118, Commander Nathaniel Taylor x fem!OC
summary: "For them, it was just the blink of an eye. For us? 118 days." It's a long time to be alone with someone you barely know. 'Lotta days of wondering if this was it, the grandiose dream of Terra Nova they'd all been promised. But it's also a good chunk of time to change minds, to form new opinions. To give —your heart; ideas, your future —away. This is ground zero.
pairings: Commander Nathaniel Taylor x fem!OC
warnings: age gap, canon deviations, a whole lot of made up futuristic tech, survival technique based on limited research, convenience marriage to lovers, messing with the Terra Nova timeline, age of the earth/sciencey opinions
teaser
the befores
“In the name of God, I, ….”
Chem lights at war with the flicker of LEDs overhead spin the room, making the space feel more dreamlike than anything. Like a rough coma. World fades in and out of erratic color, moving as broken pulses of electricity attempt to carry functional light into abysmal, dank blackness. It’s cold in that humidity-ridden kind of way—cold that burrows into the bones, past sweat glands that seep with perspiration that would otherwise sparkle in the light of day. Trying to find the words for this moment, for the haze that’s set over this room—fever dream. Yes, that’s it.
It’s feverish degrees here—something viral. Setting her on edge. Creeping through her facades, shifting the masks of power a committee and countless weeks of interview and preparations provide. They hardly prepare anyone for this. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Dark and humid, oppressive with the weight of a world of questions that doesn’t even seem fathomable.
“....to be my lawfully permitted wife; to have….”
A brush of fingers against the slick leather of her jacket lifts her gaze from the perfect over-under of old combat boots. Her favorites. Traveling companions of the last year, they’ve marched through countless miles of States of American concrete and soil. Chicago, more recently—wretched, disgusting metropolis that it is. Crawling with propaganda for the government's hedonistic vision of tomorrow. The blade of humanism, driven into the almost asystole heart of a once beautiful dream.
Her gaze finds the man, hand still statuesque on her shoulder. He doesn’t move, like she’s porcelain and could break. Maybe she is, because she feels stone cold and bone China-white, despite being riveted to this floor. If you can call it a floor more than a slab—sakrete that’s been lazily mixed with county efforts and resources. Blinking away condensating sweat that’s gathered in her lashes, the man’s brow lifts. Maybe curiously, if he genuinely wanted to know where her mind had galloped to. But it’s a more worried look, one that’s watching the clock. Has other places to be.
“....Miss McKinney? You still with us?”
It’s an odd question. One she can’t readily find the heartbeat to answer. Instead, a small smirk tickles the corner of her mouth, threatening humor if the situation would’ve been appropriate. It wasn’t. Some backalley government holding squat could hardly warrant a snarl much less a smile, but if the weeks leading to this moment had proven anything—well. Nothing was what it seemed.
The akimbo of confidence doesn’t flinch at her right. He hasn’t, not since being guided to this…this platform. He stood there, in combat blacks and a leather jacket the entire time, like a pillar. A fortress, even. Erected to support the dreams of a future scurrying to rewrite itself, on its last leg of hope. Shoulders down and back, gaze straightforward as if the future had already colored itself from the black and whites of the present.
“Oh. Um–yes. Yes, thank you. Continue, sir.”
But the akimbo frame of the man suddenly flinches, ever so slightly—lifts a foot, scuffing the rubbers of his combat boots against the wet sakrete beneath them. Watching as he returns to his motionless state, she manages to swallow a breath thick with nothingness—no words, no compliance, no spit. Looking back to the over-under of her laces, she notices his are the same. He ties his boots the same way—-tight over-under patterns in eye-hooks, the excess laces tied around the back of his leg. It’s an old trick, one from the almost-ancient way of living before everything became disposable. Replaceable, plastic.
And when her eyes cut to his like a blade, she finds him staring at her from the corner of his eye. Down at her, really, because she’s shorter than he is. And he stands forever, almost. Like a giant. Goliath against David, stones aside and the Philistines coming up fast. For a moment, his eyes are dark and unreadable. Unsearchable. Until he shifts his shoulders a bit, settling into his akimbo stance. Hands folded in front of him, ever the soldier.
His words hang in the air, unfulfilling. Mandatory. Government-issued, lest the good citizens of 2142 question the ethical implications no one would think, albeit care, to ask. Ringing in the air hollow, she’s not even sure she can remember even hearing him. She’d barely heard him speak in the weeks leading up the First, hadn’t even shaken his hand until this morning when he’d introduced himself. He was capable, sure. On paper.
But staking her life–her future….
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It shouldn’t be. It was 2142. It was the First.
She was a First.
“..Your answer, Miss.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need your answer, ma’am. For the license.”
Pounding in her chest reminds her she’s alive. It isn’t a good pounding, an exciting one. It’s one that’s horribly wrong. Screaming at her that this isn’t right. That it shouldn’t be like this—that this is 2142. Nobody actually cares, religions and personal affections aside. This isn’t the frontier, not anymore. Not yet.
Head spinning, knuckles brush against hers. Tenderly. It’s surprising and she starts, looking up into careful eyes weighing every motion; he’s moved to face her. All six foot something of him, hard lines and perfect posture. Reading her like a datapad. Every breath, like he can see through her ribs and into her chest. No wonder this is the man to lead them into tomorrow, into the future—his stare is like an anvil. Crushing, almost. But in a way that demands the truth, that makes her want to sing out every secret she’s ever burdened in the pulling stitches of her own resolve.
His nod is punctuated. Final. His gaze darts to consider the man standing before them. Nodding once to him, he looks back to her. Waiting. His chin lifts, authoritatively. Impatiently, but he won’t move. And before she can even find her own tongue, his hand on her shoulder squeezes once. Twice. With compassion, empathy.
“For Terra Nova,” his low voice is calm. Collected. Reeled in like a man with control and wisdom well beyond her years. “For the future, Miss McKinney.”
And that hits harder than any of her own selfish negotiations. “Yes—”
Don’t let this be a mistake. For the colony...for hope....
For tomorrow, 2142.
“—this is my solemn vow." God help her if this is a mistake. There's nothing left.
He'd have it all. One man, one dream. One tomorrow.
"For Terra Nova. For tomorrow.”
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Wash and Commander Taylor + Pacific Rim AU?
She'd have drifted with him, if he'd asked. Terrifying as it would have been, she would have faced it, would have let him into every last corner of her mind. If he'd asked, she thinks, the war might be over by now.
But he never asked, and when he was offered command of the program, he made the decision for both of them: his piloting days were over. But he offered her a place at his side, as head of security, and she took it without hesitation.
And now-
Now-
"She can do it," he says, not sentimental but matter-of-fact, looking out of the great glass windows at the Jaeger below. Most would not hear the faint edge of fear in his voice, but she's not most. "Been training for it her whole life."
"And the boy?" After all, he's right. He's been training Skye for this from the moment he rescued her, however much he hesitated to admit it. But Josh? He's a reckless hothead with no regard for authority, and he's never set foot in a Jaeger before. She's skeptical, to say the least, but Skye would drift with no other (and if there's a bubble of familiarity at that, a flash of memory that threatens to suffocate her, she swallows in down in a moment, ever his faithful soldier). And now the fate of the world is in the hands of two kids.
"She'll get him through it, Wash. Now, are we ready?"
"Ready."
And the drift begins.
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