AI-S01E02 (Angel Interceptor)

EPISODE TWO - WELCOME TO BLACK-ROCK Training begins at 06.00 tomorrow. Eight and a half hours to get settled and try to recover. A figure steps out from the flight control room — a wiry human male with close-cropped white hair and a crimson-patched winter jacket over a Jaeger flight suit. He watches you with measured intensity as you unlock and break the seal on the cockpit hatch. His face is lined, his gaze sharp and assessing. He doesn't offer assistance, he just stands there, arms crossed, waiting. The hangar crew continue their work, their movements economical and methodical, clearly used to the rhythms of maintaining military hardware in a hostile environment. "Miyakame", he says, not quite a question or a greeting. His dark eyes flick up and down your Rapier, then back up to you. "You're late." You trigger the Rapier's armoured gauntlet to drop your bagged plugsuit and gear. That raises an eyebrow. Your ribs are still sore from the bear's assault at False Pass, the pain having dulled but not disappeared. You ease out of the cockpit and onto the delivered maintenance walkway, aware of the technicians below pretending not to stare. Your VPSO hoodie and thermals are dishevelled, your body stiff from travel. You've been at sea for over two days. "Delays, sir" you say. He gestures to a nearby door. "Leave everything, it needs to be processed. Medical's through there. Go through decontamination, get checked out, get warm, then find your bunk. Food's in the galley. That your whole kit?" He eyes the bag of gear on the floor. You nod, feeling the burn of exhaustion deep in your bones. Your body remembers the Kodiak battle all too well. "Yes, just this. Thank you sir." Your voice is hoarse from the cold. The man's gaze flicks you up and down. He wears an oversized sidearm prominently at his hip. Not regulation, just like the jacket, but he's wearing a patch identifying him as a Marine Special Operations Consultant. No rank is visible. "At ease, Miyakame." he says, voice rough with age and use. "You look like you've had a hard run. I'm Gunther, chief Instructor here. You're dismissed. Go shower and get some rack time." You nearly collapse where you stand, but manage a salute before heading in his advised direction. Behind you a technician hauls off your bag of gear. Gunther's last words are aimed at your back. "Welcome to Black Rock." The lower corridors of Black Rock are a maze of grey metal, the glow of halogen lights pulsing dimly against the bulkheads. The air is dry and metallic, the recycled breath of a machine uncertain to trust the world around it. Your bare feet pad against the cold flooring on each step in the short trip to Medical, each footfall sending a dull ache through your ribs. Decontamination has it's own entryway, flagged with warnings that the only access to Black Rock's living areas is via it. Clearly, the military here take quarantine security seriously. Inside, the space is utilitarian — an enclosed steel-walled chamber lined with UV lights, vents humming softly as they pump in fresh air. You strip down, stacking your VSPO garments in the provided crate. Even the bandages wrapping your ribs must go, the automated chamber having zero tolerance. Finally you get the red light of an active chamber. The wall opens and the crate is whisked away, leaving you naked and alone. The hot spray is a shock, no matter how much you try to prepare yourself for it. That much is true even back at the familiar rooms of the Ashcroft Block at Juneau. This time you fail to suppress your hyperagility, fatigue dulling your control. The thick red fluid burns at first, stinging your scrapes and bruises as it coats every inch of your skin. You brace yourself against the wall, arms and legs shuddering as the tension slowly leaves your body. Your muscles threaten to seize, the rapid temperature change sending uncomfortable prickles down your limbs.