Chapter Text
The Brave Olivine was not just a ship to Orla.
It was a living, breathing entity that she knew better than the back of her own hand. She knew the rhythmic thrum of the port engine when they were cruising at thirty thousand feet, and she knew the specific, complaining whine the starboard landing gear made when they touched down on uneven terrain. She knew the smell of the recycled air when the filters were fresh, and the metallic tang that lingered when the heat exchangers were running hot.
Tonight, the ship was singing a song that Orla did not like.
It was three in the morning, or perhaps four. Time had become a fluid concept somewhere around the second day of continuous repairs. The engine room was a cavern of shadows and orange lights, and the air was thick with the scent of oil.
While the rest of the crew were asleep in their cabins, wrapped in blankets and dreaming of their next adventure, Orla was deep in work.
She wiped a mixture of sweat and grease from her forehead with the back of her glove, leaving a dark smear across her skin. Her eyes, usually bright, were heavy and rimmed with red. Days of sleep deprivation had accumulated like rust, slowing her thoughts and making her limbs feel as though they were moving through molasses.
"Just one more valve…" Orla muttered to the empty room. Her voice was raspy, scraped raw by the dry, heated air of the engine compartment. "Please, just settle down, old girl. I know you're cranky."
A sharp, persistent hiss cut through the low hum of the primary furnace. It was a sound that had been gnawing at Orla's sanity for the last six hours: a steam pressure variance in the secondary cooling loop. A minor issue, theoretically. Most engineers would have logged it, gone to bed, and dealt with it in the morning after a cup of coffee.
But Orla was not like most engineers. She was the one who kept this ship in the sky. If the cooling loop failed, the primary furnace would overheat. If the furnace overheated, they would lose propulsion. And if they lost propulsion over the ocean...
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the catastrophic thoughts that always swirled in her brain when she was this tired.
Beside her, Metagross hovered silently. The massive steel-type pokémon was usually a source of comfort, but tonight, even it seemed agitated. It let out a low, discordant chime, its red eyes fixed on Orla with visible concern.
"I'm fine," Orla lied, reaching for a heavy wrench that felt like it weighed fifty pounds instead of five. "Please don't look at me like that. I just need to tighten the coupling on this valve. Then I'll sleep. I promise."
Metagross made a sound that was distinctly skeptical. It drifted closer, one of its heavy claws nudging Orla's shoulder gently, as if trying to steer her away from the furnace.
"Stop it," Orla said, though she leaned into the touch for a second, grateful for the support. "If I don't fix this, who will? Friede? He'd probably try to fix it with duct tape and a slap."
She forced a laugh, but it came out as a dry cough. She turned back to the machinery as her vision swam slightly. The valve was located high up on the furnace casing, just within reach if she stood on the maintenance platform.
The heat radiating from the primary furnace was intense. Still, Orla climbed the small metal ladder to the platform, her boots clanking heavily on the grating.
"Got you," Orla whispered. She fitted the wrench around it. "Okay… easy."
She applied pressure, even though the valve was seized, expanded by the heat. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder, putting her weight into it. Her muscles trembled with the effort.
Then, the ship lurched.
It was nothing major. Just a minor pocket of turbulence, a slight dip in the air current that the Brave Olivine usually rode out. But for Orla, perched precariously on a slick metal grating with her reflexes dulled by weeks of overwork, it was disastrous.
Her foot slipped.
Orla pitched forward.
In her exhaustion, she didn't let go of the wrench. Instead, her weight dragged the tool down, and in her scramble to regain her balance, she struck the valve assembly hard.
The hiss turned into a roar.
And then the seal didn't just leak. It blew. A concentrated blast of superheated steam erupted from the pipe with surprising force, and there was no time to think or to react.
"Agh!!"
The scream was torn from her throat before she even registered the pain. The white-hot vapor engulfed her forearms, burning the skin. It was a pain so absolute, so blinding, that it whited out the rest of the world.
