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SPEAKER ANNOUNCEMENT
Broadcast over speakers onboard, Doss speaks:
This is a CODE RED ALERT and all hands are required.
Earlier this evening, Bone intercepted a directive from the Architects to initiate a Sterilisation Event in Xitang, China on 01/29/2026 at 1600. There's no information about what is triggering this, but we have a unique chance to save 50,000 souls from eradication.
Evacuation is our primary goal here. We know the blast radius is 15.5 miles (25 km for our non-Americans). We need to get as many people as possible out of the radius as quickly and as efficiently as we can. St James has a suggested approach here. Espionage, consult with your chain of command for assignments.
Ground Forces will be on site getting as many people to safety as possible. Your primary directive is evacuation. Utilize any resources at your disposal.
These people are Veiled. This makes things easier and trickier at the same time. We won't have widespread panic: you're fighting against complacency.
Pilots, your primary directive is drone destruction You're the hail Mary: as long as the drones are targeting you, they can't execute their orders. We need to give people on the ground as much time as we can. You'll be against the big boys, not just the standard drones. They're powerful, but they're slow. Take advantage of your maneuverability.
Strategists, you'll be manning Command with Science. Let them run point on ground communication and stick to what you know best: how to keep our pilots alive.
Remember the mission. Let's go be big damn heroes.
Pre-Deployment Minis
Maryle & Dom
Dom's circled the Dome four times already, unrelated dossier clutched in increasingly sweaty hands. If he doesn't get this over with soon he'll have to hand Bishop papers that look more like a Rorschach test than reports.
He turns into the Science wing before he can talk himself out of it, down the hall and toward their bay of bright monitors and flashing lights, pausing only long enough to grab an empty wheeled chair that he drags over to Maryle's side. Dom's only saving grace is that years of acting Veiled make it easy for him to school his face into something neutral and pleasant, which he does as he takes a seat and drops the dossier on her desk.
"Dr. Bone, I presume."
READ MORE
"Ah, Rear Admiral Flores Romero, nice of you to join me," Maryle replies without moving her eyes from the screen in front of her, though a smile ticks at the corner of her mouth.
In fact, she refuses to shift her gaze. She reaches for the dossier without looking at it either, which leads to a little bit of fumbling before she gets her hand properly on it and pulls it in front of her.
"This isn't the latte I asked for."
"The only beans the Mess had left were kidney," he lies when he yanks the dossier back like he doesn't trust her anywhere near it, mostly because he doesn't trust her anywhere near it, despite his bringing it near her. The dossier is released without a fight, and Maryle laughs brightly at the silent implication against her trustworthiness (Dom's probably right).
He's not here to delay things any more than he already has — he is, in theory, over with hiding headaches and hand tremors and done with pretending lapses in short-term memory were simply absentmindedness. His desire to keep up the pretense that he was removed from the field for no good reason has long since been declared dead. But he hasn't had to explain his situation to anyone except Singh and Bishop and that went... rather poorly.
He steels himself against the worst possibility (she uses her stapler on his face and then never talks to him again) and, straightening the papers in the folder on his lap, begins his confession: "Are you busy this evening?" (Well, he tried.)
Finally, Maryle turns fully to look at Dom, tilting her head in the process. Something feels off, though she can't quite put her finger on it, and it settles uncomfortably in the back of her throat. The answer to his question is a lopsided shrug.
"I mean, I can't run off into the sunset with you this moment, but I'm just monitoring the Harmony Lights scan, which pretty much always amounts to nothing. Shouldn't be too long before I'm finished. We getting a kidney bean latte after?"
Mouth suddenly run dry, Dom licks his lips and considers how odd of a reaction that is. Why transfer moisture outside of one's mouth? Isn't it a futile effort? Shouldn't he instead–
Instead, he should be handling matters at hand. Confessions — or more accurately, the prelude to.
"I don't think you'll want to," he admits, fists tensing around the dossier's edge. "There's something I need to discuss with you and you... won't be pleased. With me." And before she can say anything, as if it will help at all to state the obvious, he tacks on: "I know you prefer not to be blindsided by unpleasant things."
Maryle's smile, which was already beginning to wane, completely disappears and the lump in her throat solidifies. Something is wrong. The twisting of Dom's hands only makes her more nervous, and her eyes flit between them and his face before finally holding his gaze. She hears the computer next to her chirp, the start of the Harmony Lights, something that always puts her a little extra on edge too.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone likes that. What did you do?"
