Third class, away from the dining room
This was not his Jaeger. Nor was it the hallways of the dome that he knew, but narrow ways with wood that creaked in ways metal never could beneath his heavy feet. His suit made no sound, too well oiled, moving parts that were meant to stay in action rather than ever fall into the disrepair that this ship had.
Every sound within his helmet was too loud, his world limited by the sound of his breaths, the slight rub of hair against the interior, the faint buzz of an open comm line without another's voice to interrupt it. Without, the world was dimmed, isolating in ways that his world within rarely was. Thickly gloved fingers worked at the back latches until it came free with squelch of rubber seals and a sigh from him. Off it went. The gloves were next, black rubber and metal painted white tossed into helmet he had vacated and tucked between his body and arm.
Was this some kind of hazing? He'd been doing this shit for too long to have this kind of rookie crap pulled on him again. "Assholes," he muttered under his breath, then a little louder in case they could hear him. No muffled laughter greeted his curse as he expected. Fine. His fingers hooked around the rim of head piece as he continued walking. First one of his fellow pilots he saw, he was going to punch. How hard depended on how much he liked them.