#whatever guys you're just gonna need to trust me here and be foggy on everything following the movie

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Obiyuki AU Bingo Post-Apocalypse AU

There is no worse sound than the sirens.

Science agrees: every day, papers pile up in her queue, every last one of them tagged with the word kaiju and trauma. Everything from former Rangers to survivors of those first attacks to the children who still live in the cities along the coast, growing up in the looming shadow of the kaiju threat -- every single one of them has a lasting, ingrained reaction to the noise. Siren Anxiety, some papers call it, sanitized from the PTSD of other papers. Worse are the epigenetic ones; the endless articles speculating about what the alarms have done to the human psyche, calling it the next great epigenetic event in human history, not tired to any one ethic group or restricted region, but instead the entire coast line of four continents, none of them able to bear the whoop and moan of the evacuation siren.

Shirayuki isn’t sure how much of that she believes; she believes in science, not divination, and the plasticity of the human mind is far beyond their understanding. Still, it’s a sound that certainly has a starring role in her nightmares.

Along with, she’s coming to realize, the Marshal wants to see you.

“Doctor.” His voice is clipped, terse, but still polite as he stands, gesturing for her to take a seat. He’s a busy man by any standard, but no one can say his mother didn’t teach him his manners. “I’m glad you could take the time to see me.”

It’s not as if she had much of a choice; she might be one of the few civilians here, but as far as the Pan-Pacific Defense Corp is concerned, he’s her boss. Garack might be the head of K-Science, but in the shatterdome, the Marshal’s word is law.

Someone else might not know the extent of that power, might think that a summons sent to the civ division of the dome was just a polite ask, but Izana --

Well, if there was anything like royalty left on this coast, it would be the Wisterias. Three generations of Marshals since the first kaiju ransacked San Francisco, and it could be said, with little exaggeration, that his grandfather practically built the PPDC from the ground up. If anyone knows the power behind that title, it’s him.

“It’s no problem,” she chokes out, sinking into a chair. Beside it sits a steaming mug -- her mug, she realizes with a jolt -- filled with green tea and muddied up with cream. Just the way she likes it. “I had time.”

He nods, hand hooked over the back of his chair, gaze fixed to the wall. The one that would look out over the Pacific, if they weren’t underground. She’s been here six months, and training up to take Garack’s place hasn’t left her much time, but --

She’s been in this office a few times, in an official capacity. And every time she can’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t be here. That he belongs in some high-rise, looking out a fortieth floor window, surveying his domain, crunching numbers and worrying about stocks. Not down here, half-buried beneath what’s left of LA, talking to her about monsters.

None of them should be here, really, but that’s just the way things have panned out. For now. There’s no accounting for who they would have been, if not for --

“You’re settling in?”

Shirayuki nearly scalds herself on her tea, only just clamping her lips around her teeth to keep it from spilling out. She take a moment to swallow, liquid burning all the way down. “Ah, yes. It’s been...slow, but I think the rangers are acclimatizing to the shift.”

Finally, she wants to add. And only because of your brother.

It’s a mistake to say any of that. Bringing up Zen, here, right now --

Probably not career ending, but she’ll certainly approach the limits of Izana’s current goodwill. She may be the psychologist in this room, but he is the one who could sit back in his chair with that enigmatic smile of his and flay her alive. There’s no amount of insisting that will get him to believe that Zen is only her patient, and --

And, with the way Zen acts, she can’t say she blames him. She’s a professional, but no matter how much she swears to herself that she would never cross that line, would never make a patient more than that --

Well, she’s read the papers. Everyone living under one roof like this, never a day’s rest when kaiju don’t believe in filing for paid time off, civilian and military alike -- it’s a recipe for disaster. Zen wouldn’t be the first ranger to read something more in his sessions.

And she wouldn’t be the first PPDC psychologist to encourage it, if she did --

Which she doesn’t. She’s told Izana all this before, shoulders straight and stance stoic. But he’d only smiled that infuriating smile of is, and asked, but if he wasn’t your patient...?

She didn’t have a good answer to that. And the Marshal wasn’t one to miss a detail like that.

They’d been...at an impasse since then. Zen still takes his sessions with her, and she keeps her distance.