The computer makes another noise. Translating, demanding her attention, but for just this moment she ignores it.
"It's a rather long story." Maryle's frown is only a taste of things to come (awful things) and the shame's already started to settle around his shoulders like a shroud. "And not one befitting the incessant beeping from your machine."
Maryle considers just turning off the sound on the computer and making him explain. Surely it can't be that bad, right? Even though she can see the discomfort settling into his frame, and even though he says she'll be upset, it must just be a little thing. A stupid thing.
Unfortunately, she knows should do her job and she lets out a huff of irritation at all three of them (her, him, the computer) before turning to look at the monitor. A quick scan of the message there makes her breath catch, and every thought about Dom's impending admission flees her mind.
"Fuck."
Maryle's plethora of Fucks is just another language Dom's fluent in — and this one's among the worst of her variations.
He wheels to close the distance between them and squints at the screen. If she'd typed 'Fuck fuck, fuck! FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK fuck!' he'd probably know exactly what it was about, but this looks like nonsense to his untrained eye. Still, he adjusts his glasses like that will do anything at all. "What is it?"
Automatically, Maryle scoots over to allow Dom a better view before she types a few things, clicks a few things, tries to make sure that this is the actual message. That it hasn't been improperly decoded.
It hasn't.
More prominently on the screen now is a series of numbers (clearly coordinates), a few other numbers, and some letters, the final of which her finger comes to rest under on the screen. Dom's proximity does little to comfort her, and her face is pale as she turns to him and explains.
"A message embedded in the Lights. There's a date and time. Tomorrow, 1600 hours. And these letters mean Sterilization protocol."
"Fuck."
Eli & Griff | The Hangars
Right now, he was more interested in finding an older pilot with a history of —
“Gotcha,” he muttered, arm reaching out to snag Griff’s bicep before the other man could brush by him in the stream of people readying the ships.
It shouldn't have surprised him, and yet Griffin still had to swallow down the yelp of surprise, telling his already racing heart that this wasn’t danger but — a quick glance confirmed his suspicions — a well meaning check in. He fought the urge to shrug Eli off and —
What, exactly? Hightail it to the plane? The very place he didn't want to be?
The smile on his face couldn’t be less convincing, but he tried anyway. “Hey, E. I’m just looking for Fox, you seen him?”
Eli frowned at his roommate, the unimpressed look in his eyes slightly more weighted than usual. While most people would consider the question fair for a dual-seater pilot to ask, Griffin had been snagged by someone who didn’t easily play along.
“No,” he answered truthfully. His foster brother could have done the foxtrot as he slipped by him for all he knew, but his focus had been solely focused on finding his other brother by circumstance. “Where’s your head at?”
He winced; Eli was nothing if not straight forward, which he appreciated on days not today. “It’ll be better in the air,” he deflected. The answer would fly with just about anyone else, but he knew his roommate and headed off the next question with: “I don’t have a choice, Eli. Head’s gonna be a mess whether I’m here or out there, and at least out there I can do something.”
Save other people from what he had had to live with ever since coming out of the Veil.
Clapping a hand on his roommate’s shoulder, he added, “I ain’t going to do anything dumb out there. Promise.”
Eli’s scowl only deepened, but they both knew their hands were tied. They had to deploy to take down the drones no matter what baggage they carried because saving humanity was more important than giving in to the nightmares and memories.
Or something like that, but right now Eli felt more concern for his friend than for the masses. Selfish, sure, but he could live with that realization.
“Don’t be stupid and play the hero either,” the younger man finally said, squeezing Griff’s shoulder with a warning look, “I don’t want another roommate.”
Griff widened his eyes, the picture of innocence. “I can’t promise not to play hero, especially if we’re anywhere near 1. Fox hasn’t said anything but I think he’s got a Thing for Philip.” Which was sweet, and immensely easier to think about than getting in his seat and flying out to play chicken.
Because that’s what this mission was: call the drones to them to buy time and hope none of them got shot out the sky.
“Philip has a brand new pilot he needs to be more concerned about,” Eli countered, deep lines framing his brows.
“No heroics,” Griff echoed back at the younger man. “I know where you sleep.”
