He kept running.

“I hate you,” had been the last words he had heard. “I hate you,” in a tone so terrified, so-

He kept running, ignoring the way each patch of exposed skin burned, how the lacerations all over his fingers felt like they were boiling.

He slipped down a small hill, nearly falling on his face, and he kept running. Praying to the Unforgiving Universe to send him some sort of release.

“I hate you,” his mind repeated, and he tried not to think about how he had brought this on himself.

His chest was killing him, a stabbing pain in his hip sending him off-kilter even as he kept going, kept fighting, kept running.

Past the carcasses of the experiments They had abandoned.

Past the crevices spewing acidic, gaseous compounds that left his nose bloody.

There had to be somewhere he could go. Somewhere he could rest, somewhere he could hide.

A cold chill, the sensation of a thousand eyes all looking his way froze him to the core.

It was too late; They had Found him.

They were Coming, and he needed-

He needed-

No-

“No!”

Newt clawed his way back to consciousness, a scream on his lips and his chest heaving with exertion.

For a moment, he could do nothing but stare uncomprehendingly at the faint yellow glow on his walls, before Reality was crashing in and he dug his fists into his sockets, heaving a very, very, very exhausted breath.

Another fucking nightmare.

And the dreams tonight had actually started out… kind of peaceful, for once. 

He had been years younger, visiting a tea garden with the Pentecost kiddos, Mako rambling excitedly as she told her baby brother all about the koi swimming in the pond under them.

But then- of fucking course- that damned Blue.

It started slow, a tiny splash of ink somewhere just out of frame. But then it started to seep, saturating the edges, and before he knew it, it was everywhere-

-Everywhere, and he was drowning in a sea of electric blue, choking on the ash of a noxious atmosphere, and he was being ripped apart and They were-

“Dude. You gotta breathe,” he chided himself.

Running his hands through his hair, he focused his thoughts on his immediate surroundings- the pink lava lamp from Mako, the weird South African succulent from Jin, the abandoned diary he had been trying to finish since 2020.

He counted his breaths, allowed the familiar surroundings to ground him, the continuous movement of fingers against scalp physically removing him from the roller coaster of recollection- some moments his, some ghosts from Hermann’s past, and others- 

The others came from a world he never wanted to think about again.

But the images were seared into his retinas, forever burned into his mind; his own memories and Their memories, superimposed over one another, an imperfect layering that hurt to look at too long, hurt to think about too long, hurt to-

"I hate you."

His mind caught hold once more of the mantra that had threaded itself through the latest sequence of bad dreams, another attempt by those fucking Things to try and distort all his original memories. 

Hermann had been furious. Horrified. Heartbroken. And Newt-

“No; that would never happen.”

Sure, Hermann had definitely said the words before, and there had been a few moments when he had made that exact look, but it had never been-

"I hate you."

-so broken.

No… No, he remembered.

Hermann had been trying not to laugh and failing miserably, his eyes crinkled at the edges, a slight twist curling his lips. Newt had been soaring, knowing he had gotten the man to crack, even if it was over something stupid and kind of embarrassing.

He remembered thinking how beautiful Herms looked when he was joking around, how much younger and carefree the man seemed when he finally let those walls come down.

Hell, Newt could still hear the orchestral trap playing from his desktop, could still smell the formaldehyde, could still taste the cinnamon from his chai.

That was the memory.

He knew it in his bones.

There was no way Herms could ever hate-

"Good day, Dr. Geiszler."

-oh.

The failed first meeting.

The aborted correspondence.

The weeks he spent silently mourning a relationship that hadn’t actually happened.

Hermann had taken one look at him- had spent barely five minutes with him- before they were both fighting, both saying- shouting- things that they would regret later.

Well… Newt did at least. 

He still couldn't say for sure what was going on in Hermann’s head half the time.

Those memories- the late nights wanting to hit “Send” on an email that would likely never get read, the sleepless mornings when he almost burned every letter and postcard and stupid sticker, the rainy evenings when he curled up with the same tea Herm had once recommended for migraines- they were tinted in their own distinct shade of blue, tinged in melancholia.

And now they were mutating into a very, very familiar shade that was permeating fucking everything these days.