She stumbled back and dropped the wrench. It clattered to the deck below with a sound like a gunshot. Orla fell to her knees on the grating, clutching her arms to her chest and gasping for air that suddenly felt too hot to breathe.
"Metagross!!" she choked out.
It was already there. It had sensed the danger the moment the ship lurched. Metagross floated up to the platform, humming with distress. It couldn't grab her with its claws without hurting her more, so it positioned its broad, flat head under her shoulder, supporting her weight.
Meanwhile, Orla's vision was tunneling, the edges of the world turning black.
"Shut it off," she mumbled, her words slurring. "The manual override... shut it off..."
She tried to reach for the lever to cut the steam feed, but her hands refused to obey. Her fingers were curled into claws, trembling violently.
Metagross let out a loud, piercing alarm cry, a sound that could echo through the ship's hull. It carefully maneuvered its body to shield her from the residual heat, effectively scooping her up from the platform.
"I have to..." Orla whispered, her head lolling back against the cold steel of her partner. "The valve..."
The darkness surged forward, claiming her completely. The last thing she felt was the smooth, cool surface of Metagross's armor and the terrifying sensation of falling into nothingness.
…
Consciousness returned in fragments.
First, there was the smell. The oil and ozone were gone, replaced by the sharp, stinging scent of antiseptic and something distinctively medicinal, like crushed berries.
Then, the temperature. The oppressive, sweating heat of the engine room had vanished, and the air was cool, almost chilly, raising goosebumps on her skin.
Finally, the pain. It was no longer the sharp, searing agony of the burn. It had settled into a deep, throbbing ache, a hot pulse that radiated from her elbows down to her wrists.
Orla groaned, trying to shift her position. She felt the crisp texture of a hospital sheet beneath her.
"Don't move," a voice said. It was calm, firm, and brooked no argument. "And don't try to use your hands."
Orla forced her eyes open. The bright fluorescent lights above forced her to squint, and as her vision adjusted, a face came into focus.
Mollie stood beside the bed, arms crossed over her chest. She wasn't wearing her usual casual outfit. Instead, she was dressed in a white medical coat that looked stark against her pink hair. Her bluish-gray eyes were sharp, analyzing Orla with a look that was one part professional detachment and three parts personal frustration.
"Mollie?" Orla croaked. Her throat felt like she had swallowed sandpaper.
"Water," Mollie said, anticipating the need. She held a cup with a straw to Orla's lips. "Small sips. You're dehydrated."
Orla drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the burn in her throat. When she pulled away, she looked down at herself. She was in the infirmary. Her arms were heavily bandaged, wrapped in thick white gauze from her elbows to her wrists, and an IV line ran into the back of her left hand, taped down securely.
"What happened?" Orla asked, her memory hazy. "The valve... I was fixing the valve."
"The valve blew," Mollie stated flatly. She picked up a clipboard from the end of the bed, her eyes scanning the chart. "Second-degree thermal burns on both forearms. Metagross brought you in, and he made quite a racket. Woke up half the ship, which is fortunate, because you were in shock."
Orla tried to sit up, panic flaring in her chest. "The engine! If that valve is blown, the pressure in the secondary loop will drop and the furnace will"
"Is stabilized," Mollie interrupted, putting a hand on Orla's shoulder and gently but firmly pushing her back down. "Friede went down there. He initiated the emergency shutdown of that sector, and Murdock is down there with him now, cleaning up the mess."
"Friede is touching my engines?" Orla asked, horror dawning on her. "Oh god. He's going to break something. I have to go."
She tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but her head spun violently. The room tilted on its axis, and nausea rolled through her stomach.
"You are not going anywhere," Mollie said. Her voice dropped an octave, losing its professional sheen and revealing the steel beneath. "You have significant injuries, Orla. Your electrolyte levels are a disaster. You are exhausted to the point of collapse. You passed out because your body literally could not keep going."
