"I am Marshall Meredith Stannard, and half of you here will not make it to the second week. Half of those who pass the physical exams and score high enough in the simulations will not be able to withstand the mental strain of the Drift or will prove too incompatible to continue. The life expectancy of a Ranger in direct combat is less than seven minutes. A third of you who do succeed in becoming Rangers will not survive long enough to hear this speech again."
The Marshall is exactly as Varric described her - a real ray of sunshine. At least she's honest in her coldness, surveying the silent room with a gaze carved from granite, not about to waste a word more than she has to. Fenris can respect that - if nothing else it is a relief from the Magisters' seemingly endless paeans to their own self-importance.
Stannard's taken note of him already, he's sure of that, little chance he will ever be just a face in the crowd. Fenris can hardly hope to blend in here, with the marks on him all but screaming about bad decisions made with more power than care for the consequences. Anyone can read the story of his life in a glance, but if there's one thing to be said for all he's seen and done, there is very little left in this world to intimidate him with. All he needs is an opportunity.
Kirkwall's Shatterdome is nowhere near as advanced as what they have in Minrathous, with the Magisters still hoarding all that had been salvaged from the fallen Imperium. Indeed, it is the only place in Thedas where some knowledge was never lost at all, supported by contracts just as ancient that secure the best of what the dwarves have to offer - the strongest materials, the purest veins of lyrium.
The dwarves build Jaegers faster for the Imperium, the launch schedule nearly twice as fast. The Rangers here are looking forward to Mark V machines, while Danarius piloted a Mark VII, and there was a Magister who claimed he had an VIII although he was more than a bit of an imbecile. Fenris has never seen a Mark II before Kirkwall, all those in the Imperium long since torn down for scrap. It's obvious the Jaegers here are patched and repatched to the bitter end, with nothing wasted. Hadriana had hers rebuilt twice when she wasn't impressed enough by its profile. The Jaegers here are all close-combat machines, designed not to rely on a steady supply of ammunition or lyrium. He's seen a few signs of long-range weapons, but nothing like the options the Imperium has to choose from.
Of course, here it's simply a matter of killing the Kaiju and eliminating the threat. In Tevinter, there are… other goals.
The candidates have gathered in a large room above the central hangar bay, the windows at their back looking down on the rows of Jaegers and the hundreds of men attending to them. Fenris has not noticed an ebb in the action the entire time he's been here, though the countdown gives them two weeks at least before the next attack. Marshall Stannard is on a raised platform in front of them, and behind her stands a long, proud row of those Rangers who live and fight and die for the city.
"We are the line." The room is silent, no one even daring to shift where they stand. "Kirkwall stands as the anchor of all the Free Marches. Our lives are offered up in service to the wall and all those who look to us to keep them alive. If you are seeking wealth, glory or fame, then I suggest you look elsewhere."
Fenris wonders what the men and women around him are hoping to find. Many in the room arrived in pairs - brothers and sisters, fathers and sons, and more. A few of them look afraid, others are trying to hide it - a few succeed. Enough elves are mixed in to remind him of other rooms he'd rather not think about, and Fenris never knows what it is he sees or senses that goes even further back, some subtle reminder that has his hands threatening to curl into fists, the hair going up on the back of his neck. It could be anything at all, a detail that sparks a misfire in the tattered remnants of his memory.
Marshall Stannard won't mention that, he's sure, though Fenris can't believe they've solved all those problems. What the Drift does to a man, what it means to the pilot who ends up taking the brunt of the load. His whole life before he became a Ranger is gone, and there's no telling if it was the Drift or the lyrium to do the worst of the damage. Even in the years he can remember, there are great swaths of time Fenris can recall as nothing but a useless, incoherent roar. It had been all he could do just to keep himself together, and standing, the weight of Danarius' demands nearly as heavy as those of the Jaeger, and one battle blurring into the next, and the next.
He doesn't know if it's as bad for all of them. Once, he'd had a moment's pause with one of the surviving crew, just long enough to ask. Danarius never lingered in his Jaeger after a battle, preferring a more comfortable position while the bodies were being cleared out and Fenris hung heavy in the straps, just trying to breathe. He'd asked what she remembered, if she knew how to hold on, if anyone knew. Fenris had told her how it all slipped away from him, all his days and years, and the woman had stared back, not in surprise or sadness or pity - but envy.
He stopped asking, after that.
