[ they've got bunk beds. they've always had bunk beds, and they'd been the fucking bees knees when they were little kids, and hers half was painted blue and his half was painted red, and the ladder had been covered in dinosaur and race car stickers like most items of furniture in their room. when they'd been nine, they'd decided they wanted separate rooms, and the bunk beds were detached and his had been hauled into the room across the hall. and then when they'd been ten, and scissure ripped sydney into bits, their mirror bedrooms with the detached bunk beds had been destroyed. the shelter beds had been little more than camping mats, and there'd been no bedframes at all, let alone double deckers. but once their father had been scooped up by marshal stacker pentecost, and the two of them dragged along in hand. and in the shatterdome, there's bunk beds. concrete, cut into the wall, with thin mattresses.
but they adjust.
and while there's no stickers anywhere, and they don't get to paint, they get matching standard issue ppdc clothing. for a few years — until she hits puberty, and him shortly after — they look really similar, like little twigs drowning in sweatshirt grey shirts and cargo pants. but charlotte gets minimal curves, and charles gets muscle definition. she still stakes her claim on the top bunk, and right now is dragging herself back from jockeying in the kwoon. limping is more accurate than dragging, really, because someone — names will not be named, hu wei — smacked her on the ankle, like she wasn't the right pilot in the newest and improved striker eureka, and didn't have to get suited up and go kick some kaiju ass any given day now. she can't climb the ladder and haul herself into her own bed, so she bypasses him in his desk chair and sprawls across his, pulling on the of the drawers beneath their beds open and rooting through clothes. ]
fucking twins, no
[ they've got bunk beds. they've always had bunk beds, and they'd been the fucking bees knees when they were little kids, and hers half was painted blue and his half was painted red, and the ladder had been covered in dinosaur and race car stickers like most items of furniture in their room. when they'd been nine, they'd decided they wanted separate rooms, and the bunk beds were detached and his had been hauled into the room across the hall. and then when they'd been ten, and scissure ripped sydney into bits, their mirror bedrooms with the detached bunk beds had been destroyed. the shelter beds had been little more than camping mats, and there'd been no bedframes at all, let alone double deckers. but once their father had been scooped up by marshal stacker pentecost, and the two of them dragged along in hand. and in the shatterdome, there's bunk beds. concrete, cut into the wall, with thin mattresses.
but they adjust.
and while there's no stickers anywhere, and they don't get to paint, they get matching standard issue ppdc clothing. for a few years — until she hits puberty, and him shortly after — they look really similar, like little twigs drowning in sweatshirt grey shirts and cargo pants. but charlotte gets minimal curves, and charles gets muscle definition. she still stakes her claim on the top bunk, and right now is dragging herself back from jockeying in the kwoon. limping is more accurate than dragging, really, because someone — names will not be named, hu wei — smacked her on the ankle, like she wasn't the right pilot in the newest and improved striker eureka, and didn't have to get suited up and go kick some kaiju ass any given day now. she can't climb the ladder and haul herself into her own bed, so she bypasses him in his desk chair and sprawls across his, pulling on the of the drawers beneath their beds open and rooting through clothes. ]
Where's the ankle wrap?