Though the FF version isn't bound by Ao3's automatic chapters, for simplicity's sake, I'm splitting the chapters here, too.

CHAPTER TWO, PART ONE

After I was escorted to my assigned room, I didn't look around. I didn't unpack. I didn't go to the bathroom. Instead, the first thing I did was flop face-down on the floor and muffle a horrified scream into my duffel bag.

Had I seriously just gotten a ride from this guy—this quiet guy, with an ancient hoverbike and a deep voice, who spoke with his eyebrows and let me borrow his jacket and smelled really, really nice—and then gotten scared and acted like an absolute clotheshanger?

I sat up, my duffel bag falling into my lap with a soft thunk. Yes, yes I had. And, it was pretty likely that he worked here, too. There was a good chance I'd see him again, at least from afar. And that was what he would remember—a slow, dumb semi-mute who'd clung to his shoulder like a creep.

Burying my face in my knees, I sighed until my lungs were empty. Then, I wrapped my arms around my legs and squeezed. Pressure seemed to help when I was worked up. Sometimes, it felt like my body was betraying me, zipping and zapping and sending my heart and mind racing when all I wanted was to calm the fuck down.

My therapist back in Alberta—who I'd been ordered to see after the war—said my nervous system was going haywire. That after living through so much shit, it was pinging off the wall at any hint of danger, no matter how small. But, I hadn't told him even half of what messed me up. I didn't want to talk about it, to dig myself a hole—I just wanted to live.

That was why I'd come here. That was why I'd tried so hard to play by the rules with that guy. I wanted a life, now, and though I wasn't quite sure I deserved one, I was trying.

I listened to the raspy in-out of my breath until my heartbeat slowed, and my insides stopped zinging. Until my legs stopped bouncing and logic started to trickle back into me. Until I felt some semblance of sane again.

"Don't think," I whispered to myself, standing up and retrieving my duffle bag. "It's no biggie. You're just some random girl who needed a ride. Don't get a big head, Ría. A boy like that isn't going to remember you."

It was mean—and my therapist would disapprove—but it was true. And, it made me feel a little better, like there wasn't a spotlight shining on me.

I looked around. My new—albeit temporary—abode looked like every room in every Garrison facility ever. White paneled walls, linoleum floors, and plastic and metal furniture with orange accents dotted the room. A single bed was bolted to the wall in the corner, flanked by a small dresser, and I unzipped my duffel and shoved my clothes into it.

"There," I said, brushing my hands together. "Action, not despair."

I showered, throwing on the same t-shirt I'd worn earlier, and climbed into the single bed. Snapping off the lights, I set my alarm for 4:30 and sank into the mattress.

What would happen tomorrow? Would things go well? Would I make friends? Or, would my streak of shitty-ass luck just continue?

My body already ached from all the running I'd done. With a sigh, I curled on my side, closed my eyes, and buried my nose in my t-shirt. But then, my eyes snapped open. The same rich, spicy smell I'd breathed in off Keith's neck filled my nostrils. Someone else's scent—the smell of another human being.

I took another slow, appreciative inhale. Then, I stiffened, holding my breath. Guilt yanked at my heartstrings so hard my chest hurt. I didn't know this guy. What would he think if he knew I was back in my room, huffing his scent like a fucking pervert?

Ripping the t-shirt over my head, I threw it onto the floor. I curled into a ball beneath the thin blanket, and, eyes stinging, pressed my face into my knees.

It was a long time before I fell asleep, and I rose slowly from my bed the next morning. I showered, then smoothed the wrinkles from my uniform and slipped it on. It was the first time I'd worn gray instead of cadet's orange to work, and I made sure to belt it properly. To tuck the legs into my boots cleanly and neatly, and do up the black buttons at my throat.

This time, I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted to look like someone dependable, instead of just being one. It was a mystery to me—how I'd managed to make it this far, to succeed when I was… well, me. They'd even asked me to be squad leader here, but I'd turned it down. I knew I wasn't leadership material, and I wasn't willing to hold their hand as they learned that, too. I wanted to be enough, and it would be too painful.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I brushed out my wavy bronze hair and inspected the curled ends for flyaways. Then, I pulled it into a ponytail and rubbed moisturizer into my face. I tried not to look myself in the eyes, because when I did, I was eclipsed—my father's green-brown irises and large, rounded features, my mother's olive complexion, and the dark circles under my eyes from both. There was nothing "me" there, or anywhere, really.