Orla slumped back against the pillows, defeated by her own physiology. She looked at the bandages on her arms. "How bad is it?"
Mollie pulled a stool over and sat down, her expression softening just a fraction. "It's painful, and it's going to take time to heal. But the dermal integrity is intact deep down. No grafts needed. I've applied a high-grade burn gel and started you on fluids and pain management."
She reached out and adjusted the flow on the IV bag. "You're lucky, Orla. If you had been any closer, or if Metagross hadn't shielded you..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. They both knew the risks of working on a high-altitude airship.
"I just wanted to fix it," Orla said quietly, staring at the ceiling. "It was making this noise, this hiss. I couldn't sleep knowing it was doing that."
"I know," Mollie said. She sighed, a long, weary sound. "I know you, Orla. You think if you stop working, the ship will fall out of the sky."
"I am the engineer," Orla defended weakly. "It's my job."
"It's your job to maintain the ship, not to become part of it," Mollie countered. She stood up and moved to a counter where a tray of medical supplies was waiting. She picked up a fresh jar of medicinal gel. "I need to change the dressing on the left arm. The initial application was just for emergency cooling. This is going to sting."
Mollie began to unwind the gauze on Orla's left arm. Her movements were incredibly precise, with no hesitation, not even a shake.
As the bandage came away, Orla hissed through her teeth. The air hitting the raw skin was agonizing.
"Sorry," Mollie murmured. She didn't stop, though, because she couldn't. "Just breathe through it. In through the nose, out through the mouth."
She began to apply the gel. Her fingers, clad in nitrile gloves, were gentle, feather-light touches that ghosted over the angry red skin.
"You're good at this," Orla said, trying to distract herself from the stinging.
"I had a lot of practice patching stubborn people and pokémon up," Mollie said, a small, wry smile touching her lips.
Orla looked away, unable to meet Mollie's intense gaze. "It's just... there's so much to do. With the Explorers chasing us, and the mysteries of the Six Heroes... the ship takes a beating. If I don't stay on top of it, we're vulnerable."
"And if you burn yourself out, we're even more vulnerable," Mollie said. She secured the bandage with a clip and moved to the other arm. "Friede is reckless. Roy is a chaos magnet. I expect them to end up here. But you? You're supposed to be the sensible one. The stable one."
"I am stable!" Orla protested.
"You're a workaholic who just passed out in a furnace room," Mollie corrected. She started unwrapping the right arm. "That is the opposite of stable."
Orla fell silent. The stinging returned as Mollie worked on the second arm, but this time Orla focused on Mollie's face. She watched the way Mollie's brow furrowed in concentration and the way her lips pressed together in a thin line.
She realized then that Mollie wasn't just angry. She was scared.
"You were worried," Orla said softly.
Mollie paused for a microsecond, her hand hovering over the bandage, before resuming her work. "I am a doctor. Concern for my patients is part of the job."
"Mollie."
Mollie sighed again, dropping the professional mask. She looked tired too, Orla realized. There were dark circles under her eyes. "Yes. I was worried. Metagross came crashing through the corridors carrying you like a ragdoll. You were unresponsive, and your skin was gray."
She finished wrapping the arm and sat back, peeling off her gloves with a snap. "You... you're my friend. When I see you hurt, it's not just a patient on the table. It's you."
Orla felt a lump form in her throat. She shifted her hand, reaching out to graze Mollie's sleeve with her fingertips. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"Don't be sorry," Mollie said, covering Orla's hand with her own. Her skin was warm, grounding. "Just be careful. Please. For me."
The vulnerability in the room was palpable. The infirmary, usually a place of efficiency, felt suddenly intimate. This was the soft side of Mollie that few people saw, the deep well of empathy she kept hidden behind her punk aesthetic and stoic demeanor.
"I will," Orla promised. "I'll try to sleep more. I'll let Friede touch the engines occasionally, even if it gives me hives."