Well, as much as he allows. Which is quickly trending towards not enough and also too much.

“Good.” His fingers tap idly at the leather of his chair, expression uncomfortably thoughtful. “Garack speaks highly of your skills, you know. Best investment I’ve forced you to make.”

It’s useless to hide her blush. She knows she’s well-regarded -- there’s not many psychologists clamoring to get into the PPDC, and even less rangers wanting to talk to one -- but still. Garack practically invented the idea of trauma therapy for pilots. It’s not only a compliment -- it’s a reinforcement of her whole life’s work to date. There’s no point in hiding that she’s happy about that.

“And my brother, of course,” he mentions mildly. “Not a day goes by where he doesn’t sing your praises.”

Oh, so -- so he is going to bring this up.

“Studies have shown that having a mental health professional available to pilots has decreased the likelihood of risk behaviors as well as nearly all forms of self-harm.” Her cheeks heat, and oh, how she wish they wouldn’t when she talked about this. “A-and it isn’t unusual for pilots under stress to believe they’ve formed and intimate bond with support staff. As long as the professional--”

Izana holds up a hand with a huff of a laugh. “You don’t have to preach to me Doctor. I think we are both tired of that particular conversation.”

Her fingers tighten around the mug, and she grimaces at the pinch. “Then I must admit that I’m at a loss for what we need to discuss.”

She only just manages to bite off, if I’m not here to defend my professional credentials. By his look, he still hears them, loud and clear.

His eyebrows raise, but she’s not one of his rangers; there is no pressing need, in her mind, for her to call him sir. Some of the other civilians here might fall in line -- lord knows Suzu trips over himself to do it -- but she’s not some lab scientist, taught military hierarchy in a day’s orientation. Oh no, she’s written papers about the long term effects of the military complex under martial law, and --

“I have need of your expertise, Shirayuki.”

All her protests dry up in her mouth. She hadn’t expected that.

“Oh,” she replies eloquently. She lifts the mug to her mouth and takes a long, meditative sip, trying to buy herself some time to come to terms with -- with this. “I, uh, well...”

“I’m bringing in a new ranger,” Izana continues, graciously ignoring her sudden inability to form coherent sentences. For once, it’s a mercy she can appreciate. “I think he might present a...unique challenge for you.”

“A ranger?” The room feels off-kilter now, tilted. Izana may make this announcement so casually, but a shatterdome is a complex ecosystem of egos, an exquisitely delicate biome that can collapse into total anarchy with a single breath. And now he wants to upset that balance. “When?”

“Soon.” His mouth quirks, gaze distant. “I’m flying out today, in fact, as soon a we’re done here.”

Pressure pulses threateningly just behind her eyes. “Who would you--?”

Her mouth shuts with a click. Most of the pilots here were experienced teams, working together for years, but there was one -- one -- jaeger that has been lying in wait for half a decade, stuck in shatterdome purgatory until his single pilot managed to find a partner --

And it just so happened to be the single ranger that Izana Wisteria, prince of the Pacific, would burn half the world for, if it meant finding someone drift compatible.

She twists the mug in her hand, anxious. “Does he know?”

A stupid question, when she already knows the answer.

“No.” An easy answer for a complex situation. “And he won’t.”

She bridles in her seat, mouth pulling thin. “You called me in here to ask me to lie? Is this some sort of test of loyalty, because I don’t appreciate mind games, Marshal.”

“No. I asked you in here because I have...concerns.” He grimaces, as if it physically pains him to admit it. “About...reintegration.”

“You should be more concerned about what this will do to the dynamic of your pilots,” she tells him, setting aside her tea. “You should be telling him that --”

“Doctor, you have been here long enough -- and privy to my brother’s thoughts long enough -- to know there is only one copilot he will accept.” Izana looks at her now, and he seems so -- weary. Not even thirty, and here he is, shouldering the hopes of the world. “We don’t have the luxury of waiting for him to be reasonable about this. I would rather he had less time to plan his objections than make a misguided attempt at trying to appeal to his logic.”

