Two dozen candidates had been shaved down to eighteen after the onslaught of testing. Undoubtedly they were being put to work elsewhere in the proving grounds. Every division needed more hands, more funding. Right now, they were getting it; every day there were helicopters and trains and ships bringing in more people, more materials. It wasn’t like they could only build [i]one[/i] Jaeger. The Kaijuu weren’t showing any sides of stopping.

The energy in the gym was practically electric. A large mat dominated the center of the room, machines and weights moved aside, and candidates lingered on the edges. Olivia had spent her meal gathering equipment—bo staves, tonfas, gloves, and all sorts of goodies—at the commands of one of a bright eyed technician. The small army of technicians was joined by men and women in the newly minted uniforms of the Pan Pacific Defence Corps. Their chest candy and rank insignia screamed Big Wigs. Admirals and Generals and Captains from around the world had joined the newest military effort, uniting to save the world..

And they were here to watch candidates spar. It seemed a little excessive.

Olivia sat on a jump box, wrapping her knuckles. Her dark hair had been pulled into a tight bun, a simple grey compression shirt and pink shorts in place of the usual uniform. Johnson had decided now was the time to tell the group at large about his misadventures in Iraq, his hands dancing with the expertise of someone who had told this story a dozen times before. Her lips quirked into a lopsided smirk, brow arching as she looked at the curly haired man.

“So, four of us each grab a limb—and keep in mind, this dude is like, maybe five three—and put him on the wall about three feet off the ground. My buddy just goes in and, [i]pop pop pop pop pop![/i], tapes him down, his feet fuckin’ kicking, screaming his head off—”

“Candidates,” The Marshall’s voice cut through the room better than any blade. It was amazing how the man could make one word sound so profound. Olivia rose to her feet, arms folding and dark eyes following the man as he walked towards the center of the mat. He appraised them, hands clasped behind his back, spine as rigid as a column. “We are here not only to fight, but to win.”

He paced slowly; from anyone else, she might have considered this speech pretentious. But the Marshall had the look about him that said he knew war, that he knew sacrifice, and that he thought of nothing else but their survival. Their [i]triumph[/i]. 

“If we are to win, we must be willing to do whatever it takes, to push ourselves, and each other, beyond our capabilities.” Something like a smirk seemed to touch his lips as he paused. “We need pilots that can fight harder together than they can alone. For the first time in humanity’s history, we’ve managed to band together. And we will uphold that mission here. You will be evaluated on both skill and compatibility to reach the next phase of trials.”

Olivia’s knuckles whitened beneath their tape, shifting her weight across her bare feet. It was time—she’d been waiting for weeks and this was [i]it[/i]. The Marshall nodded towards one of the technicians, a thin man with thin glasses, who stepped forward with a small clipboard. He cleared his throat nervously.

“Murphy, Olivia,” in that moment, his accented English sounded like a choir of angels. Olivia nodded, striding to the center of the mat. She rolled a shoulder experimentally, “Davis, Owen. Fights go to five points, not actual strikes. No maiming. You’re free to use whatever style or weapons you feel most comfortable with. We will be evaluating scores with our own criteria.” He paused, and then offered a weak smile. “Good luck, Candidates.”

Olivia briefly considered the weaponry she’d carted in, before deciding against it. If she was going to win this, it’d be with her own flesh and blood. Once centered and prepared, she eyed her opponent, expression calm. The ring was the closest thing to home she’d had since a cockpit. This was where the world made sense, where Olivia finally fit into her own skin. The thrill of a fight surged through her blood, cleared her senses, and she felt truly at ease for the first time in weeks.

 She proffered a taped fist to bump as a courtesy. Olivia shifted ever so slightly into her stance, head cocked as she considered Davis, guard low and waiting. He’d have reach, but she was quick, slippery, and patient. All she had to do was find an opening. Or make one; she’d been clawing her way through obstacles her whole life. 

“Begin!”