"Okay, so maybe he hated me at some point. But that was in the past; things are different now!"

Are they?

Newt shuddered as that Voice made its appearance, a presence that had been lingering since his first Drift, one that he had thought was just fear at the time, just an after-image. But it had clawed through his mind, settled deep in his subconscious.

He could feel his memories shifting, and at first- at first- he thought it was just a fluke. Everyone misremembers things from their childhood; everyone forgets little things along the way.

But he knew Mutti never really hated him. That Dad hadn’t been looking for any excuse to get rid of him. That Onkel Illia definitely didn’t-

-didn’t-

-did he?

Blame it on the late night or his likely endless dossier of undiagnosed disorders, but now he wasn’t sure of… anything, really. 

Another tremor tore through him, and he felt the floor rise to meet him- when had he even stood up?- his knees slamming into the thin carpet with a painful thud. 

Gravity had finally failed him. Or his body had. Or-

Ugh, whatever.

Wasn’t really that important, not when-

Not when-

Not when that fucking Blue-

Every memory he tried to cling to, each brighter and bolder and more vibrant than the last, was shifting right in front of him, taking on a distorted refraction until it was hard to tell where Their influence ended and Reality began. 

It was like trying to focus through a broken lens; once there was even the smallest fissure, everything went to shit. It was too hard to focus; the images, the memories-

Too chaotic.

Too fractured.

Too much.

The worst part was knowing that They didn't even have to work too hard on corrupting some of those memories, his anxieties already offering more than enough wiggle room for Their ambitions.

Which he was still piecing together- an investigation started the very moment five weeks ago when he realized those weren’t his normal intrusive thoughts- but he was pretty sure he had it figured out.

"Lemme guess- Total surrender, right? Total submission?" 

Gaia help him if anyone walked in on him right now. Would make a hell of an impression, one the guys who saved the world curled up on the floor, lights off, desperately gasping for air, and seemingly arguing with himself. He could feel another nosebleed too; that would only add to the appeal.

Yes, but We want You to beg for it.

Okay, that was worth some semi-hysterical laughter that definitely wasn’t teetering a little too closely towards being a broken sob. 

"Yeah,” he finally managed, elongating the word. “That’s not gonna happen."

Give it time. You're already at the Brink.

He refused to believe that. Well, tried to anyway. It wasn't exactly like he could always trust what was in his own head, even before the fucking-

"I hate you," he ground out, repeatedly the very words still scrambling around his consciousness like the family of fruit flies he had accidentally-on-purpose released back in his AP Bio class an eternity ago. 

The Voice hummed in amusement. 

To hate Us is to hate Yourself.

Oh fuck off. 

"You're not Me."

Schematics. We will be. 

There was a silence, a prolonged one, and for a moment he let himself hope that he was temporarily alone in his own head again, praying that he could finally relax, even if- yeah, ok- that final bit had been way more foreboding than he would like.

He refused to think about how much more active that Voice had been lately, how much louder it had become, how coherent and coercive it was. A steady presence these days, one he couldn't even shake when he was trying to sleep.

And that? That crushed the modicum of hope, all too certain They were still there.

"Get out of my head."

He wasn't sure if that was a plea or a command at this point. 

He was just so damn tired of it all. 

He wasn't sure what They wanted.

He knew exactly what They wanted.

"It's never going to happen; just quit while You're ahead."

So self-assured, and yet so close to giving up. 

The Voice almost sounded like it was pitying him.

He scowled, but was soon distracted in trying to repress a shiver as Something shifted, could swear he felt the phantom sensation of touch against his temples, the ghost of a connection he hadn't stopped having nightmares about. 

The Voice returned, quiet, still pitying. 

Why keep fighting? None of Them have seen Your struggle. Have any of Them even tried to reach out to check on You? Has He-

"Leave him out of this," he interrupted, words coming out as a low growl.

The Voice sounded delighted by it. 

You know He doesn't care about You.

Images again, false memories, woven just enough with the Truth, and it was an unforgiving reel layering itself, a cacophony of anger and bitterness and longing for the impossible that would never- could never- be.

And in the center of it all was-

"No. Just… Just stop."

He was exhausted, but the assault was relentless.

We'll take care of You. We'll reward You in ways You can't even begin to imagine.

