Glory and Gore

[YAVIN - KAIJU YEAR 10]

One hundred days, ten hours, seven minutes, and fifty seconds. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three.

That’s how long Yavin has gone without a Kaiju attack. A long time. One of the longest stretches in which the Jaeger program has gone unoccupied and twiddling their thumbs, watching their funding swirl around a drain. But everyone was glad for the reprieve.

Except for Ezra Bridger. He was waiting. Waiting for the next attack. Ready. Plopped in the middle of the Jaeger hangar, crisscrossed on the dirty rusted floor plates, head tipped up in anticipation for the war clock to flip to a black square at every digital neon number, leaving the rectangular metal darkened so that he would finally be called into active duty.

Then, they would have to let him copilot a Jaeger. He’s trained for years, and nothing to show for it yet!

He would get justice for his parents one day, the parents who were trapped under a building as a Kaiju crushed them, leaving him alone until a good man offered him a Jaeger-sized hand amongst the chaos.

That very man sweeps to the center of the Jaeger hangar, his hand dropping on Ezra’s shoulder. His blue eyes pierce concernedly down at Ezra’s face, fixating on the war clock so intensely that the golden digits burn into Ezra’s corneas.

“You’re not going to will them into existence, Ezra,” Kanan says tiredly.

Ezra purses his lips and looks up at his mentor. His undercut ponytail and clothing blend into shadows and fiery hangar lights.

“Get some rest,” Kanan orders warily, “you never know when they’re going to come.”

Kanan’s eyes flicker away as if remembering something, but Ezra is used to his moodiness. Kanan’s hand slips away from Ezra’s shoulder, and he crosses the hangar. He blends into the shadow of the Prowling Ghost’s resting place. The pilots of that Jaeger tended to sleep nearby, a habit Ezra never quite understood, but he shrugs it off. Kanan is in love with the head pilot, and since Ezra cannot relate, he does not question his mentor’s behavior.

Ezra turns back to the war clock. He squints at the seconds.

They aren’t moving.

Sweeping thick black hair away from his eyes, Ezra rises slowly to his feet. He is small against the implications, small in his surroundings, so very small.

The war clock freezes entirely now. Minutes and hours and days unmoving with the seconds. Ezra loses his breath.

One by one, the sections of the clock turn black. Slowly. Number by number. Darkness into more darkness, the golden light fading into obscurity.

“Kanan,” Ezra breathes quietly, the name resounding through their Force bond.

It ripples through the dirty air particles and hits Kanan like thunderous sonar. Ezra’s name is repeated back through Kanan’s questioning tone.

Kanan breaks away from the shadow of the Prowling Ghost’s tank-sized mechanical boot. He meets Ezra’s shocked eyes and opens his mouth.

Kanan’s voice is drowned out by the siren, screaming and burning the entire hangar in its wildfire.

Ezra’s heart quickens. This is it. This is the moment he’s been waiting for ever since he joined the Jaeger program. He may be a young recruit, but he can do this. He has the skills. He has grit. He has Kanan.

Kanan’s hardened expression grows closer as he moves. Kanan meets Ezra in the middle of the hangar. He says nothing.

The hangar comes to life around them. There are jumpsuits and shouts and hurried footsteps setting the entire area on edge.

The war clock may be blank, but everything else was alive and intense and chaotic.

Hera enters the scene, garnering Kanan’s immediate attention. “Mon’s on her way to choose.”

Kanan frowns at Ezra, then says to Hera, “he’s not ready.”

“What!” Ezra clenches his jaw, heat permeating his voice. “Not ready! Who are you to say that?!”

Kanan and Hera share a long look. Ezra sighs in frustration and turns his cheek.

“Whatever,” he mutters, “not like you trained me or anything.”

The hangar doors below the war clock usher in Mon Mothma, the leader of the Jaeger program.

While having never spoken directly with the aging auburn-haired woman, Ezra respects her importance. Mon was a Jaeger veteran herself, having piloted the defunct Righteous Deliverance alongside Ahsoka Tano, who also lingered around Yavin.

The only other Jaeger veterans were Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi, who piloted the retired Jaeger Aggressive Negotiations. They died right before Ezra entered the Jaeger program. While Kenobi was apparently a loner type, Skywalker had a wife and twins. The wife, Padmé Amidala, used her political experience to get funding for the Jaeger program. There hasn’t been word on the twins, however, in years.

Mon locks eyes with Kanan and Hera. Ezra registers Sabine and Zeb toeing the shadow line. Zeb’s boyfriend Kallus dares to approach Mon and cross his arms.

“So?” Kallus prompts the woman in accusation. “Are you sacrificing Zeb tonight?”

Mon’s eyes pierce into the blonde man’s shadowy expression. “No,” she replies curtly, “the Prowling Ghost will not be deployed. The Kaiju is weak.”

At that, Mon fixated on Kanan and Ezra.

Ezra’s heart skips in anticipation.

“Rising Phoenix,” Mon addresses, “it’s your time.”

