Chapter Text
"We're getting you a co-pilot," were not the words Kurapika wanted to hear upon being summoned to the marshal's office. "You're to participate in the screening matches tomorrow at oh-six-hundred," following immediately after was just as unwelcome. His partner, his cousin, the other half of his soul was in the same room, for god's sake, a solid, calming presence at his back, and it was cruel and disingenuous of them to fling this at him when they knew very well that he wouldn't be able to refuse or risk being turned out of the service for insubordination.
"I already have a co-pilot," Kurapika gritted out with barely-leashed fury as the marshal and Pairo exchanged looks over his shoulder. The blond kept his eyes on his superior, and did not react to furtive expressions of knowing exasperation being flung through him and at him, although he continued to seethe inwardly; he was right there. Pairo was right there, and his breath caught, rage nearly making him choke on air, as the marshal shook his head and said, bluntly enough to be nearly rude, "No, you don't."
A hand on his shoulder stopped the explosion--Pairo's, the only reason he didn't turn around and bite it off. "We've been through this. Kurapika, you know I can't fight anymore."
"I know," he managed to say, despite a bigger part of him feeling like he was drowning in his anger and questions of why this was happening now. "I know," he repeated helplessly, "but I also know as well as you do that I'll never find anyone good enough."
"You're not even trying," the marshal pointed out. "Look, I've held off on pressuring you in order to spare your feelings, but we've all waited long enough. I won't have this Shatterdome's Jaeger rusting in the garage, I will not allow Pairo back into that cockpit only to make his injury worse, and I refuse to let you kill yourself piloting solo. You will attend the screening matches tomorrow--that's an order."
And that was that. He could still disobey--and get court-martialed and discharged--but some sane part of his mind was thankfully aware that he should be more gracious about accepting the concessions already being granted to him. His sullen "yes, sir" only got him a sigh and Pairo hastily ushering him out of the marshal's office before the man could decide to change his mind, after all.
"... You think I'm being melodramatic, don't you?" he muttered as they were making the trek back to their quarters.
Pairo turned his head, eyes seeking him out, and Kurapika's gut clenched painfully at the way the other boy's eyelids twitched minutely in a futile attempt to sharpen his focus. A reflex. His cousin probably wasn't aware that he was doing it at all.
"I'd be acting the same if our positions were reversed," Pairo replied. "But I don't think it'll hurt to take a look at tomorrow's candidates. At the very least, you can show the marshal why you're being so adamant about it," he added, tone wry with an emotion that Kurapika couldn't immediately place.
Proving the marshal wrong, Kurapika thought sourly, was something he expected he wouldn't have much trouble doing.
-----
He was right, and Kurapika realized, to his increasing dismay and vexation, that he'd much rather prefer to be wrong, despite his voluble objections. He was more than aware that he needed a co-pilot, after all, and was probably the most anxious to find one, out of everyone in the base. He couldn't even find pleasure in vindication, because it meant looking forward to the possibility of being benched, and that was making it harder for him to keep a lid on his temper when none of the candidates were proving themselves capable of lasting more than three seconds against him on the sparring mats.
There was just no connection. None of Pairo's skill, for one thing, and not a single shred of that inexplicable connectedness that made sparring with his cousin so exhilarating. Drift partners had to be equal in skill, and they had to be able to see through each other's moves quickly enough to execute the correct counters that could turn a one-sided slaughter into something that more resembled a deadly dance. It was both challenge and conversation, a silent dialogue between the combatants, and proof that they could successfully be linked in the most intimate ways imaginable, and Kurapika was finding none of that in the candidates the technicians had picked out for him.
The eleventh unfortunate candidate went flying over his shoulder after two more moves, and the blond declared his win with one end of his staff poised over the man's neck. Groans of disappointment echoed around the room, and he ignored the deregatory banter of bets being exchanged in favor of shooting a scowl at the marshal. The man merely raised an unimpressed brow at him before calling the next--and last candidate forward.
