilot in the making.
That defiance bleeding out of his eyes into his stare, caged by the iron bars of obedience and chained by the cuffs of responsibility, isn't alien to Kyungsoo. He's seen that look often enough, usually in the mirror.
His answer carries over the quiet murmur of the cafeteria and the aisle of distance between them. "When you're in a Jaeger, you're not. You don't need to run away from the storm. You face it head-on."
The stranger doesn't seem fazed in the slightest, not acknowledging Kyungsoo's answer, if he heard it at all. Kyungsoo watches him stand up and brush his hair out of his eyes - still as impassive as ever, but the most minute tinge of curiosity registers in the pursing of his lips. His gaze roams slowly over everyone seated at the table, like a parched bird drinking in the scenery to satiate its thirst, before landing on Kyungsoo. In a quieter voice, less bold but equally telling, he says, "Storms are there for a reason," and spins on his heel, walking away in the opposite direction.
Tense silence blankets the table for several long moments, broken only when Junmyeon folds up the plastic wrap on his tray. Kyungsoo keeps his eyes fixed on the direction of the man's departure, holding his breath, as if he might suddenly decide to come back.
"Who the hell was that?" Jongdae sounds two parts confused, three parts miffed.
Junmyeon and Minseok exchange cautious glances; a transfer of information through their small window of telepathy, made of an innate understanding of each other's thought processes and built by months of working together. Sometimes, Kyungsoo ponders what it would be like if they'd both been fit enough to be pilots. Would they have made the cut? Would they have been Drift-compatible partners?
Minseok is the first to concede. "That was Byun Baekhyun, another one of the pilot candidates. He's local, but he's been with the Academy in San Francisco nearly half his life."
Next to him, Jongin purses his lips, unmoving stare fixated on his cup of coffee, as if coercing answers from the plastic. The Jaeger Program in San Francisco has been nothing short of being held in the highest regard; its prestige and resourcefulness are common knowledge among anybody in this line of work. But if this man - no, Byun Baekhyun - had been prolific enough to be the solo representative they'd chosen to send here, surely Seoul HQ would've caught wind of such a character.
"What's he even doing as a pilot?" The question slips past Jongin's teeth in a growl. "He sounds like he doesn't even like the idea of being in a Jaeger."
The smooth grind of wood against tile punctuates their conversation as Junmyeon stands up. "The San Fran base didn't provide much information about him. But he's got an impressive track record."
He can't be that impressive, Kyungsoo wants to say, but he bites down on his tongue to stop the reply in its tracks. If it's anything Kyungsoo's learnt about Junmyeon in all the years they've known each other, it's that he never exaggerates. He tells things as they are - receives, analyses, concludes. It's one of Junmyeon's defining qualities as head of the LOCCENT control room.
"No," Minseok says, exhaling slowly and deeply, the same way students do when they've spent too many minutes on the same examination question. The variables have been set, but the formulas and answers to the problem elude them. "Impressive doesn't even begin to cut it. He's flawless. He's the physical specimen of an ideal Jaeger pilot. I gave them clearance, I would know."
Chanyeol picks the uneaten roll off Jongdae's plate and chews it slowly, as if the act of eating bread might be able to help piece together the puzzle that hangs heavy in the air around them. "You said San Fran didn't give you much info about this guy. Then, are they keeping it from us?"
The cassette has broken. In his mind, Kyungsoo switches to the radio. An ominous tune is playing, but you never know what song would be on next.
"There's none."
Kyungsoo knows for a fact that all combat rooms are standardised in Jaeger bases throughout the world. Maintaining certain regulations, PPDC had announced, would be necessary to help trainees readjust their mindsets after relocation. Being transferred from one base to another depending on demand after they graduate from the Academy is hardly uncommon, after all. A combat room in Beijing would feel and look no different from one in Sydney; familiar terrain for all trainees to minimise culture shock.
