A/N: This is literally just a copy-and-paste from my fanfic on AO3, if you've seen it there before you're probably better off not reading it here because obviously, well, you've already read it.

Anyway. If you haven't, here's a quick note: I ship Gipsy/Striker way too hard for my own good and I just had to write a fanfic. Also warning: After writing the whole thing out and looking back on the first chapter, I realize it is shit. I am sorry. Forgive me. I swear it gets better later. Leave honest reviews. Thank you. Now read!

Chapter One

Gipsy didn't think much about the past or the future. For her, it was always the now, the present, what was happening around her at any given moment. She didn't like to focus on unnecessary details and instead got straight to the point. She was straightforward, precise, always thinking about the present and not before or after. That's who she was. Right on target.

So why was she sitting on a tiny island just off the Chinese coast, staring at her feet, thinking about both the past and the future at the same time?

Striker sat on a Hong Kong beach, staring across the water at Gipsy's hunched back. He wondered why she was thinking about. Ever since the War ended, she had been really quiet. She didn't say more than a few words to anybody. The island had become her sanctuary, and she wouldn't let anybody—Jaeger, pilot, or any animal that wasn't a bird—come near her. She wouldn't even talk to Raleigh or Mako. Striker didn't understand what had happened. The War was over, right?

"Hey," Gipsy said, her voice carrying across the water and startling Striker out of his thoughts. "I know you're there."

For a moment, Striker didn't know what to do. Should he leave? Should he stay? Should he say something? Gipsy looked so … dejected, he couldn't just leave. But it seemed like she wanted him to, by the way she said "I know you're there", like she was annoyed by his presence.

"Well," Gipsy turned around and, for the first time in days, Striker actually saw her face. "Can't you walk? Get over here."

At first Striker was so surprised at Gipsy actually saying more than five words to him—to anybody—to move. And she was inviting him to the island? This either meant Gipsy was finally breaking out of her slump or she had been taken over by some sort of hostile spirit. Striker desperately hoped it was the first one, because if it were the second, then that would be very scary.

"Are you coming?" Gipsy sounded annoyed now.

Striker, you idiot. Get over there. He got to his feet and was about to step into the ocean when he stopped, put his foot down and regarded Gipsy warily. She was watching him.

"Is this is a trick?" he asked.

Gipsy swung her feet around and slowly stood up, knee-deep in the ocean and staring at him from across at least a hundred yards of water. "Why would this be a trick?" she asked. She sounded genuinely confused, and that just made Striker feel very, very sorry for her.

"You haven't spoken to anyone in three days," Striker explained. "And you haven't let anybody come near you, let alone on that island, for twice as long. Why are you suddenly speaking again?"

The moment he spoke the words, he immediately felt bad. Gipsy looked both offended and heartbreakingly weary at the same time. Though the ocean crashed around them and a steady stream of noise came from the city behind Striker, to him it felt like the quietest moment of his entire life. He took a step forward.

"Do you still want me to … go over there?" Striker stopped, feeling inexplicably awkward.

Gipsy tilted her head at him. "Do you still want to?"

Striker thought about that. Did he want to? Gipsy would most likely lash out at him or say something terribly sad and awkward as soon as he stepped foot onto that island, and he would have to spend the next few hours just sitting there watching her rant and cry. Or Gipsy would fall completely silent and simply stare at him with that sad, sad expression and he would be forced to leave to avoid any awkward situations. Nobody could really tell with Gipsy anymore.

But then again, Gipsy was his friend. He wanted her to be better, he wanted her to talk again and laugh and be the Gipsy he used to know, not this … this shell. This ghost of what she used to be. Even now she was staring at him emptily, as if she couldn't even see him, though she had spoken to him not two minutes ago.

"Yes," Striker replied.

