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There were many things Hermann knew about Newton, largely in part due to the man’s inability to shut his mouth even during the most inopportune times. His lack of filter had not failed to get them into trouble with other Shatterdome residents on multiple occasions, including the Marshal, and meant that Hermann knew more than a couple of things which he often found himself wishing he could forget. Sometimes it was because of his own discomfort, but other times it was because he was certain that if Newton had any idea as to what he had let slip, he would no doubt retreat to his quarters and not emerge until the end of the week.
It was for this reason that he had believed himself to be so well-prepared for the drift, even if he hadn’t had much of an idea as to what the kaiju’s mind might have shown. He didn’t expect for the neural handshake to last very long, given that they were drifting with a kaiju and he didn’t really think it was possible for either of them to be compatible with it. For this reason, he had set out a list of possible memories which he would encounter, both for himself and Newt, went over them twice in his mind, and then, alongside Newton, initiated the drift.
It would be a safe conclusion to draw that Hermann had absolutely no idea what he was getting into. If anything, it would be an understatement.
The memories ran past him, RABITs which he was not allowed to chase, and yet each one felt more tempting than the last. The overwhelming emotion that accompanied them, the intense, depressing lows and overwhelming, borderline manic highs only intensified as the memories grew newer, fresher. He was aware of Newton standing beside him, within arm’s distance, but he couldn’t reach out. Hermann wanted to hold his hand, but he was frozen in place.
There were Christmases in Newton’s early childhood, and there was the faintest feeling of pleasant buzzes that made his brain feel fuzzy, but the feeling was overshadowed by something newer. A deep-set betrayal, the stench of disappointment, the feeling of being lied to for so long, and, distantly, rage. All for such a cheery holiday. Half of the holiday was spent at his house, without any decorations in sight, whilst the other half was spent with a friend, home-made Santa hats on their heads or too-big sweaters with Christmas trees on them, throwing rocks at trains.
Elementary and middle school were so blurred Hermann was scared that something had gone wrong, that he and Newton weren’t truly drift compatible, that he’d mistaken genuine hatred for playful banter, but in amongst the confusion there was clarity. Newton, standing beside him, able to sense his distress as if it were his own, trying to send him a message. It’s okay, he thought, not his own mind, but Newton’s, school was a dark time for me.
Interspersed with the blurs were words, faces, feelings, all of which seemed hellbent on confusing Hermann more. He reminded himself of Newton’s reassurances, that this was what it felt like for him too, and calmed himself down. A boy named after a fast food chain’s mascot, a mysterious night terror known as the Nightman, eating spiders and insects, feeling the urgent need to throw up, someone named Charlie who Hermann never got to see.
As horrible and strange as Newton’s memories were, they were a relief from the pulsing blue-filtered memories of the Anteverse that the kaiju supplied him with. Memories of bugs bled together with the insectoid bodies of the Precursors, dozens of small blue eyes staring at him, through him, like he wasn’t even there. Spider’s fangs drooling, pincers gnashing, spindly limbs unwinding, reaching out towards him.
Before the impossibly thin claws could grab at him, Hermann moved onto a different set of memories. Newton’s again, thankfully, the same boy he recognised from Newton’s early childhood, older now, and smoking what Hermann hoped was a cigarette but knew wasn’t. There were two other people there as well, a boy with curly hair and braces and a girl with a back brace. None of them looked like they wanted to be where they were, stuffed under the bleachers.
There was even more than there had been the first time, almost to the point of being overwhelming. Repression, repulsion, regret and revulsion, pushing Hermann’s head down into the river, flooding his nose and mouth and making his eyes water. He could scarcely breathe. There was the fuzziness flooding his brain, a mix of pleasant and burning, as if it was slowly pulling his neurons apart but was gracious enough to start with the pleasure centres first.
Hermann wasn’t sure what made the feeling stop, not quite; it was obviously something in Newton’s memory, but it had been so long ago and there were so many other moments rushing by him that he wasn’t sure Newton quite remembered what had triggered the change either. Regardless, Hermann was now sat, back straight, feelings washing past him as if he were a rock sticking solidly out of the river bank.
A face he remembered clearly, a face he had seen recently, showed up on a near constant basis in the calm. A woman, with brown curly hair and a big smile, a good few years older than Newton. She taught him to write his name, to speak one of many foreign languages, to do what he’d always wanted to. Newton loved to be messy, but he hated the bar, what with its temptations and its rats and the bar’s policy on how to get rid of them. This part Hermann knew; he knew Newt loved animals, he’d read the words with his own eyes. For the first time since they initiated the drift, Hermann smiled.