Fenris has a few fragments of the past - a scrap of song, a high, bright laugh and a gentle kiss - and the shame of knowing they're not his memories is only matched by his determination to cling to them. He can shut his eyes and walk through fields he's never seen, holding the hand of a brother he's never had. Or run along a dock to a lake he's never swam in, heels thunking hard enough to shake the boards as he throws himself into the delicious, frigid chill he's never known. He puts a hand that is thicker and broader than his own on the curve of his wife's stomach, to feel the child quickening inside, and a kick against his palm…
He never meant to steal them. Fenris tells himself he would give them all back if he could, but maybe… maybe it's all right that he holds on now, with no one left to claim them.
It's so strange to be on this side of the room, when he's stood among the Rangers in moments very much like this one, gazing out over a crowd of the desperate and determined and stupidly brave. Unlike Tevinter, though, where every Jaeger had a Magister within, not even a majority of these Rangers seem to be wearing the city's colors. A few of them carry Kirkwall's crest, but there are others bearing Nevarra's colors, or Orlais, even an Antivan - although the Ranger herself might be Rivaini, with dark-hair and eyes and a Dalish elf at her side. The woman's drivesuit is hardly standard issue, not with that much gold-edged plating, and somehow it manages to be the most skintight in the room. Her eyes catch on him in the crowd, and she winks.
"After all I have said, if you are still committed to joining our ranks, then I welcome you." Meredith concludes, nothing in her tone to suggest open arms. "I will turn this over to the Vice-Marshall and you may-"
"Marshall Stannard?" A voice cuts in, crackling over a loudspeaker at the corner of the room. "We've just received word, Hercinia's reporting Kaiju at the shoreline. A double attack."
"Put it up on the screen."
"Yes, Marshall."
A murmur passes over the crowd and the Rangers both - the city is in Starkhaven's domain, close enough to Kirkwall that the clock ought to cover both territories. Fenris knows what this is, though he hadn't expected to see it outside of a war zone.
The Breaches stretch all throughout the deep waters of Thedas, and though each city can keep an eye on their own, it is far more difficult even for the Imperium to track a Kaiju that doesn't come through the closest rift, one that doesn't attack the nearest city but chooses a more distant port. Par Vollen was not about to warn Minrathous should one of their Kaiju unexpectedly turn South, and perhaps this is one of theirs, taking the scenic route. Or Antiva or Rivain had slipped, a warning gone unnoticed, a Breach undetected. It happened, and when it happened it meant a Kaiju could make landfall almost anywhere, with next to no warning at all.
Sets of panels sweep down across the windows, banks of monitors that flicker on to reveal the field of battle, the coast of the Marches from varying perspectives - it's a clear day on the edge of the peninsula, and at least one camera appears to have a steady line on the bay. The Kaiju are close, two great, dark mountains facing down a pair of Jaegers.
"… Is that one Antivan? The dual-wielder."
"Wonder what's got him this far from home? Maybe he's been chasing these bastards down the coast."
"Damn, they are well past the ten-mile line. Bet a Warden caught it just in time."
The Nevarran Rangers are talking, and have stepped down from the platform to get a closer view of the screens. Fenris glances around to see that all of the Rangers are now mingled in with the crowd, taking careful stock of the battle in the moment before it begins. Of course he's doing the same - it's instinct, even with the images as poor as they are, searching for the tell-tale marks of fire-spitters or barbed tails or Kaiju that can screech loud enough to shatter eardrums and knock copters from the sky. Anything that might tip the battle in favor of disaster. At the moment, it seems like the odds are holding steady - two Kaiju, yes, but they're they're not even Cat Four, not big enough to be worth naming. So it's only a matter of jaws that can crack mountains and ridges of bone like triple-forged steel.
The anticipation sings across his skin, as tangible as the lyrium - Fenris misses this. So much of what he was belonged to Danarius, but the actual fighting? It bored the Magister. In the heat of battle the man's thoughts tended to wander the most, leaving Fenris to throw himself into the fray alone. He was fast, he was strong and good, and in the instant he struck the final blow Fenris could look out over the seas and the world and the far horizon and he felt so light. Unburdened by himself and by the world, and for one shining moment flung far beyond even the Imperium's reach.
Freedom. He knows the word now.
"All right, all right. The shoreline's for shit, but you know what you have to do - now make it happen."
The low, urgent command comes from his other side, a Ranger standing right next to him but with her eyes fixed on the screen, focused fully on the second Jaeger. Its armor is white enough to blind in the sun, and it is the closest Fenris has seen yet to a weapon with any of the pomp and circumstance of the Magisters, all curved plating and a shining helm and the profile of a woman's face carved nearly two stories high into its midsection.
