Chapter Text
Newt adjusts the contraption on his head, sinks the electrode in the spongy kaiju brain matter, and Drifts.
There is no blue, no rapid slideshow of memories. Instead there is a network, minds entwined together until there is no telling where one ends and the other begins, a great web that bends and twists to accommodate him. Suddenly he ceases being Newt, human, individual, and becomes a simple thought in a sprawling conscience that has never needed to introduce itself to others, but would maybe choose to designate itself as Those-at-the origin-of-everything, or more simply the Precursors. It is a revelation, and it is what it has always known. It has two bodies, now, one a brain floating in a nutritive solution, ten pounds of neurons and synapses at its disposal, and one a fragile human frame slumped on a chair, seizing. It used to have more, billions more, but they are inaccessible to it now, left behind a temporarily closed rift. It is harrowing, this lack, like the amputation of more than half its being, but it can bear it. For the good of the whole, for the future satisfaction of its ever increasing needs. It has a mission, kill and destroy, eliminate the maximum of the pests standing between it and this world’s resources. It is fortunate that the human Newt attempted this Drift, for now it once again has a functioning – if less than ideal – body it can use to complete its task.
Except he doesn’t want to. They’re not pests, they’re humans. Sure, some of them are assholes, but that’s his own fucking species we’re talking about here ! Or, actually, that’s debatable now, but at least he feels a kinship to them that can’t be denied. Half of him grew up as a human, among them, formed attachments, feels the atavistic urge to ensure his species’s continued survival, the more personal drive to protect the individuals he knows.
It is a paralyzing paradox, this struggle between two contradictory opinions that still somehow both belong to it/him, this equally strong yearning for two futures excluding one another. It/he does not know how much time is spent adrift in this state of cognitive dissonance before it/he notices something wrong. It takes it/him a few seconds to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. One of its/his bodies, the human one, is distressed. The repartition of thoughts must not have been optimal, or maybe it is simply the hazardous, experimental nature of this Drift that makes Newt’s body incapable to withstand it. It is failing rapidly, has probably been in a critical state for a while before it/he managed to divert its/his attention from its/his inner struggle to notice the problem. The brain’s neurotransmitters are firing randomly, in disorderly panic, the muscles contract and relax in spastic succession, and it/he doesn’t know how to make it stop. The body is damaging itself no no no no it/he can’t lose it it’s his it needs it !
Distantly, obscured by the haze of fear and pain, it/he hears footsteps punctuated by the sharp clang of a cane. Leisurely walking at first, then rushing to the body’s side. There is a voice, shouting something that it/he cannot make out. Hands grab the Pons on his head, and – what are you doing idiot, no don’t do that – pull. The connection snaps. Then, darkness and silence.
It/he mourns. The end of the life of Newton Geiszler, who never got to be a rockstar, and the end of the utility of the creature the humans named Yamarashi. The loss of his senses, and the loss of the minds it once shared. It/he is diminished, amputated of all it/he once was. A cut up brain in a tank.
Time has no meaning in the absence of external and internal stimuli. In this eternity of unchanging darkness, there is nothing to do but think.
Thinking is… difficult. It/he exists in a state of constant duality that makes forming coherent trains of thoughts impossible : every reflexion sparks two opposed reactions, different thought patterns derail every reasoning in two irreconcilable directions. Every attempt tears it/himself apart, and if it/he had a mouth, it/he would scream it/himself hoarse. But it is still better than never-ending nothingness, so it/he keeps on trying.
It is unbearable, but there is no choice but to bear it. It cannot go on. One side has to give.
The Precursors-part does. It is unclear why, or at least the conscious residing in a kaiju brain sample is in too much pain and confusion to determine why. Maybe because the Precursors-part, cut off from the rest of its network, is only a shadow of itself. Maybe because it cannot endure its forced inactivity, does not see the point of existing if it cannot fulfill its mission. Maybe because Newton Geiszler is a survivor, would never let some little things like hellish pain and eternal torment quash his will to live.