He remembers the first time he set foot in Seoul HQ's combat room. Everything had been exactly the same as the one he'd gotten accustomed to in London, each detail replicated down to a T, from the temperature to the layout of the room. Seven years overseas, immersed in hardcore training under the Jaeger program, had elevated London into more of a home than Gyeonggi-do ever was. The Seoul base felt frighteningly similar, blurring the lines between here and there - the same mildly cooling air on his skin, the same bright crimson banner on the wall with the golden seal of the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps embroidered on the front, the same unfeeling metal walls boxing him in. There is no escape, they seemed to say.
Fight or die - the same way you would in a Jaeger.
"Never really changes, does it?" Jongin always adopts a more hesitant tone whenever he says something with the intention of coaxing Kyungsoo out of his thoughts.
Kyungsoo diverts his gaze from the metal partition he'd been staring at to his fingers, clasped primly in front of him. "Sometimes, when I don't think about it, I feel like I'm back in London."
People call this strange feeling of nostalgia 'homesickness'. Kyungsoo had brought this up once, during his second month back in Seoul, when everything still felt foreign and the lilt of Korean on his tongue was alien and slow. He'd felt like a bear coming out of hibernation. Jongin had only frowned at him and asked, "How can you call it homesickness when London isn't even your home?"
You belong here, hyung. This is home, Jongin's eyes seem to say, then and now. He's right about this, or rather, he's never been wrong - the Republic of Korea will always be Kyungsoo's rightful home. He was born here, raised here. But he could never shake off the feeling of being incomplete, of waiting for someone or something to fill the gaps of his existence. It'd been a subconscious part of his reason for enrolling under the Jaeger program and being shipped off to Europe. His superiors and trainers at the Academy called this his fighting nature, his calling as a pilot.
Maybe they were right, Kyungsoo thinks, as he bids Jongin goodbye with a good luck, I'll see you on the mat, and begins making his way to the far end of the room, where Minseok awaits him expectantly, clipboard in hand. Maybe today, he'll find his co-pilot, his other half in mind and body. He mulls over the thought as he shrugs off his jacket, turning the idea around in his head like inspecting a coin.
Minseok's light smile always makes Kyungsoo feel more reassured, somehow. He acknowledges and respects, but never bears his expectations down on anyone. It feels liberating. "All geared up?"
Kyungsoo grins as he does some basic stretching, loosening his muscles, taut with tension and nerves. The combat room feels stuffier now, with fellow trainees, pilot candidates and spectators alike pouring in to witness the physical part of the co-pilot selection tests. "I don't have a suit yet, so no gearing up."
"That may be, Pilot Do, but I certainly hope the gears inside are already up and running," comes a deep, silken voice behind them both. A hushed quiet falls over the room as Marshall Wu Yifan himself strides in, decked in a uniform as green as lush fern, golden blond hair neatly pushed back and sharp eyes that seem to pierce through everything they see, hard but not unkindly.
Kyungsoo watches with amusement as the newer trainees and foreign pilot candidates gawk the sight of Marshall Wu, standing tall with all the regality and posture of a highborn prince. The Marshall is a clear head taller than everyone else, all except Jongin and a few other freshmen trainees Kyungsoo can't put names to. Excited but muted chatter spreads throughout the room the moment Marshall Wu turns away, as if everyone had been holding their breath and had exhaled as one.
He can't fault anybody, though; it's Kyungsoo's first time being in such close proximity to the Marshall himself, and he'd be lying if he said Wu Yifan doesn't live up to everything that's been said about him. A retired pilot, Guangzhou-born and one of the first to be groomed at the Jaeger base in Vancouver. Statistics show he isn't just a pretty face, though - he boasts an impressive repertoire of twenty-four drops and twenty-four kills.
"Kris, nice of you to join us early," Minseok chirps brightly, sliding the clipboard into his hands.
There's a hint of a smile at the corners of the Marshall's lips and in the tone of his reply. "You and Junmyeon are the only ones who ever call me that anymore."
He skims briefly through the list of candidates and returns it to Minseok, then extends a hand to Kyungsoo in greeting. "Pilot Do, you have my apologies for not personally congratulating you on the day of your appointment. You were a cut above your peers in training; it was a pleasure to have chosen you to join our ranks," he says curtly.