He let out a humourless, shaking laugh. “Changing tactics, huh? That’s no fair you know, using his voice."

How else can We get You to listen?

Well, They had a point. Even if it was just plain, fucking cruel.

We could make You happy, Newton. All You have to do is let Us take control.

Blame it once more on his fatigue, on his inability to fire on all cylinders- three sleepless nights straight because of insomnia, questionably labeled energy drinks, and an alien brain parasite will do that to ya- but he only partially registered his body moving, scarcely was involved in the elegant shuffling from his room towards the mostly packed-up lab, barely coherent as he approached the last remaining piece of Kaiju, still safely stored in a pressure controlled tank.

He could have easily convinced himself it was just another dream, the motions practically automatic. He wasn’t actually booting up the computer, wasn’t pulling out the MacGyvered monstrosity he had thrown together with scraps, wasn’t connecting the PONS unit to the tank, wasn’t adjusting the headse-

Headset…

Headset?

Headset!

In the span of microseconds, Newt finally regained control and practically teleported into the other half of the room, panting from exertion and panic and unable to do anything but helplessly stare at the tissue sample in horror, entire body shaking.

He didn’t know what had brought him here, what had made him connect the interface, what had possessed him to put on the headset, what-

The what- or more the who- didn't really matter in this equation. 

What mattered was that he was back in control. 

What mattered was that he had ever been out of control. 

What mattered was that the remaining sample of what was supposed to be a dead chunk of Kaiju brain seemed to be reaching for him.

And there was a terrible, alarming, overwhelmingly excited part that wanted to reach back.

For the first time since all of this had started, he was terrified.

"N- No, no, no, I don’t, I don’t- I don't want this!"

His voice echoed through the empty room, loud and piercing in the deadly quiet night.

Hush, Newton. Do You intend on waking the whole base?

That Voice again, mocking him, digging in somewhere under his skin, clawing through his head.

He had to fight this. 

Clearly self-observation hadn’t been cutting it, and somewhere along the way it had spiraled so far beyond his control that he wondered how much else had already gone wrong, what other damage They had already done without him knowing. But even if he wanted to fight, there was no way he could do it alone.

He needed- 

He needed help.

"I'm not going to do it."

You will.

The brusque dismissal awakened something. 

Somewhere, deep, deep inside, there was still a spark of his old spirit. 

A flash of the proud, cocky, and downright stubborn rebellion that got him through years of bullying, years of naysayers, years of collecting accolades and degrees almost out of spite and the sheer knowledge that he could. It was only a flash, but it was enough for him to feel control slip back into his fingers properly, for the first time in a long time. 

"No."

Really, It was Their own fault for choosing to imitate Hermann's voice; the math wizard always had a knack for bringing out Newt's chutzpah.

For a moment, for one sweet, blessed moment, he was alone in his own mind again, in full control. 

For a brief, brief second, he started to think he had finally reclaimed his autonomy.

But it didn't last long.

Nothing good ever does, in his experience.

If You do not cooperate, Dr. Gottlieb certainly will.

Newt felt his chest constrict, the sensation of the world falling out from under him.

Or maybe that was just him falling against the desk.

"What?"

Stupid boy. You don't really think You’re the one We want, do You?

His world had grown smaller, pinpricks of Darkness greedily digging in, and that spark of resistance- that fragile moment of hope- was completely snuffed out. 

His mind was reeling, trying desperately to figure out how to get out of this, how to-

"Why."

In the end, he was still a Child of Science, and Science always demanded answers to the Unknown. And maybe?

Maybe he could figure something out. Some sort of plan, some way to-

Why?

"Yeah you heard me. Why in the hell-"

His words cut off, the questions he had all too incomprehensible to be spoken aloud. Luckily- ha.- he didn't need to say anything for Them to know.

Your obsession was simply- Oh, how to put this? - simply pitiful. Your mind, already so fascinated, made it all too easy for Us to slip inside, settling in where there was already respect and admiration. We’ve been here since the first time You dared to seek Us out. And Dr. Gottlieb-

"No,” Newt was barely aware of his voice cracking, defeat and guilt and a thousand other emotions he couldn’t begin to recognize crushing him beneath their weight. The truth was starting to finally show itself, and it was bringing a whole new level to Newt’s on-again off-again sense of self-loathing.