“No,” Kanan growls instantly, Ezra snapping his head towards his mentor, “I won’t let you put him-”

“I can do it,” Ezra says eagerly.

Mon’s brow arches as she looks down at him. Rather than shrink in front of authority, Ezra steels his gaze to meet hers.

Mon hums. “I believe him.”

“No,” Kanan says forcefully, Mon observing him with hesitation, “he’s sixteen years old, Mon Mothma. Sixteen years old. No one that young has ever-”

It is Ezra’s first thought to let out a burst of his temper. To declare in his hotheadedness that no, he is not too young.

But he curbs the impulse. He is in front of the leader of the Jaeger program and he has to make the right impression.

“Kanan,” Ezra says measuredly, “I’m ready if you are.”

Kallus observes Ezra as if he is a little kid, Hera sympathetic and Kanan contemplative.

After worrying his lip, the moment unbroken, Kanan mutters, “alright,” he sighs at Mon, “we’ll go.”

“Suit up,” Mon says, “the Kaiju will break the surface soon.”

The woman leaves with a brisk pace. Ezra’s heart soars.

He gets to go on his first mission!

Kallus arches a brow at Zeb and Sabine, then trails after Mon. The crowds gather around the Rising Phoenix.

Kanan meets Hera’s gaze, the two having a silent conversation. Ezra wants to groan.

Hera’s delicate hand moves to scrape Kanan’s beard from ear to chin. Kanan tips his head down, closing his eyes as Hera leans up.

Ezra rolls his eyes as Hera kisses Kanan briefly.

Hera returns to her shorter height and murmurs, “I love you.”

Kanan bats his eyes at her. “I love you too.”

Hera’s hand leaves Kanan’s face, and she fades into shadow amongst the noise. Kanan’s expression is grave as he looks at Ezra.

“Gear on, Bridger,” Kanan orders.

Ezra conceals his smile. “Yes, sir.”

~

[HOTH ISLAND]

The Jaeger was cold. Even though it goes against everything Ezra felt in training, he knew that the Jaeger was cold.

If he were not wearing the pearly armor, sweating between a thin clothing layer and the control suit, he would be freezing. A reflection of the snowstorm brewing into the circuits and gears of the Rising Phoenix.

The danger is palpable. Ezra imagines the melting ice trickling down somewhere important and sparking up their systems.

Training didn’t teach Ezra about this part. The part that had his hands clamming up underneath his cloth gloves, his heart racing beneath the armor, his forehead sweating from where the helmet was tight against his skull. His legs moved on autopilot, the Jaeger’s right side complying with Ezra’s command.

Kanan matches him with every step. The golden tint to his helmet shield made it difficult to connect with the man’s expression, but their minds operated on the same wavelength.

A wavelength rippling in anticipation, but the same wavelength nonetheless.

“The Kaiju is category two,” Mon says through their static earpiece, communication obscured due to the snowy fog, “last seen twenty kilometers north, spearing the island in half.”

Ezra refrains from audibly gulping.

“A spearhead,” Kanan mutters, “great.”

The Jaeger’s boots clodding roughly against the unstable island is a companion to Ezra. He focuses on being the right to Kanan’s left side for a moment, breathing through his anxiety.

“Alright, Ezra,” Kanan says evenly, “systems check.”

Ezra blinks to gather his thoughts. Kanan’s wavelength simmers calmly beside Ezra’s own, too calmly.

Ezra focuses on the holographic charts in front of his helmet. He raises his glove to tap the holos and reads through the data briefly.

“Good on the right, sir,” Ezra reports.

Something must worry Kanan, because his helmet tilts towards Ezra. “You’ve been quiet,” he observes.

Ezra is careful in his measured reply; he can’t let Kanan know that he is afraid. “I’m concentrating, sir.”

“Hm,” Kanan swivels his helmet and touches his own holo controls. He sees something, then pauses for a beat.

A spike reaches Kanan’s wavelength, but it is smoothed over before Ezra can open his mouth to inquire.

“Arm up,” Kanan says, “charge the reactor glove.”

“Kanan?” Ezra furrows his brows as Kanan halts the Jaeger. Ezra quickly rights his side so the Rising Phoenix stands like a statue amongst the snowstorm.

He was told never to use the reactor glove.

Unless-

“Do it,” Kanan clips.

Ezra’s heart stops as he powers on the reactor glove. The energy meter flashes to life. His heart stutters on an exhaled, “done.”

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with Kanan.

“Raise it,” Kanan says, “it’s coming.”

Ezra grits his teeth and grips the reactor glove controls. He cracks his knuckles with the force of his grip. He looks outside the Jaeger’s viewport, but there is only a flurry of snow.

He raises up his arm, the reactor glove on the Rising Phoenix glowing an eerie blue.

A spear slices the ground out from underneath them. The entire Jaeger screams at the assault, emergency systems flashing red. Their legs are swept away, a spear atop the Kaiju’s head obscuring their viewport.