This close, Kyungsoo can see the sincerity in the crease of his brows and a sense of justice as hard and sharp as the angular line of his jaw. Nearly beside himself with awe, he barely manages to remember formalities, gives the Marshall the firmest handshake he can muster and bows deeply in return, albeit a few seconds later than he probably should've. "The pleasure is entirely mine, sir. Thank you for the faith you've put in me."
"I trust you've met at least part of your co-pilot candidates?" Marshall Wu poses the question just as Minseok excuses himself to round up the test takers. They watch the room fall into a noisy flurry of activity as spectators part to make way.
Kyungsoo sees Jongin at the front of the pack; he's taken off his jacket, lean, muscular arms strong at his side, eyes burning with all the intensity of molten lava. Jongdae stands a few paces away from him, taking deep breaths and staring ahead with a chilly kind of resolution. All traces of his cheerfulness and sunny smiles seem to have disappeared, replaced by an icy focus that looks deadly enough to kill.
Fire and water, hot and cold, Kyungsoo muses.
The rest of them are sturdy young lads lined up along the wall, some standing alone, others in clusters. Their stances are classic overconfident, crossed arms and sweeping gazes, each thinking himself better than the other while they burn with a sense of false pride and justice. Kyungsoo's seen the likes of them before. That's why he is where he is today and they aren't.
All in all, they're nondescript enough for Kyungsoo to dismiss. All, he notices, except a beautiful woman who looks like she'd belong on billboards more than she would in a Jaeger base. Her smile is as gentle as the soft brown tresses grazing her shoulder blades, but there is composure and agility in the tilt of her lips, in the way she carries herself. The only girl in the room, but she isn't even fidgeting, merely gazing coolly at the mat of the arena, as if the material were the most interesting thing in the world. Kyungsoo makes a mental note to be wary; he's never seen anyone quite like her.
"Yes," Kyungsoo replies, "I have. I spoke to some of them this morning."
Marshall Wu doesn't oblige him an answer; instead, he watches the crowd put themselves in order. Kyungsoo should be warming up, running tactics and strategies through his head one last time, or profiling everyone and coming up with possible weak spots. The last thing he should be doing is looking intently at the audience, scanning, searching.
Byun Baekhyun is pressed up against the wall at the very end of the line, arms crossed and staring right at Kyungsoo with his veiled grey eyes. What are you still doing? they seem to ask, speaking to Kyungsoo even if his mouth isn't moving and his face remains as impassive as ever. Shouldn't you be getting ready?
Kyungsoo's heart skips a beat, almost like an affirmation. Baekhyun diverts his gaze elsewhere, almost like he's gotten the message.
The Marshall's voice resounds clearly through the room, ricocheting off the walls and echoing in Kyungsoo's ears. It's the kind of voice that sounds like it's been polished to be heard over the booming sounds of battle. "Welcome to the first half of the co-pilot selection tests. I am Shatterdome Marshall Wu Yifan and I will be overseeing your tests today. Minseok-sshi, if you will."
"Each of you will challenge Pilot Do Kyungsoo one-on-one on the mat with these wooden staffs." Minseok gestures towards two wooden sticks lying in the middle of the makeshift arena; not long enough to be overbearing, but solid and heavy enough to be a challenge. "The first person to be two points ahead of the other wins."
"Thank you." Minseok's always been one to remember his manners, Kyungsoo thinks dryly. "Each of you will challenge Pilot Do Kyungsoo one-on-one on the mat. The first to gain a two-point advantage wins."
Quiet murmuring ushers in the first round, like a muted starting gong. The middle of the mat has never seemed further away as Kyungsoo takes deep breaths, closes the distance with slow but steady strides, picks up one of the sticks. The wood feels smooth under his fingertips as he tests its weight; it's just right. Like a symmetrical graph, his opponent mirrors his movements, a boy taller and bigger than Kyungsoo but with substantially less experience under his belt, if the uneasiness in his eyes is anything to go by.