“No, Hermann… Hermann offered to come! He-”

He offered. You wanted to stop Him. We didn’t let You.

And it was true, he realized now. Now that They were letting him remember.

He had known the risks, knew it would likely kill him to Drift again. It was why he was in such a rush, trying to avoid listening to Herms, trying desperately to ignore logic and reason, knowing if he stopped for a second, if he let himself think-

And Hermann- Dammit, Hermann!- had offered to share the burden, had wanted to protect him. And Newt wanted to argue- It could kill them both! A neutralized tissue sample was one thing, but Drifting with a brain still tethered to the Hivemind was glorified suicide. Even with two-!

But everything had gone kind of… sideways… before he could try to convey any of it, the whole world sorta hazy and distant. 

When he thought about it later, after the partying and celebrating and several long overdue movie nights, he had chalked it up to the non-stop roller coaster of adrenaline and terror and general chaos of the last few hours as he agreed, now realizing-

You led Us right to Him.

-Newt had damned him. Damned them both. 

Sharp enough to learn Our plans, factoring in each attack and predicting Our final strike to a near perfect instant. The same mind behind the very machines used to stand against Us? A god of His own design, and so desperate to protect You. His desperation, His pride, His affections for You- All too easy to pull Him under.

He had to warn him. He had to-

It’s too late, Newton. A single push, and He would crumble. Surely even fractured, His mind will still be as beautiful as it is whole.

He brought this on them.

It was all his fau-

No. Stop that.

Somehow, Newt managed to kick himself out of the self-destructive spiral just long enough to think. If They took Hermann-

Hermann, in spite of his jaded views of the literary arts, waxed poetic constantly about how numbers were the language of the stars, how everything came down to simple- “Sure, Herms. ‘Simple,’ my ass.”- mathematics, every minute shift and atomic change and Brobdingnagian fluctuation quantifiable, calculable, and predictable.

And the damned Parasites were right; of course They were. 

Hermann had created the Jaegers. A lot of people didn’t really remember that it was his coding woven into their very foundations, didn’t realize the stuffy scientist with grandpa fashion sense was a literal badass. And Herms-

Herms knew the Breach, discovered, hypothesized, and proved the existing, recurring sequences behind every attack, ran the numbers so often that Newt saw the equations in his sleep. And Hermann was-

No.

Newt tried not to visualize the kind of enemy Hermann could make if They took control, tried not to imagine how dangerous that beautiful, baffling brain could be if pit against Humanity.

There was no universe, not a single reality, where Newt would ever let that happen.

Not if there was any chance he could stop it.

And somewhere, somewhere deep and forgotten, the embers of hope were reigniting, the spark never fully extinguished after all.

Hermann was clever, and stupidly, stubbornly, stupendously determined.

If Newt could keep Herm’s mind intact, could somehow find a way to drop enough hints that “Dr. Geiszler” wasn’t quite himself… 

Herm could figure it out. Newt knew he would.

He also knew it would literally be a nightmare trying to keep it together long enough for anyone to realize that something was off. Fighting Something in his own head would- 

There was no guarantee any of it would work, even if he fought against Them every step of the way.

But it didn’t matter. He-

He had to protect Hermann.

If he could protect Hermann, he could protect everyone else, too.

"If I do this, I need you to swear you'll leave him alone."

What could possibly make that worth Our while?

He couldn’t hide the anger even if he wanted. “You’re in my head; You tell me.”

For a moment, The Precursors were silent, calculating, strategizing, considering.

There are things You don’t know which We need.

"I could learn."

And he could. He would. If it meant saving-

Hell, for Herms? He’d force his way through 10 more doctorates if he had to.

Is this a surrender, Dr. Geiszler?

...Oh.

Oh shit; there it was.

The surrender he was willing to beg for, the submission They had been waiting for. He knew he was playing right into Their hands- or tentacles, maybe?- but it wasn’t like there was any other choice.

"You can’t believe that, you ridiculous man! You know there’s always another way." 

Perhaps a last defense, a final hope, but his mind began screaming at him in frustration, the final spark of resistance layered among fear and desperation. Kind of funny, in that ironic sort of way, that his inner voice sounded even more Hermann-esque than the one the Precursors had adopted.