“An unfortunate side effect of being roommates,” came the beleaguered sigh, but just for a moment a hint of a smile ghosted across his lips. He gave his friend’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing it, unable to stop himself from quickly memorizing the man’s face — death a very real side effect of their job.
Something they were both aware of. Griffin pulled him in for a quick hug, arms tight around Eli for the full beat of a heart before letting him go.
He took a deep breath. This would be fine. They would be fine, and they'd save the day and no one else would have to die. That was the mantra that he had to believe in right now or he'd fall apart from memories and fear.
“I'm taking out more than you today. Get ready to owe me one social event, McLeod.” There was no waver in his voice, just bravado he desperately wanted to feel.
They both needed this moment of levity, of putting on a brave face when they knew what awaited them on the other side of the hangar door, so Eli took a step back, both hands rising to shoot the other man the bird.
“Choke on my exhaust, Loon.”
Griff grinned and blew him a kiss. “I'm adding a cuddle to the pot. You look like you need a post-mission cuddle.” But he was already stepping away, eyes searching for his partner.
Jax & Philip
"Flip!" he called out when he saw that familiar head of hair up ahead, and jogged over to meet his roommate.
Without a break in his stride, Philip turned himself just enough to keep Jax well within his line of sight. His usual smile cut across his expression in a rakish angle, but Jax knew him well enough to notice the flatness of his gaze. "St James," he returned. "Ready for boots on the ground?"
Thankfully, long legs made it easy to keep up. "You know I am. You rendez-vous with your squad yet?"
"At the hangar." A quick up-down, as if to reassure himself that Jax was indeed hale and in fighting form. "They know the last one there wins the gift of two hundred pushups when we get back."
Jax huffed a terse laugh. "Someone's gonna be into that one day. Before you–" He snagged Philip's forearm as they rounded a corner and stood in front of his friend, who came to a sharp stop. "You kick drone ass and take names, but you come on back or I'll make sure you never rest in peace."
Philip, cinching a tight grip across Jax's wrist, reached up with his other hand to run his fingers in a rough scrape over the back of the man's neck. "And you – you don't make any unnecessary heroic decisions."
The immediate retort should not have been But necessary is alright?, and looking into Philip's eyes, Jax wished he was capable of making that promise. He fisted a hand into the younger man's shirt, let out a shaky exhale. "I'll do my best, Flip."
Do better wouldn't have been helpful on the swiftly narrowing run-up to an oversized mission, so Philip just nodded, echoing Jax with a slow exhale of his own. "Yeah, I know," he simply said, pulling his hand from Jax's nape to his face, briefly cupping his cheek before, with a gentle pat, Philip released him. "See you when we get back."
The heat of the touch lingered on Jax's cheek, and he nodded, ensuring one last graze of his fingertips along the inside of Philip's wrist as he headed down the other corridor, determination in every footfall.
Lola & Rio.
Seven seconds from A5-B's door to A5-P. Two sharp knocks, and she pulls her knee up to tighten her left boot as she waits for an answer.
The door opens on Lola already in motion, one arm through her jacket, the other reaching back to snag the door before it can slide all the way open. Her hair is swept into a messy ponytail, her face bare of the usual bold lip.
“Well,” she says dryly, glancing past Rio at the screaming lights and alarms, “this is certainly one way to spice up the evening.”
Despite the sarcasm, she is clearly locked in: all of her flirtatious joie de vivre replaced by a cool professionalism as she slides a gun into a thigh holster. Then, briskly, “This doesn’t make sense.”
“What,” Rio intones, not that she’s seriously expecting an answer that paints any of the Architects’ actions into shapes approaching rationality. As Lola’s gun nestles into its holster, she lifts a hand, only to point her forefinger down in the direction of the floor and draw a tight circle in the air: turn.
Lola obeys the silent instruction without comment, still talking as she tries in vain to wrestle her ponytail into something more secure. “This never fucking happens. There’ve been, what — two sterilization events since the Fall? If this is retaliation for Finland…”
It doesn’t make sense is left unspoken. There is no point in repeating herself, especially when no part of the Architects’ plans ever makes sense. But saying it outloud — especially to Rio — helps her organize the noise in her head.