Ezra almost swallows his own tongue at the force of the jolt blowing him back. His teeth scrape at his taste buds. There is copper as he catches himself.

He is dazed as he stands in his suit. The cables hooking them to the control system force them back up. Ezra breathes through the jerky movements lighting up his strained muscles and head.

Speaking of his head…

Ezra turns to the side. Kanan has already recovered, his body poised in a defensive position. When Ezra focuses on Kanan’s helmet, he cannot feel him.

Their minds are disconnected.

“Kanan,” Ezra’s voice projects through the helmet and into the Jaeger communication feed, “link up.”

Kanan raises his Jaeger arm. His prototype Jaeger blade was powered up, the metal chains fusing together to energize. His face does not leave the holo controls.

“Ezra,” Kanan says, the Rising Phoenix’s blade arching up as the Kaiju emerges in their viewport, “tell Hera that she was my everything.”

Kanan plunges the Jaeger’s sword into the Kaiju’s exposed throat. Phosphorescent blood spurts out of the spearhead’s neck as it roars up to the blizzard sky.

But the Kaiju does not go down. It shudders and shakes, but its arm comes up and to the left.

A battering ram slams Kanan’s side of the Jaeger. Claws crush through the layers of steel as easily as poking a pencil through paper.

Sparks fly down, dusting across Kanan’s control suit. In slow motion, a single spark lands in the junction between Kanan’s shoulder and arm plates.

The claws tear outwards, exposing Kanan’s entire side of the control hub. Ezra exhales shallowly, eyes bugging out of his head as Kanan realizes what is happening.

Kanan observes the punched hole. Snow trickles inside the Rising Phoenix, melting on the screens and wetting the grated floor. The Kaiju takes the Jaeger arm as its prize, chomping on the metal like a chew toy before tossing it into the blizzard.

A snowflake causes Kanan’s opposite arm to spark. His helmet regards Ezra, his expression concealed by the yellow tint.

The Kaiju’s eye, a dizzying expanse of saltwater blue and seaweed green, appears behind Kanan’s form. Ezra’s heart stops.

Kanan nods once, then turns.

The Kaiju’s hand, as the spearhead falls, comes to wrap itself around Kanan’s body. It squeezes him, popping the armor plates, as Kanan is torn away from the Jaeger.

A flurry of snow blocks the Jaeger’s passage, sparking up the space where Kanan stood. The Kaiju roars, the interior of the Rising Phoenix vibrating with the force of the sound frequencies.

And Ezra breathes for the first time in a full minute, choking on the recycled air within his helmet. He is frozen, transfixed on the hole and the Kaiju struggling on the ice floor and the snow blanketing the Jaeger hub.

Ezra blinks. In the flip of a switch, he is back to full awareness.

His disbelief turns into anger. Slow, sure, and unrelenting. A burning liquid pouring from a mold and straight into his mouth, infecting his throat and spreading down to his stomach until it forms magma that urges him onward.

Gritting his teeth, Ezra grabs hold of the reactor glove controls. He ignores the warning flashes blaring throughout the Jaeger’s interior and successfully tilts the Rising Phoenix towards the grounded Kaiju. Ezra’s mind screams for him to stop, but he does not care.

He does not care about anything except revenge.

The reactor glove is a reassuring hum that trickles in from the Jaeger hole. The metal arm reaches over and points down.

The reactor glows blue, blue like Kanan’s eyes, blue like Kaiju blood, blue like the training mats where they sparred and laughed.

Ezra stares down at the Kaiju, choking on its own blood, and pulls the trigger. The reactor blast slices the Kaiju in half.

Ezra takes pleasure in watching the spearhead exhaling its final breath.

The mental strain of handling the Jaeger sprouts strands of pain in his receptors. They creep into every section of his brain. Ezra clenches his jaw so hard he breaks teeth.

As he fumbles for the helmet clasps, pain overtakes him. He does not remember falling to his knees.

He just remembers relief coming to him in the form of darkness as he collapses.

~

[YAVIN]

Ezra’s mouth tastes of styrofoam. The room smells of chemicals. Footsteps nearby are as loud as megaphones.

He is greeted with a leaky ceiling, a papery bed, and gleaming medical supplies. The IV connected to his wrist is cold and stale.

But none of that matters now. None of it.

Ezra would give his arm if it meant Kanan could be here instead of him. Kanan could be the one in this bed. He would be weak, but he would recover. He would be alive. He would be able to smile at Hera and-

Hera.

Oh, Hera.

Ezra swallows thickly to refrain from crying. It is imperative that he get out of here. Right now. Get out of here right-

Mon Mothma enters the poorly-stocked room functioning as a medbay. She is tired and her white dress does not hold its usual shine. Her face is stony and neutral.

She stands at the foot of Ezra’s bed and regards him carefully. Her eyes are Kanan blue.

“Bridger,” Mon says by way of greeting.

“Tell Hera that she was everything to Kanan,” Ezra says roughly. “With that being said…”

Ezra voices the only words that matter:

“I quit.”