Her lips press together, annoyed. She wants to fight on this point, to tell him he needs to prioritize Zen’s comfort --

But unfortunately, she agrees. Were this a mediation between two brothers about a family legacy, she could counsel caution, could recommend respect -- but this is a dispute between soldier and commander, and in this, she’s loath to say Izana has the right of it. It had taken hardly a handful of sessions to see where, precisely, Zen’s hang up lied in regards to the drift.

It’s her job to provide support, to empathize, but oh, sometimes she wishes it included telling someone they were being belligerent, ridiculous. That they were risking lives for pride, for a reward that had never been promised and would never come.

“I still think he should know,” she insists stubbornly.

“Of course you do.” Izana mouth curls in that infuriating grin of his, too knowing. “You are eminently fair, even to a fault. It’s part of why you are so good at your job.”

She frowns at the compliment. Kind words, but she knows the Marshal too well to believe a kiss won’t come with a sting.

“However,” he drawls, “you won’t tell him.”

“No,” she agrees begrudgingly. “I won’t.”

“I won’t lie to you, Doctor,” Izana says, suddenly serious, fixing her with a look so intense that it’s almost a burden to bear. “This is a very...unorthodox situation.”

“I think you’ll find that I’ve seen nearly everything the PPDC has had to show me,” she said, forcing a smile. “There’s very little left that can surprise me.”

His mouth twitches, smile turning to something almost self-deprecating. “So you might think.”

Her office is empty when she returns to it, dark. The offices along the entire hall are empty, probably for dinner.

Good. She’d rather do this without anyone around to see.

It’s not as if this isn’t in her purview; Zen is her patient, and this, inarguably, will have a direct impact on his current mental health. It’s only...

There’s a difference between hearing trauma from a patient, freely given, and finding it out through a dispassionate report that is more date than substance. She’d sworn she would wait -- Zen was neck-deep in trust issues, and if flying blind would make him feel more comfortable, make their relationship seem more natural, it was a small price to pay.

But now with Izana talking about a new ranger, about reintegration --

Shirayuki may not be fluent in the Marshal’s particular dialect of doublespeak, but she’s able to read between the lines: he’s bringing someone back, someone’s from Zen’s past, someone no one will be happy to see. She only knows one ranger that fits the profile.

She flips further in Zen’s file than she’s ever let herself: far past his current benching, far past Kiki’s unexpected and upsetting arrival at the dome, even flipping through Mitsuhide’s all-too brief tenure as his co-pilot --

Right to the hole in Rex Tyrannis’ pilot history, to the year that every ranger talks around: Atri.

She doesn’t have access to his file, so she’s only gets half the story -- an endless string of appeals filed by Zen, insisting that some unexplained petty crimes could not have been perpetrated by his co-pilot. A run of misconduct charges that are strenuously sanitized. A laundry list of official complaints lodged at about Izana’s enthusiastic reprimands, Zen passionately insisting Atri was being singled out by the Marshal because of his background. And then, finally, the removal of Zen from the duty roster.

Absence of Drift Compatible Personnel, it reads. A simple way to name the gaping wound he still carries with him.

She knows the specifics of this part at least; Mitsuhide kept Zen’s past close to his chest, but he’d slipped on this, tongue lubricated by a few after hours beers. Court Martial In Absentia was what it would read on Atri’s file, since he’d been long gone with his stolen goods before Zen had caught wind of his plan. Mitsuhide had recovered the parts before they went to market, but Atri himself had never been found.

And now here he was, about to waltz back into Zen’s life, complicating the peace she’s worked so hard to maintain.

Shirayuki sits back, rubbing at her temples. If only that would be the worst of it. Having a man most of the pilots thought of as a traitor slink back under the shatterdome would be hard enough, but --

But if Izana could find Atri, that meant he knew where he was. And no matter what the Marshal would say about it, Zen would never believe he hadn’t known the whole time, that Izana hadn’t just let Atri get away with some awful proviso where Atri never contacted Zen again.

Her head tips back with a sigh. Knowing the Marshal, he probably had, too.

She reaches out, grasping to catch the handle of her mug, meaning to take a sip of the tea she inevitably had cooling in there, but --

But her hand swipes at air. It isn’t here, it’s back in Izana’s office. Or rather, in the kitchen, where he doubtlessly sent it after she left it there with half a cup of cold tea.