"Andraste's Grace." A voice purrs close to his ear, the Rivaini pilot at his left and giving him a quick, worryingly playful grin of welcome, though her eyes don't leave the fight for long. "Starkhaven's finest. Ranger Vael's the third son of the Prince. Nice accent. Lovely biceps. Tragic vow of celibacy. Name's Isabela, by the way."
Fenris glances over, marveling at her choice of biography and introduction, and by the time his eyes flick back to the action the fight is well and truly on. The Antivan Jaeger has engaged its target, knocking the first Kaiju back with a stunning series of blows, but the beast retaliates with shattering force - the cameras flicker, static knocking the best image to momentary pieces and there's a sharp murmur in the crowd as they search the screens, trying to keep track of the action. Fenris can see what they mean about the shoreline, the ground beneath the Jaeger's feet obviously pocked with holes and weak spots, threatening to send it off balance with every step.
"He should have fired by now. Shit shit shit - they didn't have time to charge the bow."
The Ranger on his right is still murmuring, hands fisted and half-raised as if she wants to fight the battle from here. Fenris doesn't recognize the crest she wears - Ferelden, maybe - and there's a shout from the crowd, the Antivan now down on one knee and taking a beating, while the Starkhaven Jaeger grapples with its own Kaiju, trying to reach him. A battle can turn so fast, even with the best of Rangers, and if one of the Jaegers goes down it's almost certainly a death sentence for the other.
Andraste's Grace has a moment of luck and skill and very good timing, throwing an extra burst of power into a blow that knocks one Kaiju back into the other and sends them both flying.
"Anyone know how they score a caber toss?" A few soft laughs, but the Rangers aren't cheering yet and the rest of the room is following their lead. It isn't over until the Kaiju stop moving.
The Antivan Jaeger slowly gets to its feet, and there's a murmur of relief that passes through the room, rising into a sudden, horrified gasp as the briefly downed Kaiju staggers to its feet and grabs the other monster by its tail, swinging it like a morning-star and launching it at Andraste's Grace. The impact is hard enough that one of the copter's cameras goes instantly dark, no telling what's happened to the machine or its pilot. The view from the shore shows little better, as Jaeger and Kaiju twist together, stumbling back - and the shelf beneath them gives way, both of them disappearing in mid-strike beneath the waves.
The room is silent. At his side, the Ranger is still, and pale, and even Isabela worries at her lower lip.
No matter how strong or steady the bond, Kaiju are always going to be faster than Jaegers. Fighting off-shore in the shallows is the only chance at a level playing field. Of course there are seals to keep the water out and the crush depth of a Jaeger is considerable but being under the water with a rampaging Kaiju is the last place anyone wants to be.
"Don't you do this to me, Vael. Don't you dare." The Ferelden Ranger breathes it like a prayer, and she's likely not the only one asking for aid as the moments tick by and the Antivan Jaeger struggles to stay in the fight. Whatever the initial damage was, it's getting worse and he doesn't have the power to finish the job, not landing the blows he ought or dodging the ones he needs to. The support choppers are coming in with guns blazing but it's just enough to annoy the Kaiju, not to do any real damage and sooner or later something's going to come back out of the water.
If they're smart they're already taking shelter in Hercinia, and there's a new tension rising in the room, a few glances in the Marshall's direction - Kirkwall's close enough that they'll have to deploy, if this goes the way it's headed. The Antivan takes a bad blow, and another, until it's just a matter of time.
It's hard to watch a Jaeger go down, painfully slow yet shockingly fast, and when the claws start tearing in deep it sounds like pure agony.
Magisters only work together when it's politically convenient, or profitable, or when there isn't a better plan. Fenris has been there, for what can really only be called executions, when a Magister's too stupid to realize all his allies have turned against him and are all too happy to stand back and let the Kaiju enjoy themselves. He's always told himself he shouldn't care, that he doesn't care. He shouldn't listen to the Antivan fighter being rent apart and remember a Magister pleading for his life when he realized Danarius had not come as backup, the man screaming for longer than it ever seemed possible. The noise had mixed with the screech of rending metal and Fenris knew there were more voices he couldn't hear, all those Indentured trapped inside, with the terror from his own crew beating like fists at the inside of his head.
Fenris has gone mad a thousand times. He's not sure how he keeps coming back.
A fist punches out from the water at the edge of the shelf line - and it's armored, gleaming white and brilliant and a fierce cry of joy fills the room as Andraste's Grace lifts itself back up onto steady ground, water sluicing down in a thousand tiny waterfalls as it brings one great arm up, its hand pointed toward the Kaiju that has paused in its attack, looking as surprised as a nightmare can.
