everyman

I drew this to celebrate hitting 50 pages of my comic, Elysium Heart!

and i am a snake head eating the head on the opposite side

It hadn't caused him harm thus far. There would be no guarantee of that if Newt brought back video footage of Ingvar's existence. If the video turned out (God, please let the video turn out, cryptid footage never seemed to turn out), then Newt would be bringing attention to him on a scale Ingvar probably had absolutely no concept for. Being the guy responsible for that did not sit perfectly right with Newt. But he had a responsibility to tell the truth. And if he could get Ingvar to understandable it, it should be his decision, shouldn't it?

Where should he even begin? He supposed he could keep recording and delete it (a shock of sick horror ripped through Newt at the thought--maybe he wouldn't delete it. Maybe he'd keep it for himself. Maybe he could figure out a way to ethically...) if Ingvar said no. All of this was amazing stuff. He just wanted to sit and keep talking forever, and maybe, hopefully, he could figure out a way to actually use it.

"Say, Ingvar... Could we sit down somewhere you feel comfortable and just have a nice, long chat, you and me?"

Please, please say yes! He tried to convey with his eyes how much it would mean to him. He wondered how much Ingvar could even see his face from way up there. What was his vision like? Did giants navigate with the same senses as humans? He looked humanlike, but on such a scale.

He lifted his right hand, and brought it close to Newt. Just before it reached him, the wrist pivoted, and the palm turned upright, fingers unfurling like petals towards the warm sun. The palm and digits, like much of the rest of the gigantic body, bore assorted scars from untold tales, some mundane, others grim.

"I am knowing of... place to be going and sitting, close-by. I may... be carrying you there, if you wish."

"Right," he said. "Brilliant! This is... I'd love to."

He stared at the hand, unsure of how to proceed. How did one properly get carried by a giant man? There wasn't an etiquette Newt knew of. He elected to sit on Ingvar's huge palm, lowering himself down on shaky legs. He held onto Ingvar's finger, afraid of falling.

This Doc fellow was uncooperative, which was fair; the man had a job to do, and it made sense not to want some nosy bloke with a camera in his business while he did it. This wasn't going to, precisely, stop Newt from asking more questions, but he would take a different approach.

"Hm, well. My medical profile was deemed fit enough for space travel. I don't know how strict the regulations are here."

An obvious invitation for Doc to elaborate if he wanted to. Newt only realized once he turned his mind from work to Doc's actual question that he didn't know how to answer it.

"I... well, I've never really been diagnosed with anything, but but my body and my brain just sort of... Er, Generally don't work well. Prone to colds and fits of heavy breathing and hysteria and that sort of thing."

He gestured down at himself--lanky, shaky, with a paleness that bordered on ghost-like pallor--as if that spoke for itself. Camille called him 'delicate.' That was a generous way to put it.

Especially if anxiety is the issue at play here— which it most certainly is, given the admitted chronic panic attacks. Plus, the intensity of the anxiety couldn’t help with any gastrointestinal issues, regardless if they existed prior.

Doc couldn’t help but chuckle as Newt gestured at himself— at least the boy was self aware of his seemingly delicate appearance. When he first walked in, a small part of Doc was worried if he breathed loud enough, Newt might have crumbled to ash. Speaking which, he gestured for the lad to take a seat— don’t need him keeling over under the weight of his duffel bag.

“First: No need for professionalism on that scale, call me Joseph, or just Doc is fine.” Doc fought back a sigh as he could feel his prickly cadence soften; after all, the medic was back in his element, and for just a moment, he forgot about ATLAS. He was just talking to a patient right now.

“Second: You needing care won’t be a problem, at least not for me. This was my job before all of this space mambo-jumbo. Now, if you hide any conditions from me, then we’ll have a problem.”

Whether Doc willingly ignored Newt’s questioning on what he’s so busy doing or not, is up in the air. Most likely is.

“Still, it is true— you definitely fared better than most other newcomers. Typically new crew members are bee-lined straight into the medical bay upon first arrival due to a nasty case of post-flight orthostatic intolerance— ” Oh boy, here he goes. A nurse behind Doc could be seen walking away in annoyance (smart girl).

“—you know what that is? Means your body can’t maintain your blood pressure after massive gravity changes— pressure ping-ponging in your body, nasty stuff but it’d pass. It’s space’s version of being sea sick.”

"And I'm--not at risk for that anymore, I hope...?"

ATLAS had told Newt surprisingly little before loading him into a ship and sending him up here. He didn't quite know why yet, but he was certainly noting it. It could have been carelessness, or it could have been something more sinister. There was no way to know without more information. He carefully broached the subject with Doc.

"I wasn't told anything about the risks. Obviously I knew there were risks, I'm not that dense, but I wasn't given specifics. I can't help but feel they should have warned me about... more. I still would have come, mind you--someone ought to be checking up on everyone out here--but a bit of transparency would go a long way."

He felt he should soften the blow and allow Doc to keep talking about something more familiar if he didn't want to comment. He warmed up quickly as he fell into the role of doctor, and Newt was starting to suspect it was ATLAS specifically he didn't want to talk about. Again, Newt was noting it. There were no conclusions to draw just yet.

"Ah, about my medical history..." He tried to think. He'd been to the doctor countless times as a kid and they just thought he was faking it to get out of school. He should probably admit something else, even if he suspected it would invite a lecture. "I used to smoke, but I quit."

His fingers twitched, the muscle memory of holding a cigarette, and he touched his wedding ring. He hadn't smoked for years, but something about the atmosphere up here made him itch for it. It made sense. He would mostly smoke to calm his ever-raging anxiety, and these days, he would first to Camille when he needed help with that. Being up here, in an unfamiliar, unwelcoming place without her, made nicotine sound all too appetizing.