Shirayuki rests her head in her hands and groans. There’s nothing she can do about this now -- the Marshal will do what he thinks is best. That’s his job.

And it’s hers to deal with the fallout.

There’s only one room in the dome with windows: the mess.

Curved glass wraps around the rounded outer wall, gazing fearlessly out over the Pacific, as if daring the kaiju to come, inviting them. It’s PPDC pride at it’s finest; making a grand show of defiance when it was all just an illusion -- the glass was engineered at Shao Industries, able to withstand anything just short of a nuclear blast.

It’s always easy to tell who is new in the mess; no one but experienced personnel ever sit facing the windows. It was a game the rangers played sometimes, making the newest recruit sit on the bench opposite the window, waiting and watching for them to break, for the anxiety to overcome them and send them bolting out of the room, meal wasted.

Shirayuki’s mouth thins. Those had been some of her first patients here -- the recruits who couldn’t stop shaking long enough to eat their food.

“It’s the math.”

She jolts out of her reverie, gaze scrambling up to meet Suzu’s, hoping he hasn’t noticed that her attention drifted. He’s always been a bit sensitive about things like that, about being dismissed. A common problem, when your thesis is about trying to apply algorithms to kaiju attacks.

There’s no need to worry, of course; she tries to look attentive, but he’s too busy attempting to eat the sloppy joe spilling out over his fingers to appreciate it. “It’s worrying me.”

Yuzuri lets out a groan load enough to make a kaiju rethink an approach. “Are you on about this again?”

“When am I not on about this?” he snips around his bun, circling around for another bite. Ground meat drops down to his tray, splattering sauce everywhere. Shirayuki has met a lot of people, but until she met Suzu, she’d never known one with a splash radius. “It’s important, even if you don’t think so--”

“Me, Marshal Wisteria, everyone with a brain--”

“Hey,” Shirayuki murmurs. “Do you hear that?”

The Formica shakes under her hands, gentle at first, and she can feel the collective breath of the mess stop, every body going tense. The rangers two tables over are half out of their seats, heads twist over their shoulders.

Shirayuki follows suit, watching the waters churn at the edge of the flight deck, ripples slapping hard against the metal. Kaiju don’t typically come this far down the coast -- just the once, just that first time when Yamarashi rose up on Long Beach. The most recent, most deadly attacks have been on the other side of the rim, Russian and Japan and China, all fighting off more kaiju every month --

But that doesn’t mean it can’t happen here. That things can’t change. They all learned that lesson well, after the kaiju came.

“Chopper,” Suzu says with a sigh, settling back into his seat.

He’s the only one; already there’s bodies crowded along the windows, faces pressed eagerly to the glass as the helo swings down to the flight deck, skids bouncing once, twice before settling flat.

“I guess His Majesty had returned,” Yuzuri observes dryly, mouth ticking up in a grin. “I wonder who he’s with.”

Izana alights from the chopper first, hair whipping out in a golden banner behind him. It’s no wonder everyone is jostling to see; he cuts a striking figure on the tarmac, Marshal blues neatly pressed, golds stars shining along both shoulders. Angel of the Pacific, they’d called him right out of training. The name had stuck, though it came out with more irony now.

He half turns, gaze swinging back to the helo as a man slides along the seats. Shirayuki holds her breath, jaw clenched tight. His head is ducked, hair a wild black hedgerow, but for a moment he looks up, and --

Ah, that’s -- that’s not Atri at all.

She refuses to run.

Shirayuki is a professional, a doctor. Unless her life is on the line, she walks briskly, with purpose. Her pace this time might leave her breathless, might leave her feet aching in what she would have called sensible flats this morning, but it’s still not a run.

She gets there just in time to see it happen.

Zen’s waiting in the hangar, Kiki and Mitsuhide flanking him to either side. This is an ambush, she knows; Izana couldn’t have has enough time to officially page him, but the rumor mill works fast inside the dome. It wouldn’t have escaped him what purpose his brother’s guest would serve.

The man himself is calm, preternaturally so for a one walking into a room with hostility so thick it’s practically a wall. His mouth is curled up at a corner as he looks around, taking in the view, hands hooked in his pockets, casual. Cocky, even.

