The last time they had ramped up testing like this, they had been selecting their pilot for the trial run. The Good Captain had outclassed them all with his physical and mental ability, breezing through every challenge with a good natured smile. In the two and a half weeks she had known him, Olivia had never heard him complain. She hadn’t minded losing out the pilot’s seat to him—he was the best of them. A natural leader, the Good Captain had been the obvious choice. It had been easy to believe in him. If it had been him taking the fight to the Kaiju, they would never have had to worry. 

She hadn’t thought her hope so fragile, but one seizure and a secret burial later had proven her wrong. Maybe it was because the Good Captain looked so much like she imagined John would have in his coffin, if there’d been a body to bury. He’d somehow even looked heroic in his desperately unheroic death and his shameful funeral. John’s had been all ceremony and thousands of people strong as they buried their loved ones beneath canon fire and bugles, but it hadn’t felt as real as the Good Captain’s. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this coffin wasn’t empty that had made it worse than John’s.

Olivia did her best to keep her maudlin thoughts at bay—if she wanted that pilot’s seat, she couldn’t hold herself back with something as weak as grief. The testing usually kept her too focused to let her thoughts disrupt her, and there was something about being in the clinic that gave her the strength to keep calm and lie when the docs asked probing questions ([i]”Do you feel guilty for your brother’s death?” “No sir.” “Have you ever considered killing yourself?” “No sir.” “Why are you here?” “To serve my country, sir.”[/i]) 

Sparring was the best bit, a chance to get her energy out in vicious strikes and the artistry of the back and forth that she’d loved since she was a little girl. She’d followed John along after school to his gym and started fighting in her bid to be just like him. He eventually dropped boxing for football, but Olivia had loved it too much to quit. Even here in this snowy hellhole, she found herself craving the rush of the dance. The chance to knock Clemens on his ass was a bonus.

Outside of testing, the only place Olivia felt at peace was in the gym with a pair of gloves and a heavy bag. There was something tangible about beating down on vinyl and stuffing. Someone had, rather artfully, painted a caricature of Trespasser on it. Every moment she could spare, she found herself working through routines, bass pounding in her ears, blood running hot. The painted heavy bag was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was the closest she’d come in the past year and a half. 

Working until exhaustion was nothing new to Olivia. She’d been through the process in flight school and out in the fleet hundreds of times. Privately, she suspected the lack of consistent sleep cycles was shaving years off her life, but concerns like that hadn’t really mattered since K-Day. The strain in her arms told her it was finally time to stop. An injury now would be the ultimate slap in the face. She’d sat out K-Day with a broken arm, and she certainly wasn’t doing that again. Olivia slung her towel about her neck and unhooked the eighty pound bag, carrying it to its rightful home and stacking it neatly. 

She dreaded the thought of returning to her barracks. She had been spoiled for the past three weeks, with the room all to her own. Olivia had lived in tighter quarters with more women before, but their bunkroom had been a proper home, cramped as it was. It had soul and women she knew and trusted. Perhaps it was unfair to pass judgement. She hadn’t exactly been the friendliest of people before K-Day, but she’d certainly been more tolerant. Rubbing the back of her neck, Olivia found herself beating the familiar path back to her least favorite place in the Proving Grounds. She couldn’t avoid it forever, after all. Besides, they were probably off playing cards again.

-
No such luck. Olivia shouldered in through the door, dropping her bag on her desk and realizing rather awkwardly that Shankari had come to attention. She’d never enjoyed being saluted or people rising for her, even more so out of uniform. She hardly looked a proper Lieutenant like this, her dark hair in a messy pony tail, face slick with sweat, tattoos snaking out of her matching pink PT gear, still a little out of breath.

“Uh, at ease,” Olivia was promptly accosted by the exceptionally tall one (fucking Christ, did she eat HGH as a kid or something?), and was a little taken aback. Shit, she’d underestimated how overworked her brain was. It took her a moment to process what the woman, Ribsy, had said. She shook her hand and tried for a friendly smile, although it came off more as a grimace. 

“You don’t need to call me by my slave name,” the joke was a little dry, and she instantly regretted it. She’d forgotten how much she fucking sucked at talking to people. There was a reason she was a pilot instead of a communications officer. She dropped the woman’s hand. “Olivia Murphy. Uh,” she tried to think of something intelligent to say, “Enjoy your first proper day, then?”

[i]Wow, Olivia, you might be the single worst maker of small talk in the history of the whole world.[/i]