hallelujahpilot: (where the birds sleep)
[personal profile] hallelujahpilot
The hangar is emptier than it should be for this time of night, and none of the tiltrotors are where they should be. In fact, as she walks through, she recognises numbers and choppers that just should not be there. That's Evans' one – she went missing with her crew the day that Quaritch's XO got eaten, the day that Trudy landed herself in the brig along with the other pilots for the sake of the dead.

That's Wu and Marjan's Samson, which had caught fire due to a faulty repair with them trapped inside.

That's Brown's gunship, which had nosedived thanks to a storm.

That's Jameson's gunship, which had been thrown to the ground by one of the leonopteryxes in the same attack that left Trudy in a broken Samson with a broken leg.

That's -

“Hey there, sister,” Ing Schmidt says, lightly jumping down from the cargo bay of Samson Three One. “Long time no see.”

“...that's what happens when you die on me,” Trudy snaps at her (former) co-pilot. When in doubt, get pissed.

“Hey, now, that wasn't my idea.”

“No, I thought you deliberately sabotaged the damn chopper.” Trudy rolls her eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of long-suffering, but it's not enough. She looks at Schmidt again, opens her mouth, and, “Of course it wasn't your fucking idea!” comes spilling out.

Her voice is louder than she meant it to be, and the two women look startled as Trudy's voice bounces around the hangar.

“You,” Schmidt says after a moment, “have a lot of anger stored up over this issue. And it's been over a year.”


“I'm gonna let you think about it,” Schmidt decides, turning back towards the (their) Samson. The bird's been damaged, Trudy can see now. Of course it's been damaged; it was wrenched through the air and then had a couple collisions with trees before finally the ground. But she can see the damage, the Samson intact but crumpled as it had been before the mechanics cut it apart to salvage to spare parts, before the cockpit was sliced up to free Schmidt's body.

Schmidt, who is dressed in the flightsuit she died in, with her long locs tied back so they won't get in her way as she unscrews one of Three One's panels.

(you need a drill to do it; she's doing it with a spanner)

Trudy – awkward, angry, hands in fists and breathing uneven – finally says, “I couldn't even protect your body. If the viperwolves wanted, they could have-”

“You did your job,” Schmidt says, without turning around. “You protected the living.”

“Walker died anyway.”

“But she died in a bed, not the jungle.”

“But, I couldn't...I just let them...eat you.”

Schmidt sighs, puts down the spanner, turns around. “Look,” she says, “I'm not mad about that. Dead is dead, Trudes. You still carved my name on the wall, that's...that's all you can ask on Pandora, isn't it?”

“I guess.”

“All you can do.,” Schmidt repeats, and then hesitates, gestures with her thumb towards the Samson. “You gonna help me fix her up?”


“You sound confused.”

Trudy starts to speak, stops, tries again. “My brother turned up last year, telling me he's dead. I...already know you're dead.” She manages to bite back the, so why are you here, but it still echoes through her words anyway.

“Aw, you didn't miss me.”

“Of course I fucking did,” Trudy says, but with more tiredness than heat this time.

“Maybe I missed you, too,” Schmidt says. “No pearls of wisdom, which is actually a gross statement, because do you know how pearls are formed-”


Schmidt stops, flashes a smile. “I missed you, Trudes. And I guess, wherever you are, it's a chance where we can just hang together for a bit. So, want to help me fix her up?”

“Yeah,” Trudy says at last, “yeah, I do.”
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Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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