You never bring emotions into the Drift. You never panic, Kyungsoo recites in his head, crouching low. He takes a deep breath.
There are no clocks in the combat room, not even a counter. By the sheer number of times Minseok has called, "Game, 2-0!" or "Game, 3-1!" though, Kyungsoo can tell the better part of an hour has passed, at the very least.
Jongdae's lean build does wonders for his agility. His strokes are faster than Kyungsoo had ever expected them to be, delivering a torrent of blows one after another, as condensed and as heavy as a sheet of rain falling on zinc. Their match had concluded at 6-4, in Kyungsoo's favour.
As Kyungsoo had predicted, Jongin went down with a score lower than Jongdae's, finishing at 4-2. No fault lies in Jongin - he's a brilliant trainee, and were it anybody else, Kyungsoo has no doubts that Jongin would emerge victorious with a 2-0, but Kyungsoo knows Jongin like the back of his hand, knows how to analyse his center of gravity and read the slightest flicker in his eyes. Kyungsoo's surety and confidence in Jongin is rivalled only by his surety and confidence in himself.
The physical test did bring its fair share of surprises, though. One of the candidates, a boy easily no older than sixteen, caught Kyungsoo under the arm with an odd backhand stroke that was strangely reminiscent of a tennis move. Breathtakingly light, the woman he'd seen earlier moved with all the artful swiftness of a dove, her calculated strokes sparse but dangerously precise. She bowed graciously after he took the win, and Kyungsoo found it easy to smile genuinely back at her.
Kyungsoo wipes sweat away from his brow and waits for Minseok to announce the next name. He can hear the soft scratching of the tip of the pen against too-thin paper. Military bases like these tend to cut corners wherever they can. "Byun Baekhyun," Minseok calls, looking up.
It takes every ounce of Kyungsoo's willpower not to shoot upright, ramrod straight, at the sound of the name. Hearing about Baekhyun, seeing him in person, listening to him speak - none of these will define him better than actually feeling the strength of Baekhyun's strokes, or being on the receiving end of his combat techniques.
Kyungsoo's eyes follow Baekhyun as he takes brisk steps onto the mat, picking up the wooden staff and immediately sliding into position, not even bothering to take in its weight or length. Baekhyun's gaze is on him, fixated on his feet, undoubtedly waiting for the smallest tilt in his position. Everyone else had fire in their eyes. It didn't matter what kind of fire it was - some were burning wild and free, some were fake flames that looked frightening but never burned, some were chilly, focused tongues of fire.
Byun Baekhyun's eyes, he realises, are devoid of even the smallest of sparks, two lifeless, barren expanses of torched land.
The standard "Start!" barely registers in Kyungsoo's ears before they're both moving; Baekhyun coming at him like a thunderbolt in the dark and Kyungsoo dodging like a pup frightened by its roar. Baekhyun's blows are hard, relentless, striking him again and again and waiting for him to react a second too late. Kyungsoo doesn't oblige him the delay, and manages to tap the side of Baekhyun's shin.
"1-0," comes Minseok's cool voice from the sidelines. Baekhyun freezes, arm slowly retreating to his side as they part. Kyungsoo's head feels oddly like a spirit level slowly being tilted back to its original position.
They stare each other down in silence, Baekhyun's chest falling up and down in even measures as he tightens his grip on the staff. Kyungsoo sees opportunity peeking in through the sliver of his door and seizes it, lunging forward, striking in the same unorthodox order that has won him hundreds of one-on-one matches just like this one. Baekhyun parries it with a horizontal block, jabs him in the side, and falls back. Baekhyun hasn't even broken a sweat, he notices disdainfully.
Minseok's gaze flickers between them both as he scribbles something on his clipboard, interest bubbling beneath the surface. "1-1."
Don't think. Clear your mind. Let your body and your reflexes speak your conversations for you in the combat room. The memory chimes at the back of Kyungsoo's mind as clear as a bell. His trainer used to repeat this time and time again, circling the mat and sending in a neverending stream of opponents to face him.