"Deep breath," the Ferelden Ranger says, "deep breath, focus, and kill this son of a bitch."
Andraste's Grace draws back its other hand, the air between them slowly lighting up, electric arcs dancing in the space between as the charge grows into a near-solid line of brilliant light - a lyrium-powered beam weapon, impressive even by Tevinter's standards - and the Kaiju lunges barely two steps before the Jaeger releases the bolt, a white-hot arrow that damn near decapitates its target, a perfect shot. A few stray trickles of energy leap across the meaty limbs as what's left of the great monster slows, and tips, and crashes into the surf.
A cheer from the recruits, but the Rangers are silent as Andraste's Grace moves slowly to the other Jaeger's side. The Antivan craft looks damaged, certainly out of commission but not completely destroyed. The conn-pod, though, it's not always easy to tell -
"Marshall Stannard, I've got news coming in. All Kaiju defeated. All Rangers alive and accounted for."
The voice continues on, that Kirkwall's presence won't be necessary but it's drowned out beneath the roar from the floor. Fenris has never had this before. He's been relieved when the fight is over, grateful to feel the weight of the Jaeger slip away, to begin the quiet task of putting himself back together, but never this sense of celebration, or connection.
"Yes! Yes yes yes! That is how you do it! That is how my boy gets it done!"
The Ferelden Ranger has been pounding exuberantly on his shoulder, and freezes up only when she finally takes her eyes away from the screen long enough to look at what she's punching.
"Oh… uh, hey. Hi."
Her smile is crooked and bright, startling in this grim, gray place. Fenris knows next to nothing of Ferelden, and none of it complimentary. The Magisters say it's a mud pit of filthy, barely literate barbarians, no more responsible for the fall of the Empire than a horsefly could kill a Kaiju - and it's true enough that there's little art in her manner - copper-red hair tied back in a simple short tail, her skin tanned and windburned. Her gloves are off, and her hands are rough and chapped, the nails cut haphazardly short and underlined with grime. Hadriana would have set herself on fire before appearing in such a state - and when the Ranger notices his gaze she she quickly tucks her hands behind her back.
"Yeah, I was supposed to clean up… got a bit distracted."
He has the feeling 'a bit distracted' might be her standard operating procedure.
"What's that make it for the Grace now, seven?" Isabela calls out.
"Nine." The Ferelden replies. "I should pay him a visit when he hits a dozen. Maybe give that Jaeger of his a go."
"You know him?" Fenris asks, every moment he stands here reminding him just how much he is not in Tevinter. The Rangers seem only too happy to remain with the candidates around them, or with each other, and there must be subtle allegiances and dangers he can't see but it all seems so simple, so easy compared to all he's known - Seheron, he thinks, it reminds him of Seheron and that's why it suddenly hurts to breathe.
"Sebastian came in here, what - a year, year and a half ago?" The Ferelden glances at Isabela for confirmation. "Had trouble with the Drift, couldn't stay stable, and the thought of not fighting didn't make that any better. Third son, he was carrying lots of bullshit…" The Ranger waves a hand to describe it all, with that crooked smile again. "Obviously, he got over it."
Did she Drift with him? And yet she's here, and he had seen her on the stage with another red-haired Ranger. Fenris had assumed they were sisters - and he wants to ask but it's not exactly well-advised, and unfortunately little else comes to mind. The moment of awkward silence hangs as he wonders if the man he was before was any better at this.
"So, I forget… does the sheaf of wheat come before the goat?"
He doesn't know what to make of that, but the Ferelden Ranger certainly does, never looking away from him as she punches Isabela in the shoulder. Hard. The woman laughs, and then it's Stannard's voice carrying over the crowd, giving orders to the Rangers and orders to the recruits and Isabela curses quietly, muttering about meetings and downtime and inconvenient Kaiju bastards as she turns away.
"Well, then… I, uh… guess we'll see you in a week, then." The Ferelden Ranger says, taking two steps backward and then turning to join the crowd. Fenris watches her, all the way to the door. She looks back, grins again, and then she's gone.
The recruits are lining up, splitting off into pairs and those who've come alone and he can only imagine they're going to work the solo recruits twice as hard, no need to go easy on those who are less likely to be Drift compatible anyway. Fenris isn't worried, but the man standing behind him is, and glances meaningfully toward the door where the Rangers have departed.
"Hey, what'd she say to you? How'd you get so lucky?"
Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't even know her name.