She hesitates as she draws closer, as she finally able to see his eyes, and she amends her assessment. He mimics calm, exudes it, but his eyes are half-wild, darting around the deck like he thinks the jaegers might come off the wall and stomp on him. They’re nearly all pupil, she can see it even from twenty paces away, but as they stop, as they catch on her --

She could swear his eyes are gold.

His gaze jumps away, and by then Izana has rallied, that he’s already started to speak. She can’t hear a thing, close as she is. With the whirring of drills and growls of machinery, she’d have to be nearly on top of them, part of the conversation itself. She wants to be, she should be, but --

It’s too late. Zen’s jaw sets with just one look at the man, and she knows -- that’s it. He’s done. There won’t be any drifting with what’s washed up on the deck.

No matter how angry he is, Zen keeps his head, giving Izana a tense nod as he makes introduction, as he clearly tells him this man’s purpose in the dome. She knows the exact moment it happens; Zen clenches his jaw so hard she’s surprised he doesn’t crack a tooth. His gaze shifts to the other man, forbidding, but --

But the pilot slips one broad hand out of his pocket, holding it out to him. A peace offering.

Zen stares at it like he’s been offered trash.

The man’s smile goes sharp as he pulls it back, hooking his thumb on the loop of his jeans. He doesn’t seem surprised, just -- amused.

Zen spins on his heel, stomping away, Kiki and Mitsuhide trailing behind him. The man’s mouth slants into a smirk.

“Well,” he says, easy to hear over the sudden lull, “I think that went well, don’t you, Marshal?”

No one knows who this mystery man is, but it takes no time as all for them to divine why he’s here -- another ranger for Zen Wisteria to fail to drift with, another pilot to be shown the marvel that is Kain Wisteria’s legacy and fall short. There used to be a betting pool about how long it would take to find someone compatible, someone Zen would accept, but it’s long since dried up. No one thinks Rex Tyrannis will be coming out of its box anytime soon.

Shirayuki wants to believe it will, that Zen will find someone to be his copilot, even if no one else does, but --

She doubts it will be this one.

“He’s a jackass,” Zen grumbles, head tilting against the back of her couch. A mug steams in front of him, filled to the brim with a coffee more cream than bean. “He keeps on showing up everywhere, saying ‘don’t forget, master, we have a drift to fail.’ Last time he followed it up with, ‘come on, I want to get home already.’ Just, you know...asshole stuff.”

Shirayuki nods, sympathetic, and sips at her tea. She’s good at that; it’s her job to listen, to withhold judgement. Zen’s comfortable with her like this, with a drink in front of both of them, pretending this is a social call and not an appointment, pretending that she’s the one person in his life that doesn’t need to give her opinion on every thought that passes through his head.

It’s easy to do, mostly. She has practice at non-interference, at knowing the precise time to chime in with an observation that will be heard, instead of dismissed. Trust is the most important bond she can forge with a patient; if she needs to voice a scathing remark, she can always save the impulse for her actual friends, for when she steps out for dinner and listens to Suzu talk about numbers with steadily increasing incredulity.

After all, she doubts Zen would appreciate being told that he is making this man wait, that his whole life has been put on pause until Zen gets over himself enough to decide he’s ready to try.

She presses her lips together, biting down on the impulse to speak. It’s easy to forget that he isn’t a friend, most of the time, that he isn’t some handsome ranger that she just happened to meet at work and hit it off with. But sometimes --

Sometimes it’s not.

His eyes roll up to the clock, and he starts. “Aw, sh--oot,” he mutters, throwing a wary glance at her. “Our time’s up.”

“I don’t have anyone after you today,” she says lightly, busily straightening her notes. He doesn’t have to know that’s how she usually plans it, just so she can make this offer. “You can linger, if you want.”

“Nah, I have to go.” His cheeks flush ruefully, and he gives her a shy glance from the corners of his eyes. “Izana wants to meet with me. You know, about this guy.”

Of course he does.

“Oh, go ahead then,” she tells him with a smile, swirling the last dregs of tea in her mug. “I can finish up alone.”

He hesitates, and this is the problem, this moment here, where he looks like he was to protest, like he wants her to never feel alone, but --

But instead he just nods, giving her a tense smile and a murmured see you before walking out the door.