But there was no choice. 

He knew he could stall Them, long enough that Hermann-

"Yes! Yes, let me help you, Newton!”

His mind raged again, but Newt just laughed it off.

He couldn't help picturing a mini-Hermann arguing against his recklessness, against what he knew himself to be... stupid, really.

Pity it wasn't the real deal standing here with him, making that adorable scowly face as he tried to convince Newt to reconsider.

Were Hermann here, Newt might actually believe he had a chance of surviving this.

His mind had resorted to mostly incomprehensible shouting, and he could see the miniature version of his Drift partner kicking over a trash can in its frustration. There were still some stray pieces Newt could pick up, pleas for him to stop and think for a moment, but really what difference would it make?

Hermann was more essential, and Newt was-

"I swear if you even dare consider self-deprecating I will-"

-Newt was just Newt.

And with worldwide destruction a certain alternative, there really was no choice.

"Okay. I’ll- God-fucking-dammit- I’ll do it, you assholes."

Good boy, Newton. Very good.

That mini-Hermann in the back of his mind had resorted to unholy cursing in a dialect Newt wasn’t sure he even knew, and he had to force down a wave of disgust with himself. His own autonomy, his own sense of self-

But there was a sense of calm, too.

He was saving Hermann, and maybe- Maybe somehow Hermann could someday save him, too.

He barely processed his shuffle back across the lab, letting his thoughts numb as he adjusted the headset, carefully secured the chin strap. Through the fog, Newt took another glance around the lab, half-hoping that someone would wander in, that somehow-?

But there was no one else.

No deus ex machina.

Just Newt and his brain full of genocidal, fascist aliens.

What a sick cosmic joke.

And cruelest of all, he couldn’t think of a single, clever thing to say, all the little witticisms he hoped to have on hand for “The End” completely abandoning him. Like trying to remember your favorite movie on comm-

“Ogata! It worked!”

It was a passing, unbidden memory of the eye-patch wearing scientist who first got him hooked on giant monsters, drifting from his subconscious, a badass in all the ways Newt had once only dreamed of.

Hell, if things were different, maybe he would have started wearing an eyepatch. Serizawa rocked it, and it would have made Mako laugh.

Oh, Mako-

His chest ached at the thought of her, his not-really-but-yes-really adopted little sister. And Jake, who he still considered a younger brother. And Herc and Tendo and Alison and-

Dad.

Fuck; he may never get to talk to Dad again. Or-

Uncle Illia.

Or Mom. Or-

Or Hermann.

And just when they were starting to get along again.

“It’s not too late, Newton.”

He shook at the very clear, distinct thought, still wrapped in all the soft warmth and concern that was pure Hermann. So bright, so vibrant, so clear, it was as if the man were standing right here.

“You know me, Herms… It was too late the second that Breach opened.”

The Precursors were getting restless, an involuntary, full body twitch ripping through him.

“Okay! Holy heck, can’t a guy have some last words?”

No response. 

Figures. 

They were getting what They wanted; why bother acknowledging him now?

“Sorry I won’t have a chance to say goodbye. And uh… Kinda have a feeling I’m gonna miss a few birthdays, so uh… Yeah. Sorry, for that. I hope y’all…”

He sighed to himself, a frustrated little sound through his nostrils, eyes narrowing in annoyance, thoughts turning inward.

“You know what? Fuck this. I hope they figure it out and wreck Your shit. I hope they ruin everything; I hope they live and thrive in spite of You. I want them to find happiness no matter what You try to throw at them. And they will. Because they’re braver and stronger than You coul- Dammit!”

A sharp, blazing blue pain, just behind his left eye, a sensation that was all-too familiar now, one that he knew was a precursor- heh- to something even worse. 

He wasn’t fully in control of his own body anymore, knew he had only seconds left, the Precursors already making his thumb move against his will, but he wasn’t gonna go quietly into that good night; screw that!

Filling his words with every ounce of spite and rebellion and pure human fury he could, he growled out what would- probably- be his last act of rebellion.

“Go fuck Yourselves.”

With the sharp push of a button, Newt Geiszler was gone.