The last thing Kyungsoo remembers thinking is if Baekhyun wants a dance, he's more than willing to comply. He plunges underwater then, the currents of concentration drowning all his emotions and thoughts.
Kyungsoo only vaguely registers his movements, much less keep track of how much time has passed, but when he comes to a complete halt, one end of his wooden staff pressed flat against the column of Baekhyun's neck, it feels like all the world has stopped with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jongin watching him with surprise in his expression, gaze fixated on Kyungsoo but thoughts obviously running in all directions. The trainees, the spectators, the Marshall himself, even - the whole room appears to be stunned into silence, intrigued on varying levels.
It feels as if he's really been underwater for a long, long time, and he's just resurfaced to a group of people anxiously wondering if he'd ever come back.
"Game," Minseok's steady voice shatters the silence. "10-8."
Baekhyun pulls away, slowly, but not warily, the weight of his gaze almost too heavy to bear. His expression is hard to read - it's not as stoic as it was before, but it's definitely not a prominent display of any kind of emotion, like he's toeing a line so fine the naked eye would have trouble picking it out. Kyungsoo notices that his features have softened somewhat, though, his gray eyes liquid metal instead of cold steel. If Kyungsoo squints, curiosity might've been fringing the edges of his irises, but Baekhyun looks away then, spins on his heel and leaves the mat.
Minseok calls the next candidate, his clear voice receding into the background, like the faraway, subtle sound of waves by the sea. Kyungsoo follows Baekhyun with his eyes, watches his receding back until he disappears into the throng of onlookers.
Kyungsoo doesn't even remember what the following opponents look like, doesn't recall how their match goes, only that he emerges victorious. All he sees, even as the collision of wood against wood sends tremors down the length of his arms, is the way Baekhyun's slender fingers tighten over his staff when he loses, the way Baekhyun's black hair falls in tufts onto his pale forehead, the way the edges of Baekhyun's lips might've tilted ever so slightly upward.
It's a beautiful kind of haunting.
"Did you see her, though? She was amazing!" Jongdae wrings his hands in front of him is what is supposed to be an approximation of how much he's in awe, the words spilling out of his mouth, a byproduct of holding it all in for more than an hour. "The only girl in the room, but she was slaying, I tell you. I've never seen anyone like her."
Jongin snickers and makes an offhand comment about how Jongdae should stop placing special emphasis on every other word. "You should go say hi to her, then, hyung," he says, playful tone implying that Jongdae shouldn't just stop at hello. Jongdae's face promptly burns bright red in response, pink even till the tips of his ears.
On any other day, Kyungsoo would smile, join in the bantering, maybe even give Jongdae an encouraging pat on the back. Today, though, he can scarcely pay attention to an entire conversation at a go, picking up only the occasional line and voicing a short reply before sinking back into the deep fray of his thoughts. The only thing he can hear, even over the din of the lunchtime rush as he walks the corridors with Jongin and Jongdae by his side, is Marshall Wu's deep voice, somewhat robotic over the static of the Shatterdome-wide intercom.
"The following people are to report to the main LOCCENT control room at 1430 hours sharp." The Marshall had paused briefly, then, "Pilot Do Kyungsoo, Kim Jongin, Kim Jongdae, Byun Baekhyun. Please be punctual."
The sharp click that always succeeded intercom announcements brought everyone in the cafeteria to a complete standstill for a moment, then the excited chatter and congratulatory wishes started pouring in left and right. Jongdae and Jongin had to pry themselves away from the crowd when the clock showed 2:00pm, smiling so hard their faces looked as if they were going to split in half.
Kyungsoo walked behind them, a contented smile lingering on his lips. His happiness that Jongin and Jongdae had both made the cut for the final part of the co-pilot selections - the Drift test - had only made up part of the reason behind his smile, the other half was the relief that came with sharing the spotlight with somebody else.