Lucifer, Kuroro. Kurapika vaguely recalled the sparsely-detailed personnel files he'd been forced to peruse and wondered if this one had been left for last because of the difference in their physiques. He wasn't built like a typical ranger, and most of the previous candidates had also been on the leaner side. Lucifer, in contrast, was tall and heavy. The black tank top and jogging pants left his arms bare and threw the outline of his torso into sharp relief against the brown walls and floor matting.
Muscled, Kurapika thought disdainfully. Possibly slow. He wasn't going to start underestimating his opponent just because the man had the kind of build the rest of the world believed rangers should possess, but then Lucifer gave him a half-smile, friendly and amused--the self-assured, 'I know you just defeated nearly a dozen ranger candidates at the top of their game, but I'm going to end your winning streak now' kind of amused, and Kurapika resolved right there and then that he was going to punch this guy's grin off his face in a second, co-pilot screening be damned.
"Bow," the marshal intoned as they took their places across the mats. Kurapika bent his neck stiffly, unwillingly, then twirled his staff--requisite, but useless showmanship, in his opinion, especially when done by a weaker opponent. It did serve its purposes in intimidation when done by someone stronger, and the length of hardened wood carved arcs in the air as he manipulated it expertly.
Lucifer copied his bow and twirl with better grace and more flair, sending a murmur of appreciation rippling through the watching audience--and sending his mood plummeting from merely irritated to downright nasty. Kurapika's first attack was thus hastier and more savage than all his previous moves thus far; an added pivot on his leading foot where he'd normally only twist his body lent force enough to maim, even kill if struck against the head. Pairo would have disapproved.
The blond was understandably surprised--dumbfounded, actually, when, instead of blocking like any properly-trained staff wielder would do, Lucifer ducked through and under his swing. Too late he saw that he'd left himself wide open, having given both of his hands into that one attack, and he couldn't do more than brace himself and fold over Lucifer's shoulder as the man rammed it into his gut. Off-balance, out of breath, he was (humiliatingly) easily knocked flat on his back. He'd managed to keep his hold on his staff, at least, but it was only a tiny point in his favor when he had his opponent's weapon angled over his own throat.
There was an astonished silence for all of five seconds before the peanut gallery erupted into a confused mass of buzzing, exclamations and imprecations. Kurapika stared up at Lucifer's dark eyes--gray, he realized suddenly, and far closer than expected--the man was literally sitting on him.
"Stop looking at this as the farce you seem to think it is and fight me properly," Lucifer said, voice low and just loud enough that only he could hear. Kurapika blinked, then struggled to formulate a suitably snappy reply, but the man was already rising to his feet and stepping back into a ready stance in one smooth movement.
Kurapika pursed his lips and set to heaving himself upright. He'd been waiting for his loss to be announced, but the marshal's face remained impassive. He hadn't said anything, and wasn't going to say anything, if the blond was reading that granite-like facade correctly.
A point against him, then, and not the whole match. He was being given another chance... or was this what they had been waiting for all along? Something was happening, stirring to life as he slowly took position, fingers carefully and deliberately sliding over the smooth grain of his staff. Deep breaths, focus--his earlier anger had abruptly, miraculously drained away with Lucifer--Kuroro's admonishment, leaving nothing to blind him against the realization that he might have found someone he could fight with.
Kurapika settled into a more defensive stance this time, staff held upright. He thought he saw something like approval glint in the other man's eyes for the briefest second before Kuroro lunged. He blocked the first strike, and the next four, then took the barest pause in the flurry of attacks as an invitation to counter with an upward swing. Lucifer had to lean back to avoid it, and he pressed his advantage, launching a barrage of quick thrusts. An expectant hush had fallen over the combat room, broken only by the clacking of their weapons and the occasional shout. Expectant, waiting to see what upset the newcomer might pull next--
Kurapika was ready for it, when it came, the slightest shifting of balance in the other man's shoulders, arms rising for an overhead strike--he threw himself into a roll and shoved an arm through the space between Kuroro's feet. The staff finished it, knocking Kuroro's knee askew, and Kurapika came out of the roll grappling his opponent's legs, with Kuroro blinking up at him in undisguised surprise.
"One-one," the blond declared with a feral grin.