Then he saw the first letter he had written, his prim and proper words strikingly different when compared with his jumbled attempt at cursive. Beside him he could feel Newton stiffen, heat rising across his face and warming the palms of his hands. He had read it three times, trying so hard to get everything right, to assure himself that it was all correct, that the letters hadn’t swum around to change their meaning and mock him.
Hermann had been inclined to call Newton’s reaction to his initiation ‘adorable,’ but soon felt bile rising up his throat. The emotion that was flooding Newton had spread over to him, and he found himself so deeply caught up in it all that when the memory was replaced by a view of the Anteverse once more, Hermann found he could no longer contain his disgust for the home of the kaiju.
As his shaking body pulled the cap ungraciously off his head and threw it to the side, he rushed over to a broken toilet resting on the ground nearby and threw up, the pain of kneeling down so quickly sending sharp jolting pains through his leg. Hermann was aware he looked a mess, with sweat plastering his pitifully small bangs to his face, blood running from his nose and dripping off his chin. He was, however, far more preoccupied with ensuring he did not miss the toilet as the remainder of the memories settled in his mind.
The secrets of the Precursors, the key to humanity’s success, rested securely in the back of his mind, and they were something which Hermann knew would never fade, much to his detriment. Newton’s memories, however, felt like they were bouncing off of every surface, as if they were ecstatic to be somewhere totally new.
Newton hobbled to Hermann’s side with a limp Hermann recognised as his own; a side effect of the drift, the same as their now-shared memories, and Hermann was sure there were more they were both yet to experience. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Hermann, who gratefully used it to wipe his mouth clean once he knew he was done emptying the contents of his stomach. They exchanged words of affirmation and understanding, and then Newton had hoisted Hermann up to his feet, and they were boarding the helicopter that the PPDC had left on standby for them.
Neither of them talked much after that. There was no awkwardness in it, moreso a sense of… regret. Newton’s, solely, although Hermann couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. He tried to figure out how to piece the words he wished to say together in his mind, then twisted in his seat to find Newton already staring at him, and he understood. He understood so clearly it almost shocked him.
For a split second, he stared not at the face of Newton Geiszler, but instead, one Charlie Kelly. A man who had been born and raised in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, who had learned how to read English at twenty-two years old and who thought his name was spelled C-A-T up until that point, a man with an overbearing and yet neglectful mother, a man with an uncle who’d be better off dead, and a man who had chased after a father figure he would never have. A man who’s life had been entirely restrained to a bar that he and his friends used fake IDs to run and an absent father’s money to purchase. A man who no longer existed.
It almost made him want to throw up again, as, even though Newton Geiszler and Charlie Kelly shared a face, they appeared in Hermann’s head as two entirely different people. It was largely his fault; when they had been youths writing letters back and forth, Hermann had allowed himself to fantasise about the life of his penpal perhaps far more than any other person would consider reasonable. He couldn’t even act as if Newton did not have a right to keep his upbringing a secret, now that the memories haunted him as he imagined they had haunted Newton.
Hermann’s fantasies had bled into how he perceived reality, and it seemed he had not learned his lesson since their first disastrous meeting. He still clung to it with a white-knuckled grip, up until the moment it all came crashing down. If anything, it only made Newton’s feats even more impressive, although it was now also a cruel reminder of how Hermann had been so arrogant and selfish as to view the other man as some sort of character he could project onto. No wonder it had been so hard for them to get along when they had met.
But then the second was over, and there was no more Charlie Kelly. It was Newton, of course it was Newton, and there was blood dripping from his nose again. He had thrown out his handkerchief after he had cleaned out his mouth, figuring it would be disgusting by the time he could actually wash it again and far beyond the point of saving. Newton brought a tissue from his pocket and gently prodded at Hermann’s nose with it, so that they were almost matching.
Newton gazed at him sympathetically, as if it was Hermann that deserved pity and not the other way around. He pulled his head onto his shoulder, and Hermann figured Newt wouldn’t really mind if a little extra blood got on his leather jacket. One of its sleeves was hanging on by a few mere threads anyways. He tasted the nickname on his tongue, said it out loud, and Newt’s grip grew tighter for a moment, encouraging.
Hermann smiled. It was a fitting nickname, in a way. Newt. It was entirely possible he was reading too deeply into it (that was, after all, how he managed to convince himself Newt had been born in Berlin and had an opera singer mother), but it was true that despite all of what Hermann had seen in their drift, Newt had survived. He had grown back the parts of him lost and stood, or sat, rather, before Hermann as a whole man.
One of his hands snuck from Newt’s hold to pull his arm away from Hermann’s back, and Newt thankfully obliged. He hooked one pinkie with Newt’s, slowly dragging his fingers across each one of his knuckles before they settled in the gaps between. Their fingers laced together, and Hermann allowed himself to grin. Everything would be okay.