In any case, the pain of thinking eases gradually. The being created by the Drift manages some beginning of introspection, and finds that while it/he may not technically be him, it/he feels more like Newton Geiszler than an alien hivemind. Also, it/he decides to refer to it/himself as a he, because this pronoun stuff is getting really annoying. Fuck exactitude anyway. He still has all of the Precursors’ memories, but they feel more distant, faded and blurry at the edges. At the contrary, the memories of Newt’s life are fresh and the emotions they evoke powerful. The image of his body slumping in Hermann’s arms, Hermann searching for a pulse and not finding it, is heart-wrenching (or, you know, would be if he still had a heart, except not really because it’s a metaphor anyway). He wonders how his death (or imprisonment in an alien brain, if you are willing to ignore the addition of memories spanning millennia and dormant murderous impulses, and consider that he really is Newton Geiszler) will alter the outcome of the war against the kaiju. He now knows that Operation Pitfall won’t work, they’ll never get the rift to open without the right genetic make-up, but he can’t warn them. They’ll try and fail, and when they finally realise it’s no use, will they be able to shift gears and find another solution ? And let’s get real, it isn’t the fancy Jaegers’ pilots who will, the most they can do is buy a little time, so with Newt gone, all the pressure will rest on Hermann’s shoulders. How will he fare ? Is it narcissism to hope that he might miss Newt ? And Mako and Tendo and Pentecost and Herc and Chuck and even new guy Raleigh, will they spare a thought for him or be way too busy ensuring the world doesn’t end ? Newt wonders whether someone remembered to tell his father and Uncle Illia. Maybe Tendo, he’s thoughtful like that. Did he also inform his mother ? Did she care ?
Maybe it’s better that he can’t see the reactions of the people around him, doesn’t know whether they’re grieving for him or forgetting him. Both would be equally painful anyway. One other upside : now he won’t have to witness either humanity’s or the kaiju’s extermination.
It’s a scant consolation.
Descartes once said think therefore I am.
Newt’s never liked him much, too rigid and proper for his liking, but it’s like he wrote this sentence for people trapped in kaiju brains, it’s so fucking appropriate. Because Newt’s literally nothing but thoughts right now.
He’s so scared that if he stops thinking, he will stop existing. He used to think that not thinking of anything was impossible, but here, with absolutely no external distractions, it suddenly seems much more likely.
So he thinks. Loudly. About anything. It reminds him of listening to hard rock at full volume in the lab for the sole purpose of pissing Hermann off (because Newt has mastered the subtle art of passive-aggressiveness). Of course, that leads him to imagining the lab now, silent but for the screech of Hermann’s chalk against his blackboard. Does he relish the silence, or does he miss Newt’s music, at least a little ? Has he cleaned Newt’s side of the lab of all Kaiju innards as he threatened to do so many times before, or is the mess left untouched like a bizarre shrine to his dead co-worker ?
Decidedly, Newt seems incapable of having a train of thoughts that doesn’t take a turn for the depressing. Every topic reminds him of pleasures that are lost to him, people that he will miss or scientific mysteries that he will never get to solve. He just wants to curl up in his bed and go to sleep, but he has no body to curl up with and the very idea of sleeping (or the equivalent of sleeping for disembodied consciousnesses) sends through him a sharp jolt of fear at the perspective of never awakening again. He’s so tired, though. Right now the fear of death outweighs the weariness, but how long will that last ? He can picture it so clearly : an eternity of rehashing the same stale thoughts over and over, with no expectations of change, the hopelessness wearing him down gradually until oblivion seems the better option, until continuation of life doesn’t seem so important after all. Until Newton Geiszler truly disappears. It seems so bone-chillingly likely. If nothing changes –
The Breach opens.
WHOLE, IT IS WHOLE AGAIN –
For a second it is right where it should, complete again, drinks in the rightness of the connection like a plant soaking up light. It has multiple bodies again, and the feel of air against its skins is so good –
The Breach closes.
The separation is like dying all over again. It is left reeling in the middle of the Pacific, bodies convulsing in mental pain. It wants to shout its anguish at being left alone, but manages to remember the necessity for silence. It cannot disclose its presence before it is ready to pounce, will reveal itself at the last moment to take the pests off guard and slaughter as many of them as it can before it is stopped.
The reminder of its mission is enough to stop its shaking and make it move. It glides in the water, strong muscles propelling it forward smoothly, effortlessly. It may be cut off from the rest of itself by the closed Breach, but at least it now has two perfect bodies so that it may continue to fight for their cause. They are swift and agile in the water to get through the humans’ defences and reach their target, dark with imposing spikes and facial crests to strike fear in the heart of the enemy, with sharp claws and teeth to rend the humans to shreds. The attack unit has a powerful tail and virulent acid to destroy the humans’ metal structures, and wings to engage in aerial combat. The support unit has the ability to shut down the humans’ pesky technology. Truly, they are beautiful, their form completely adapted to their purpose.
