[Drift spam for Mal]
[She's nervous, of course she's nervous, climbing back into the connpod after all the time she's spent trying to forget the last time she was in here. Good practice, she tells herself firmly, blood pounding in her ears, doesn't think of the rough-edged gaps in her memory or the things she remembers too clearly, doesn't think about anything at all, definitely doesn't think about how eagerly she would run right back to the gutter if not for Mal's sharp dark gaze pinning her in place better than the pneumatic hiss of the cables connecting to her drift suit, of a piece with the weight of the pons apparatus settling on her face like a spider poised to eat out her eyes. She itches everywhere under the armored jumpsuit, which makes her hard-shelled and shiny, insectoid, the better to be a spider's prey.
No. No. She needs not to think like that, because soon it'll power up and Mal will see - (everything) - nothing, nothing at all, white flat salt nothing, calm as a wide horizon, calm as a good high, calm as dead things when Plogviezhe makes them dead.
You have to own a jaeger. You have to be one, skyscraper-tall and shatterproof. (She isn't shatterproof.) And this one is her, is them, she knows the bladed edges and ammunitions of this machine better than she knows her own hands, wrapped into the arm controls. One of the techs is asking her, the second time, for confirmation. Her mouth is too dry to speak, but she is not afraid, she does not let herself think of anything at all. She catches the tech's eye for half a second, nods, and feels the first brush of the drift, Mal's sheer determination bleeding in, ready for this, wading into it, and good fucking god Mira missed her even as she's terrified by the closeness, by everything that could be seen if she doesn't - keep ahold of herself - but it's too late to back out now, for all her attempts, it was too late a year ago.]
[Open shatterdome spam before the attacks]
[Mira skulks about, approaches no one. She can't stand to stay cooped up in her quarters but she hates venturing out, too, scuttles from place to place, looks away if anyone meets her eyes, looks away before then if she sees anyone who knew her before. She feels like she must have a sign on her forehead, disgraced, AWOL, broken. She wants to hide but she needs space, and the Shatterdome is sort on both privacy and emptiness. She finds odd places, defunct half-flooded corridors painted in aquatic moss and barnacles, the sheer bustle of the medical wing where no one has the energy to notice a spare girl with wild hair picking up a batch of laundry to disinfect, climbs scaffolding in the hangar bay and watches people hurry by like a sloth, like a bat, in nervous suspension.]