What kind of person would want that kind of damaged?

Frowning, I rubbed my eyes and turned away. I told myself I wouldn't think about it anymore, so I wouldn't. Checking my uniform one more time, I opened the door and stepped outside.

It was still early—5:00, maybe—but the hallway was filled with people. Cadets in orange and white clumped in corners, conversing in low voices. Instructors chatted as they walked, datapads and shoulder bags tucked under their arms. I locked my door, stuck my hands in my pockets, and wandered towards the cafeteria.

Somehow, it felt like I was flying under the radar. But, the feeling didn't last for long. As I entered the cafeteria, a brown-skinned woman with a ponytail and a blue-green headband came jaunting towards me with all the subtlety of an amused fox. She bounced down beside me, a huge smile on her face.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Rizavi—you're Ría, right?"

She pronounced it properly—with the long vowel and a slightly trilled R—and I blinked twice in surprise. Her voice was somewhat shrill with excitement, but it was still nice on the ears.

"Yeah," I said, offering her my hand, like I was supposed to. "Ría—Miller. I fly Jarvis 343."

"You're from Canada, right?" Rizavi said, her words coming at a break-neck pace as I searched the cafeteria for chicken strips. "I bet it's scorching here. Is there still snow up there? Is the food there better than here?"

I saw no chicken strips, and my shoulders sagged in disappointment. Plucking up a carton of juice and an egg-salad sandwich, I turned back to Rizavi, who waited for my reaction with the wide-pupiled eyes of a fascinated cat.

"It's okay—at least inside. Kind of warm still, I guess?" I said, brow furrowing.

Rizavi nodded, and we merged into the line for the check-out.

"Air conditioning. Gotcha."

"And there's no snow in August—at least, where I lived. Maybe in the Yukon, or the Territories, but where I was, only in the winter." Still mourning the lack of chicken strips, I skipped her last question. But, she didn't seem to notice. "Was there… something you needed?"

"Oh," She said, as if forgetting something. "They asked me to be your buddy and show you around."

"You're the tour?" I asked, paying for my meal with a swipe of my card.

"I guess," she said with a shrug.

"Well, you're doing alright so far."

I walked across the room and sat at an empty table in the corner, and she trailed behind me, plopping down across from me. I unwrapped my sandwich and began to eat.

"Good," she said. "Now—give me the dirt."

I coughed, covering my mouth with my arm. The people at the next table looked over at us, leaning together to talk amongst themselves.

"Huh?"

"You fought at the Battle of Alberta, right?"

I frowned. Wasn't it taboo to ask about certain battles? Maybe I was wrong—maybe it was okay if the other person was a pilot or soldier, too. But, I still wasn't sure.

"Well, yeah—I had to, the Galra attacked us, just like everyone else."

One of the men at the next table stood and came over to listen, and his friends started packing up to follow. When I saw them, a wave of anxiety rippled across my skin, setting my hair on end.

"And that's when Dr. Jarvis pulled out her prototype Jarvises, right?"

Her eyes were huge and her voice was slowly gaining volume. More of the cafeteria's diners had started to stare, and I pressed my knees together to keep my legs from bouncing.

"Yeah," I said.

It'd been horrible—the Galra cruiser had immediately started firing on the base without even hailing us. Dr. Jarvis had demanded the commander give her clearance to launch, and he'd refused. So, she'd severed the connection—and the mechs failsafes—and ushered us one-by-one into our still-unfinished cockpits, bristling with unsecured cordage.

"Go," she'd said, laying a kiss upon each of our foreheads. "Fight for your lives."

Most of us had failed to connect with our Jarvises, and in the end, the Alberta Garrison had fallen anyway. Only five of twenty of the Jarvis Program's original pilots survived, and it'd taken the entire three years that'd passed since the war's end to rebuild the base a half-hour to the west of where it'd stood. Its original location was still deeply affected by the spilled fuel from the downed cruiser, the vegetation still blooming up into the sky in strange alien colors.

