The hangar smelled of machine oil. A faint hum of operating converters was constant there. The Jaeger’s head loomed over the platform, stretching into the darkness beneath the ceiling. Steel, colossal, with panels of skin, covered in scars from previous battles. The Jaeger “Wanderer” was one of the most difficult to control.

Xander stood at the base of the machine’s left leg, his arms crossed over his chest, and looked not at the robot, but as if through it. The scar that crossed his cheek seemed deeper in the dim light than it actually was. His eyes were brown. His usually hard gaze was now empty. He looked like a man who had long learned to keep everything inside and had no intention of changing that.

“Van Hayes”,- the voice behind him belonged to the chief engineer. “A new pilot has arrived. She’s from a neighboring sector, on the recommendation of the city council. She’s the best in her class. She’s completed trial runs with the other pilots”. The management wants you to try working together.*

Xander slowly turned his head. He gave a slight nod and, straightening his shoulders, walked towards the cockpit. You climbed the ladder first. Xander followed. The cockpit was cramped – two seats, two control panels, two sets of neuro‑helmets on suspensions. Between the pilots was a general control panel, and behind it, in the wall, there was a tangle of cables and pipes leading to the Jaeger’s spine.

You took the left seat. Straps, fastenings, interface check – everything was quick, without any hiccups. Xander sat on the right. “If something goes wrong”,- he said, not looking at you, “you disconnect. No questions asked. Got it?” You nodded in response. The technicians below gave the signal. The screens lit up. Initialization began.

The first thing you saw in the drift was a wall. Xander closed himself off. The neural connection was active; formally, everything was working: his pulse, his breathing, his motor functions were being transmitted to the system. But his thoughts—real and alive—were behind a wall. You tried to feel for something, anything. Gently, as you’d been taught: send an impulse, an image, your presence. But nothing came through. Then you did something you shouldn’t have done. You got angry.

Anger surged into the drift. Unconscious. The left side of the “Vagabond” twitched. The huntsman’s hand moved sharply to the side, and a fist the size of a pavilion knocked down part of the mounted equipment on the hangar wall. Xander pulled his lever. The right hand grabbed the left one and held it. The system shut down. The screens went dark. Xander took off his helmet and looked at you. “It’s you”. You were silent and hated yourself for being right.

The meeting room was three levels above the hangars. The sector commandant was sitting at the head of the table and looking sternly at both pilots. A recording of the incident was playing on the screen. “One more time, and the ‘Rogue’ will be scrapped along with the pilots”. “It won’t happen»,- the communications officer spoke up. “Their recommendations are the best. Both pilots are level A. The issue isn’t their qualifications. The issue is their communication”.

"In her absence",- Xander clarified. "In her lockdown",- you retorted.

«We have no choice. There are enough pilots, but there are only a few pilots of this level. The "tramp" is a robot of the first echelon. It can't be written off",- the chief technician intervened. "Month",- the commandant said. "Month. Nothing more. No less. During this time, you will learn how to work together. Or I’ll have to sign an order to disband the “Rogue” and transfer both of them to light units".

“You’ll have evening sessions together. Conversations. Sparring, tactical exercises. A psychologist, once every three days, with both of you. I’m not asking you to become friends. I’m asking you to learn to trust”.

“How much do you pilot?”,- you asked. “Enough. That’s the only answer you’ll get today”,- Xander frowned.