"If it's retaliation, that makes them…" A pause, lips pursed as Rio rises on her toes and deftly begins to loosen Lola's sad attempt at a ponytail. "Petty." With the elastic now hanging around two fingers, she begins to scrape Lola's hair back, smoothing flyaways before twisting the mass of dark locks tight into a low bun. "I can deal with petty." Then: "There. I had visions of you getting scalped because a droid managed to grab all of this. Now you can go."
For one brief moment, Lola just stands there and lets herself be fussed over. The world narrows — to the warm pressure at the back of her head, to Rio’s steadying presence — even as the klaxons continue to howl. She turns when Rio’s hands withdraw, composure already back in place, and hooks two fingers into the other woman’s belt loops, pulling her forward until they’re flush.
“Aw, you’re having visions of me? That’s cute, ma chatte.”
She steals a kiss — brief, chaste, entirely unsatisfying and punctuated by a sigh from Rio, soft and disgruntled — and when she pulls back, there’s a wicked upturn in the corners of her mouth. “Now we can go,” she says firmly, jerking chin toward the door.
For a brief moment, there's annoyance (why now?) (why are the alarms still going off? it's not like everyone on the ship hasn't already heard the damn things) (she had a perfectly adequate day planned, so why now?), before it disappears, a look of grim amusement slamming down across Rio's face. "I'm having visions of you eating my dust," comes as she sets off. "Keep up."
Demarcus & Delilah
And, okay, she's also thinking about where the hell is her hair tie and why isn't it on her wrist like it should be—
She stops dead in her tracks. Standing before her is a boy around her age who she's never seen before— and she's very good at locating fellow youths in order to try to win them over through aggressive friendliness. "Wait, hi, wow, you're so tall, are you new?"
A normal way to greet a stranger.
The tall, dark stranger of a million futures foretold looks up from his phone, slightly startled at the question and any chance of recovery to seem in control is just as futile as he registers the cute blonde that was asking said question.
"Oh yeah. You know, genes or something…" Demarcus says, trying to play it cool and laugh it off but failing utterly.
There's a short pause before he remembers to introduce himself and he runs his hand through his hair (hopefully impressively), "I'm Demarcus Rojo. Hi."
"Congrats on being genetically blessed!" she answers, bright and bubbly. Now is really not the time to stop and chat with her new handsome coworker— she has a mission to prep for— but well. She is easily distracted by a pretty face. "Delilah!" She wiggles her fingers in a wave. "Welcome to Mnemosyne! I hope you aren't claustrophobic."
Delilah, Demarcus repeats to himself. He is going to remember that.
“Um, thanks.“ he starts and frowns, waving a hand around, "Are you late for something? Is everyone late for something?" Because he hasn't failed to notice all the people rushing around in such a state.
"Oh wow, so you're like brand new brand new." Is that rude to point out? Hopefully not. "Most of us are headed out to evacuate a town before the Architects can destroy it and everyone in it. They picked a hell of a day to onboard you." Delilah fishes through her pocket and— aha, a scrunchie. "Promise, we're not running from you." She smiles sweetly as she smooths her hair and ties it into a ponytail. "What cell are you with?"
"Dreamscape," he admits, with just a hint of pride. There are only four of them up here, he'd read. That meant he's real impressive (or so he hopes). "Maybe they really need me here, for whatever comes next, yeah?"
"Ohhhh, impressive!" Delilah exclaims, as if reading his mind. She doesn't fully understand the technology, but she assumes anyone involved in that field must be incredibly smart. "That's above my paygrade, but they must have really wanted you asap!" Or someone forgot to reschedule his start date once they found out about the sterilization plan, but she is choosing to believe it wasn't an oversight.
"I need to get going, but if I catch you later, I can show you around."
"Oh—" You're leaving. Of course, Delilah had somewhere to be. Just like everyone else.
Demarcus cleared his throat and smiled, flashing his sparkly whites, "I'll take you up on that then."
And then as an afterthought, he added, "Good luck."
Jamie & Kit
His eyes alight on a familiar silhouette, “hey!” he calls out just as Kit is about to walk past him. Kit immediately stops and turns to face him. “I’m glad I found you,” Jamie tries to offer a genuine smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The nerves he’s been trying to stave off are quickly rooting into his body.
"Yeah? Here to give me a token so I can carry you with me while I go off to battle?" Kit teases because it's easier to laugh and pretend that this is a simple mission with no risks involved. It's easier to joke than to acknowledge the anxiety in Jamie's eyes.