Mollie let out a short, genuine laugh. "Let's not go that far. Just... ask for help. Okay? You don't have to carry the whole ship on your back."
"Okay," Orla agreed. "I'll ask for help."
"Good," Mollie said. She stood up and adjusted the blanket over Orla's legs. "Now, I need you to rest. The pain medication should be kicking in soon. It will make you drowsy."
"I can't sleep yet," Orla said, her eyes darting to the door. "I need to know the pressure readings on the secondary loop. If Friede bypassed the valve, the pressure might spike elsewhere."
Mollie rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue. Instead, she walked over to the main console of the infirmary. She typed a few commands into the keyboard, and the large monitor on the wall flickered.
Instead of medical data, the screen displayed a schematic of the Brave Olivine's engine systems. It showed real-time readouts of temperature, pressure, and fuel flow.
Orla blinked in surprise. "You have the engine telemetry routed to the infirmary?"
"I had Rotom set it up months ago," Mollie admitted, keeping her back to Orla as she adjusted the display. "I figured I should know what you're talking about when you ramble on about manifolds and gaskets."
She pointed to a gauge on the screen. "Look. Pressure in the secondary loop is steady. Friede didn't break anything. Yet."
Orla stared at the screen. The numbers were green. Everything was stable, and a wave of relief washed over her, heavier than the exhaustion.
"You learned how to read the engine schematics..?" Orla said, awe in her voice.
"I learned how to read you," Mollie corrected, turning back to face her. "I know you can't rest unless you see the numbers. So there are the numbers. The ship is fine. The crew is fine."
She walked back to the chair beside the bed and sat down again. She picked up a medical journal, opening it to a marked page. "Now sleep."
Orla felt her eyelids drooping, adrenaline finally crashing. The pain in her arms had receded to a dull hum, and the soft beep of the heart monitor was hypnotic. She watched Mollie reading, the soft light of the infirmary catching the pink of her hair.
"You're keeping watch?" Orla mumbled, her words slurring again as sleep pulled her down.
"I'm keeping watch," Mollie confirmed without looking up. "I've got the monitors. Both yours and the ship's."
Orla let her head fall back against the pillow. For the first time in weeks, her mind was quiet. She didn't have to listen for the hiss of a valve or the whine of a gear, because Mollie was there. Mollie was watching.
As she drifted off, Orla had a vague thought that the Brave Olivine had two hearts. One was the roaring furnace in the engine room, made of steel and fire. The other was sitting right here in the chair, reading a journal.
Orla woke up hours later. The lights in the infirmary had been dimmed to a soft night mode. The pain in her arms was still there, but it was manageable now.
She turned her head. Mollie was still in the chair. She had fallen asleep, her head resting awkwardly on her hand, and the medical journal was slipping from her lap. Her breathing was slow and even.
On the screen above them, the engine schematics glowed softly in the dark. Green lights.
Orla smiled, a small, sleepy thing. She carefully maneuvered her bandaged hand out from under the blanket, ignoring the twinge of pain, and nudged Mollie's knee with her fingertips.
Mollie jerked awake instantly, her eyes snapping open. "What? Alarm? Orla?"
"No alarm," Orla whispered. "Just... move over."
"What?" Mollie rubbed her eyes, confused.
"Move the chair closer," Orla clarified. "Lean on the bed. You're going to hurt your neck sleeping like that."
Mollie blinked, processing the request. She looked at Orla, saw the genuine concern in her friend's eyes, and softened. She dragged the chair closer until it was pressed against the side of the mattress, then folded her arms on the edge of the bed and rested her head on them, facing Orla.
"You're a terrible patient," Mollie mumbled, closing her eyes again.
"And you're a terrible sleeper," Orla retorted softly.
"Shut up, Orla."
"Goodnight, Mollie."
In the quiet of the infirmary, surrounded by the steady beep of monitors, two friends drifted back to sleep.