In the modern world, Jaeger pilots are as prolific as rockstars. They are, after all, saviors of the realm, protectors of the Earth, guarding the coastlines against kaijuu, horrific alien creatures that come from the dark depths of the Pacific Ocean. A good twenty, thirty years ago, people like politicians or monarchs or pop stars might've been all the talk, but not anymore. Fame and fortune have always been at the very bottom of Kyungsoo's list of priorities; he could be an anonymous pilot for all he cares. Faceless and nameless to the world, and the only thing people would know is that he fights for the survival of mankind.
Unfortunately, things don't work that way, and pilots skyrocket to fame upon appointment. The whole world will know who he is. The whole world will dissect him, scrutinise him, depend on him. Nobody seems to wonder if pilots ever need people to depend on, on a personal level.
Kyungsoo feels more comfortable now, though. There aren't as many pairs of eyes on him now; most of them have diverted their attention to Jongin, all six feet of brazen, fierce fire, and Jongdae, someone Kyungsoo would best describe as a newly-forged blade wrapped in deceivingly soft silk. It's easier to think about this than recalling images of Byun Baekhyun leaning against the railing of the stairway leading down to the cafeteria, watching Kyungsoo intently from his vantage point. Even after turning his back on Baekhyun, Kyungsoo can still feel the searing intensity of his gaze, chipping away at his resolve.
"Which floor is LOCCENT on again?" Jongin asks no one in particular, staring at the control panel of the elevator with furrowed brows.
"Hold the door, please!"
Jongin presses the 'open' button long enough for a familiar figure to hurry into the elevator, steps swift but soundless. Soft, brown tresses, even softer doe-like eyes - Zhang Liyin looks Kyungsoo in the eye, pushing a tuft of hair behind her ear. "Congratulations, sir," she says, extending a hand in formal greeting. "I didn't get to wish you earlier, but I'm confident you'll make a great pilot."
The firmness and strength of her handshake surprises Kyungsoo. She'd make a wonderful addition to any base who would have her, he can feel it in the curve of her fingers against his. "Just 'Kyungsoo' is fine," he corrects her gently. "You were absolutely amazing on the mat. I have confidence that you'll be a pilot very soon as well." Formal words, but he hopes his tone conveys how much he means what he says.
If Liyin is flattered at all, a small, gentle smile is the only thing she has to show for it, as she turns to press the buttons for the third and fifth floors of the building. Kyungsoo remembers now - third is Weapons Analysis, fifth is LOCCENT - and murmurs thanks to her on everyone's behalf.
Liyin congratulates Jongin and a very red-faced Jongdae on successfully making the shortlist, speaking briefly about her intention to stay in Seoul, possibly as J-Tech staff, instead of returning to Beijing, where she'd come from. Jongin shifts slightly, taking shelter behind Kyungsoo, lean body easing into the space between Kyungsoo's back and the elevator wall.
When the display above them reads '3', the elevator comes to a smooth halt, the computerised beep too shrill to Kyungsoo's ears. Liyin waves them goodbye, casts one last look back at Jongdae and steps out the open doors. Her exit is as silent and graceful as her entrance three floors down, but Kyungsoo notices that her smile is a lot wider, a lot shyer.
Jongdae's eyes follow Liyin as she leaves, looking at her retreating back like she's the person who hung the moon and the stars in his sky. How nice it must be, Kyungsoo muses, to have someone admire and love you like that. Although he can't say for certain if this is love - they've only just met, and Kyungsoo doesn't even know what love is supposed to be like - it looks pleasant, nonetheless.
It's soft, beautiful, so different from the way Baekhyun looks at him, yet startlingly similar, in a way he can't quite place.
That very gaze is the first thing that greets Kyungsoo when he steps past the threshold of the main LOCCENT control room, nearly fumbling with returning his access card to his pocket. Baekhyun is in a fresh set of clothes, he notices; a V-necked tee and jeans to replace the singlet and trackpants he wore in the morning. He's still decked completely in black, though, his eyes even darker than the fabric of his clothing.
By the control panel, Wu Yifan looks every inch the renowned Marshall he is, still standing tall and proud in his neatly-pressed uniform, deep in a hushed discussion with Junmyeon.