Gipsy just looked at him, as if it were obvious what he was supposed to do. Which it was. Striker sighed quietly and took another step into the ocean. The water crashed around him, drowning out the city behind him. Now it was just him, the ocean, and the island. And Gipsy, of course. Always Gipsy and the way she looked at him so sadly, as if all hope was lost, even though the kaiju had been defeated. This only made Striker more determined to help her somehow.

"Striker," Gipsy said just as he neared the island.

He sighed and looked up at her (curse the height difference). She was regarding him warily. Striker imagined she was reconsidering having invited him onto the island.

But all she said was, "Other side," and tilted her head toward the part of the island that faced away from the coast and the city. "Away from the people," she added quietly.

"Away from the people". Gipsy, what happened to you? The full weight of what happened finally settled onto Striker. Gipsy used to love humans, always wanted to be piloted, always wanted to be talked to and coddled and praised by humans. Now she turning away from them, hiding away on an island inhabited only by birds and ants. Striker stared at her. He could feel his metaphorical heart slowly dropping to the bottom of the ocean. Poor Gipsy. Something was really wrong.

Striker turned slightly and began curving around to the other side of the island.

Gipsy turned as well and matched him stride for stride. When they finally got to the other side, Gipsy simply sat down, sticking her feet out in the water like she always did when she sat by the ocean. At least that part of her hadn't changed.

Striker stepped onto the beach and sat down carefully next to her. She didn't say anything, just stared out at the endless ocean in front of them with that empty expression on her face again.

"Gipsy."

She slowly turned to look at Striker.

"Why don't you talk anymore?" Might as well start somewhere.

Gipsy's yellow-orange visor flickered, then went dark. "What do you mean?" she asked. Was that a hint of nervousness he heard in her voice?

"You know what I mean, Gipsy," Striker replied. "You don't say anything anymore, and when you do it's hardly more than a few words. What happened to you?" You used to be so talkative, he added silently. He felt that saying any more would just make her cry or punch him. Yeah, probably punch him.

"I don't want to talk about it," Gipsy murmured.

Striker sighed. "You don't want to talk about anything. And you don't."

Gipsy fell silent and looked away. Her visor darkened even more.

Great. You blew it. Striker frantically searched for something to say. He couldn't just give up now. Gipsy was finally talking, even if it weren't the way she used to.

"Please go away," Gipsy said.

There. Another way Gipsy had changed. The old Gipsy would have glared and ordered him angrily to get out. This Gipsy just looked at him sadly and asked him to please go away. This fact made Striker not want to go away at all.

"No," Striker replied. "I'm not leaving you like this. You need to tell me what's wrong."

Gipsy put her hands in the sand and pushed herself up to a standing position. Again with that empty expression. She turned away from him and began to wade through the shallows.

"Gipsy—come on—" Striker leaped to his feet as fast as a thousand tons of metal could possibly leap, and followed after her. "Don't leave. You don't have to be like this. You saved the entire world! You used a boat as a sword, okay? You are amazing. You don't need to act like this." He reached out his hand toward her arm to stop her.

"Don't touch me."

Striker pulled his arm back.

Gipsy turned her head toward him. "You can have the island. It isn't mine anymore." Then she turned back around and headed toward the mainland.

Gipsy. Striker stared after her, feet planted in the ocean floor, still under the shade of the trees that hung over the island. Gipsy continued toward Hong Kong, head bowed, barely moving. Gipsy … you have fallen so far. He took a step forward, then stopped. But hadn't he as well? Following her around like a dog, trying to comfort her though there was nothing there to comfort, trying to empathize with her when she was really, completely gone.

But she wasn't gone. Striker believed it. There was Gipsy in there, hidden under that metal plating. Hidden under that terrible, heartbreaking empty expression. Maybe it was just a tiny impulse that kept her from really breaking, tucked away in a dark corner of her mind. But Gipsy was there. She was. Gipsy wasn't gone. There was a bit of her left … somewhere.

Striker watched as Gipsy stepped onto mainland, water streaming from her shoulders.

And I'm going to find it.