The tea goes cold.

Shirayuki sticks out her tongue at the sour taste. She’s been working a while, knee deep in catching up on the papers weighing down her queue, but she’d thought -- only for an hour, maybe two.

Her stomach growls. Okay, maybe four.

She gets up, wandering down to the mess with a limp in her walk, foot still half asleep from being tucked under her for so long. She takes a step through the doors -- and blinks.

It’s nighttime. Well, she certainly didn’t mean to read that long.

Dinner sits in chafing dishes, rubbery and unappetizing, but it’s better than the nothing she’ll have if she turns her nose up at it. She takes a plate in hand, picking what seems the most edible and taking it to a table by the window.

It’s quiet this time of night; everyone is on-shift or sleeping. She has nothing to do besides go over her notes and eat, looking out over the Pacific and wondering about Suzu’s numbers.

“Anyone sitting here?”

She blinks, and suddenly there’s a man in front of her, mug of coffee steaming in one hand, and an equally unappetizing plate in the other. It’s the new ranger -- Obi. The asshole.

He’s not wearing the uniform. She’s not sure he ever has.

“Ah, no!” She moves her papers, stacking them on the seat next to her to make room. “Just -- thinking.”

He smiles, the kind that doesn’t bare teeth, and -- well, it’s not a bad look on him. “Thanks. Didn’t think I’d find a place to sit down. This place is packed.”

She turns, taking in the ocean of empty tables, and when she looks back, he’s grinning, trying to hide it behind a sip of his coffee.

“I haven’t seen you around,” he says, and for a moment, she wonders if he remembers her, remembers that moment their eyes met on the deck. He doesn’t seem like the type. “Not part of the jaeger crews, I take it?”

“No.” It’s annoying how her cheeks flush under that stead gaze of his. This close, she knows for certain: his eyes are gold. Even if she can’t seem to manage to meet them. “I’m mostly...below decks.”

“Ah,” he hums, eyes lighting. “Scientist?”

“Psychologist.”

His smile pulls tight, eyes crinkling with strain. “You don’t say.”

Ah, she should have known. Military personnel aren’t usually...fond of her position. Not at first, at least.

“You know,” he says, voice still thin, “I think His Majesty is going to tell me to see--”

“What are you doing here?” Zen demands, just over her shoulder.

“--you more often,” Obi finished, taking a long drag from his mug. “Just having some coffee, taking a break. Making friends, since you’re so happy to keep me here.”

“Oh, I see. If you can’t bug me, you’ll come bug my -- Shirayuki?” Zen’s cheeks flush an angry red, like he’s been slapped on both cheeks. Still, he keeps up is glare. “Can’t you just go away already?”

Obi’s eyebrows twitch, the rest of his body going still as he looks at him. “Love to. Just set the date, master.”

The flush spreads all over his face, eruption immanent. “I--”

“Did you need something, Zen?” she asks, pointed. It’s more than she means it to be, but still less than this sort of behavior deserves.

She takes a breath, calming. She’s not here to take sides.

“Yeah, I--” Zen casts a nervous look around the room, and that when she sees Kiki and Mitsuhide lingering at the door with amused and concern expressions, respectively. “I left my jacket here. After dinner.”

“It is over there?” She points to another table, one with a vest slung around the back of a chair.

“Oh.” He coughs, scooping it up. “Yeah.”

Still, he lingers.

“Is that all?” she asks innocently. “We were just going to finish up dinner.”

“Yeah. Right,” he bites out, glare sweeping in Obi’s direction. “Sure. See you.”

It’s silent as he walks out, as Kiki and Mitsuhide fall in behind with only a lingering look. Shirayuki sighs, heavy, and turns back to her plate.

Obi’s mouth bows with concern. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She sits, staring at her food, barely seeing it. She really, really didn’t. It was a mistake, a trip-up that might have cost her some of her hard-won trust with Zen, but --

“I know,” she says, spearing a noodle. “But I did.”

She doesn’t add, and we’ll both have to live with it. By the steady gaze he sets on her, he hears it anyway.

“Yeah,” he coughs after a moment, eyes skittering to look anywhere else. “You did.”