Jaeger Legends
They whispered the stories around the shatterdome, tales of hauntings, of missing tools and missing techs, people driven away by what they saw deep in the beating of a jaeger's heart. Everyone knew that jaegers twitched while their pilots slept, breathed and lived through the depths of the night. But some connections went deeper than dreams, than nightmares, than the drift itself.
The stories were passed around in the hallways and cafeterias, behind closed doors and cupped hands. They told of Rio Oro, the hefty Chilean Mark II that had continued fighting after his pilots died, killed his third kaiju and sunk below the waves. How in Hong Kong, at the end of days, the techs learned the hard way that you didn't touch Cherno Alpha without a Kaidonovsky nearby, that there were worse things than shocked fingers and burned faces, that repairs unaccompanied by the right music might as well not have happened at all.
They said that Coyote Tango never moved again after Tokyo, her heart empty with her pilots incapacitated and gone. They said that Striker Eureka triggered the bomb himself, milliseconds before Chuck Hansen flipped the switch, eager to finish the job.
And then there was Gipsy Danger who carried her pilot home when he couldn't go another step, who died and then rose again, stronger and sleeker and reformed, who never would have fought again without Mako Mori, never walked without Raleigh Beckett. That Gipsy Danger stood beyond the Breach, sentinel against the kaiju and their masters. She waited there to one day rise again.