To call the room a flurry of activity would an understatement. LOCCENT is the brain of the Jaeger programme, the heart of all the action, the central part of the magic that takes place here at Seoul HQ. Mission controllers receive data about kaijuu activity in the Breach, run Jaeger pilots through all the necessary protocol and instructions. On-deck marshalls command missions and convey instructions directly to the pilots themselves, all through the communications systems in this room.
Chaotic would be the only word to describe the scene before him, but it's an organised sort of chaos. Everybody knows where they belong, every move and step and push of a button done with purpose. Kyungsoo takes a deep breath, relishing in the grim excitement that flows into his lungs.
Junmyeon's opening greeting is short and simple. "Afternoon, gentlemen." Jongdae falls into step beside him, the seriousness and deadly focus from this morning taking him over again, and Kyungsoo can't help but marvel at how well he compartmentalises. Barring emotions from influencing the concentration needed and decisions made in a Jaeger is the most difficult thing to do. Physical strength and strategic thinking wouldn't be of any use without a clear mind.
"Congratulations on being shortlisted for the second part of the co-pilot selection tests. You've beaten a lot of talented competition to get here." Junmyeon gestures towards the room behind him, at the men and women tirelessly bent over their stations, analysing graphs and working machines, at the screen of fortified glass that separates the loading bay and the control room.
It strikes Kyungsoo that he was in one of the secondary control rooms only a few nights ago, the hollowness of the empty room echoing all around him. Jongin had felt warm next to him. The action goes on here, he tells himself. This is an upgrade. This is the upgrade.
The loading bay had been empty then, a large blue chamber with enough volume to keep several reservoirs of water. Through the glass, he can see the midriff of a Jaeger, metallic and beautiful and sharp, even from the back.
"In that loading bay is a Mark 4 Jaeger, the newest, lightest and fastest of its kind to date. I am aware you've been practicing with mock Mark 3 Jaegers at the Academy, but rest assured, the fours are no different in the Conn-Pod. It's just their firepower, so don't worry about having to adjust," Junmyeon says reassuringly, crisp voice carrying over the soft beeps and mechanical sounds of the control room.
Junmyeon continues, "You'll each take turns Drifting. Once you've established neural handshake, you boot up one weapon of your choice. No firing, of course. We'll be looking out for your neural frequencies, Drift strength, emotional stability, among other things."
The Marshall has joined him on the floor, sweeping them all with a critical gaze. "Pilot Do, if you'd lead the way to the Conn-Pod. Kim Jongin will go with you first."
Kyungsoo tries not to look back as he walks away with Jongin, not even when he brushes shoulders with Baekhyun.
Their trip to the Drivesuit Room is silent; the only sounds being the shuffle of feet and the monotonous, standard commands of the Drivesuit technician team. A large timer attached to the wall begins counting down the moment they step into the room - both Jaeger pilots are to be outfitted in tailor-made suits in seven minutes tops, in accordance with preset time constraints.
Only when they're safely cocooned in the Conn-Pod does Jongin exhale loudly, a wolfish grin creeping onto his face. "This is really happening," he breathes, documenting the surreality in his words. The deep grumble of the pod's metal walls grinding against the deployment tracks signals the beginning of their drop, to the test that awaits them both. Kyungsoo looks out the glass; the body of the Jaeger is fast approaching. He wonders if the adrenaline coursing through his veins is just a convenient cover-up crafted by his body to deal with anxiety. Maybe it's the pressure change in the pod.
Kyungsoo smiles at Jongin through his helmet. Jongin looks even taller in his white Drivesuit somehow. "We'll do this together. Deep breaths." He isn't sure who he's talking to.
Jongin lifts a fist, encased securely in metal. "The most kick-ass pilot duo in history?"
The Conn-Pod connects with the main body of the Jaeger almost seamlessly. Kyungsoo wouldn't have known the drop was over, if not for the latching of metal onto metal and the control interface coming to life in vivid shades of red and blue and green.
In the growing darkness of the Conn-Pod, Kyungsoo lifts a fist and bumps it against Jongin's. The soft, reassuring chink strikes a chord in his heart.
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