"That's what happened with us, too," Rizavi said.

I glossed over her words as I looked around at the thick group of people that now surrounded us. They were curious—I figured that was only natural—but I felt penned-in. If she started asking something I didn't want to answer, how the hell was I going to end the conversation? It wasn't like I could walk away with all these people watching.

"Didn't that happen against your commander's orders?" Someone asked—a man, his brown hair gelled back away from his face.

"She believed professor Holt," I said, leaving it at that. Going any further would be discussing treason, which only get us all in trouble.

"Smart," A young woman in a lab coat said. Her round glasses glinted in the light from the window beside me, hiding her eyes. A shiver ran up my spine. "Is Dr. Jarvis here?"

I stared at her, unsure where to begin, before looking down at my hands in my lap. Silently, I pulled on my work face—my work voice. When I finally spoke, it came out deeper. Steadier.

"Dr. Jarvis died," I said. "She stayed behind to protect her notes from the Galra, and their commander killed her."

I lifted my gaze back to the woman in the lab coat, and instead, my eyes slipped over her shoulder, making direct contact with Keith's. He was watching me talk, his face nearly expressionless aside from slightly narrowed eyes.

"Aw man," Someone—one of the cafeteria's cooks—said. "That sucks—I wanted to meet her. Integrating the mech's machinery into the pilot's suits was legendary."

His words floated past me without recognition. I tore my eyes from Keith's dark ones and looked down at my half-eaten sandwich, which I hadn't touched since Rizavi started this verbal barrage. Or at least, that's what it felt like. Annoyance prickled across my skin.

I wasn't a fucking info terminal.

"Don't forget the AI," the woman in the lab coat said as she turned away. "And me, too."

One of the strangers sitting close to me got up and left as well. Others began to converse quietly amongst themselves. For a moment, it felt like everyone completely forgot about me, I sighed in relief.

I stuck my straw into my juice and took a sip, trying to ignore Keith as he sat down at the next table over. I could feel eyes upon me, but I didn't know if they were his, and I hoped they weren't.

Don't look at me, I thought, annoyed.

"Hey," someone said, waving a hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

"What?"

It was a woman with short blonde hair, clipped above her eyebrows. Her face was serious, bearing not even a hint of an expression as she let her arm come to rest on her leg.

"Is it true your mech tortures you?"

The room fell silent. Once again, all eyes were upon me, and several people who'd been pointedly ignoring the rabble turned to stare. I bit my lip hard.

"I—uh—" I laughed awkwardly.

I'd never heard it put that way before, and it took me completely by surprise. Dr. Jarvis had talked about how the Jarvises connecting irritated the pilot's brain—only ever approaching the subject in scientific terms. Her replacement, Dr. McKay, was more layman in her interpretation. She called it a "design flaw," a dangerous oversight, and checked in regularly to make sure the scientists were working on "cracking" it.

"No one should have to relive their worst memories over and over," She'd said.

But, describing it as torture wasn't entirely wrong. The truth was, most people weren't fit to pilot a Jarvis mech solely because of the connection process—they simply didn't possess the emotional resilience to deal with going through it over and over. Or, if they were unlucky, they got stuck, and someone had to connect with them to detangle them.

It was why most Jarvises were piloted in pairs, and why Jarvis pilots were monitored by a small team of psychiatrists and psychologists. But, if I used the word torture, that would be speaking against the program, wouldn't it? And it didn't entirely fit—we could walk away from the program at any time. We chose to keep facing the connection process. No one was forcing us.

"It's difficult," I said, taking a sip of my juice. "But it's not torture."

The blonde woman tipped her head, but she said nothing. Her question was answered, so she got up and walked away. And as she did, she revealed Keith in the reflection of my juice bottle, watching me, like I hoped he hadn't been.

Rizavi had gone quiet, but she was still sitting there, her cheeks somewhat tinted. As I stood up, I almost hoped she was embarrassed. What'd just happened had not only left me with a weird taste in my mouth, but it'd left me annoyed with this place and everyone in it. I scooped up my trash and started towards the trash can.

"Hey, Keith," I said as I passed his table.

At first, I thought he wasn't going to respond. But then, I heard a soft intonation behind me.

"Hey?"

I shook my head and kept walking.