He still distinctly remembers his first time here, seeing the jaegers up close and personal. Giant fucking robots, of course he was a fan, of course he asked about three hundred questions of the pilots already here. It's not that he's already so jaded - after all, he's seen them, but that doesn't mean he's been inside of one before - but his hands are sweating inside his gloves. Finch is acting like everything's a-okay. Jesse suddenly feels like he's going to be sick.

And yet he stays strapped into the thing.

"Can't lose yourself in it," he offers in favor of Finch's question, skipping over the answer to it - probably a good indicator that it's a 'no'. "Ain't gonna get sucked in, yo, you can't go rabbit-holed." He's not sure who the advice is for, Finch or himself. But there's a technician making sure everything's strapped, the helmet visors lower, and then there's counting.

"Neural handshake in three -- "

Definitely going to be sick.

" -- two -- "

There's just shit that no soul left on the market knows, none except Stacker Pentecost, the price of business.

" -- one -- "

And there's no 'go'. The machine flips and Jesse's head slams back into the headrest as that swirl of memories suddenly starts to mix and twist and meld like nothing he's ever felt before.