Kit has been doing this for long enough to trust in his own abilities— and Jamie's— and he isn't terrified at the prospect of putting his life on the line. But that doesn't mean he isn't concerned for what could happen to Jamie on the ground.
His smile softens. "Glad I caught you too."
“How’d you know?”
"It's the thing to do, isn't it? Place a photo in the cockpit or carry a trinket in your pocket." Nevermind that this is usually reserved for soldiers carrying mementos of their family.
Jamie appreciates the ease with which Kit lightens the mood. He wishes he did have something to give Kit even if it was just to bring a smile to his face while he was doing the dangerous part of today. He makes a mental note to have something on hand next time.
They were going to get through today, not based on previous data he could reference, but because they had to be okay. His brain wasn’t allowing him to come to any other conclusion.
“Wouldn’t have felt right to not say bye. And good luck, of course” Jamie replies.
"Goodbye makes it sound so final," Kit points out, his expression turning serious. He never knows how to feel about goodbyes. Part of him worries that too many will jinx things, that it will impact his confidence, that it'll trick his brain into going in expecting defeat. But then, a part of him knows that if one of his friends didn't come back from a mission, he'd regret not saying goodbye beforehand. "We'll be together again in no time."
“It does and I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t know,” Jamie shrugs. “I know we shouldn’t be nervous, this is run of the mill stuff, but I just get worried about everyone staying safe.” He did not want to bring the mood down and yet he knew he needed to get that off his chest. Kit would understand where he was coming from, he hopes. “You’re right though we’ll all be back here soon,” he tries again to smile but again struggles to do so. “You’re going to do great out there,” Jamie adds as he moves a hand to clasp Kit’s shoulder.
Kit's first instinct generally is to refuse any kind of compliment or praise but this is different. He will do great— he has no other choice. "I'll make you proud," he pledges. His smile comes easier than Jamie's— he's better at faking it, he assumes. "You'll do great too. It's normal to be nervous but we've trained hard, we're experienced— we've got this."
A laugh escapes Jamie’s mouth, genuine this time, “yes please do. I hate to be disappointed.” Jamie isn’t certain what has him so nervous, he trusts himself, his team, and everyone else. He just can’t seem to shake it. Maybe next time, his emotions would be better prepared. “You’re right,” he sighs. “I think once I’m down there I’ll feel better. The anticipation is just terrible.”
"Waiting is the worst," Kit agrees. He spent the night before envisioning all the things that could go wrong and it had been exhausting and draining and led to fitful sleep. He's been here for years, but he isn't sure it ever really gets easier. "In the field though, training and instinct kick in. It'll be okay." Kit is no optimist but he wants to believe that's true, for all their sakes.
“I mean, that’s what we do all of the training for, right?” He shrugs, attempting to downplay his feelings. “And we have a great team. I believe in every single one of us,” this was the thought that got him through a lot of the stress. No matter what obstacles they face, everyone is committed to the cause and doing what it takes to help people. It’s a good feeling.
"I believe in us too. When we're back, we'll get a drink and you can tell me all about what it was like on the ground."
Jamie nods enthusiastically, “please. I think we both are going to need it. If you had a picture of me in your plane, you could just pretend I was there with you and talk me through everything,” he jokes. “It’ll be better hearing it in person though.”
Kit makes an imaginary camera with his hands. "Click. Now you'll be with me." It's cheesy and he swears he can feel his skin redden. But he also imagines it will make Jamie laugh again, which would make the mild embarrassment worth it.
“You didn’t even let me pose! What if that picture came out bad?” Jamie can’t hold back laughter at this point. Bumping into Kit is exactly what he needed today.
A mission accomplished. Kit's smile turns fond. "Jamie, you're gorgeous, the photo turned out fine." Or would have, if he really had a camera. "I'll still tell you in person though."
“Thank you, I look forward to it. We can drink in my room if you want? I don’t think Carl will mind some company.”
Kit nods. "Sounds like a plan. Good luck out there, yeah? Not that you'll need it."
Jamie smiles, finding comfort in Kit’s confidence. “You too, stay safe,” he pulls Kit in for a quick hug before he can stop himself. “Kick some drone ass out there or something,” he says into the other man’s ear before stepping back from the hug.