He was still feeling it, the post-Drift hangover. He could smell the dust of Tokyo in young Mako’s nose. He could hear the sound of Onibaba’s pincers dragging across the pavement.
I saw you standing there as a child. So alone. The kaiju took it all from you.
Raleigh saw her reliving that day, and he relived it with her. He’d been there with her, in the Drift. It wasn’t like any Drift he’d ever felt. Broken, yes, but also more intense. Lots of Drifts were staccato series of images at first, until the two brains figured out how to approach each other and get into the overlapping neural-handshake posture. With Mako, his Drift had been more like a movie where he was both a spectator and a character. He’d carried the red shoe with broken laces, he’d heard the cough of lungs heavy with cancer—he wondered if Mako had felt his own experiences so intensely.