It is now nearing the human colony that was designated as its next target, and its blood sings in anticipation of the coming fight. The humans’ Protectors are waiting in the harbour, two large clumsy husks of metal. They fight fiercely, but they are no match for the masterpieces of the Precursors’ genetic engineering. Soon, the three-armed one is crushed by the grappling tail of the attack unit and discarded at the bottom of the ocean. The bulky one has been weakened by its acidic secretions, and the support unit chooses this moment to join the fight, using a surprise attack to destroy its power source. A third Protector intervenes, but it is blocked by the attack unit while the support unit finishes off the bulky one. The new arrival is strong and more rested than the attack unit, and it manages to land a few devastating blows before throwing its dazed adversary towards the city. Thankfully, the support unit still has its ace : its electromagnetic pulse, which disables the Protector, allowing the attack unit to disengage and race towards the human settlement. The support unit stays back, intending to end its fallen enemy permanently, but yet another Protector interposes itself. The unit roars in frustration, but throws itself into the fight. It has to keep the Protectors busy, while the attack unit fulfills their objective of destruction.
Meanwhile, the attack unit has reached the city. It wrecks its surroundings methodically, smashing buildings, crushing roads and flinging cars left and right. It is badly hurt from its previous battles, and it can feel the fourth Protector’s powerful blows against the support unit’s thick scales, but it can barely feel the pain under the feeling of accomplishment. Each human structure destroyed is a step closer to the eradication of the pests, to the appropriation of this world and the enjoyment of its resources. Yet a feeling of growing unease mars its joy. For no discernible reason, it is filled with an increasing reluctance to keep on its path of devastation. It realizes that for the past few minutes, it has turned away from the streets full of fleeing humans, where its rampaging would have done the most casualties, and is keeping to the already deserted areas. It is illogical, it is inefficient, but even the thought of exterminating more humans makes it ill.
The feeling of the support unit’s dorsal spine snapping jolts it out of its inner turmoil. It has no time to indulge in strange misgivings, the other body has fallen and it will be the Protector’s next target .It has to do as much damage as it can before that. It resumes its task, but its every movement is slow and clumsy. It forces itself to head towards large concentrations of humans, steels itself to hear their screams as they die under its feet, when something stops it in its tracks. It’s a human, just a simple human lost in the mass of people running away. He is lagging behind, jostled from all sides as he runs awkwardly on feeble legs. Suddenly, a more forceful shove makes him lose his balance and he falls hard on the concrete. A wooden stick – a cane – is pried from his hand and lands several feet away from him. The mob goes on around him, nobody stopping to help him up, and the attack unit feels a bewildering anger at that fact. It stalks closer, ignoring the panicked shouts of the crowd, and lowers its head at the man’s level. The human is petrified, all alone now that the surrounding people have fled. Suddenly, he snaps out of its terrified paralysis and frantically tries to crawl away. The sight makes something tighten in the attack unit’s insides. Slowly, carefully, it extends its tongue towards the man and wraps it around his shoulders, exercising a gentle pressure to prop him upright. The human stands very still in its grip, face drained of all colours and hands shaking. It strikes the attack unit as wrong, but it doesn’t know why or how to fix it.
Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps alerts the attack unit to the arrival of the Protector. It is strangely reluctant to leave, but it knows it must engage the enemy, so it retracts its tongue and turns away. The Protector – Gypsy Danger, it recalls, but cannot understand why it feels so important – is holding a large ship in its hand, that it seems intent on using as a weapon. The idea is surprisingly… cool. The Protector uses it to repel every attack, which is getting really annoying, so the attack unit grasps it with its tail and flings it away. They trade a few more blows, but the Protector is strong and the attack unit’s wounds ache, and it realises that it will not win in a frontal battle. It escapes, using its superior speed and agility to disappear in a cluster of skyscrapers. After that, it is child’s play to surprise the large robot and send it flying into an adjacent building. The attack unit then pounces on the Protector, bringing its acid-filled mouth to its metal husk. The other tries to go for the throat, but the unit winds its tail around its head to immobilize it, and tightens. The steel groans and caves slightly. Victory is near. Just a little more pressure and the metal head will fold on itself, crushing the humans inside and depriving humanity of its last defence. It must be a painful way to die. So slow, hearing the structure around them give and knowing they are next, that their bodies are going to be compressed beyond recognition… Mako’s small frame will break so easily, and the Marshall will find nothing but a bloody pulp inside the remnants of one of the machines he dedicated his life to. So sad, that such a tragedy has to happen. But why ? Mako doesn’t deserve to die. Her co-pilot, despite not being very intelligent, doesn’t deserve to die. It is necessary. But is it ? Humans stand in the way. But they just want to live. And I want them to live.
Faces flash through his mind : Mako, Pentecost, that new Raleigh guy, Hermann, Tendo, Dad and Illia… The vice crushing the Jaeger’s head loosens slightly.
The Kaiju – because he is a Kaiju, a great, splendid beast, not a biologic weapon yielded by a greedy hivemind civilisation – steps away from the fallen Jaeger. He ignores the part of his being that lives in subservience to a larger collective, that cannot even conceive of disobeying its orders, and chooses to spare Gypsy Danger.
And then Newt opens his wings, and soars.