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[As if Newt would ever give up the chance to make a video, so here he is sitting in the kitchen. Also, he's bored being cooped up inside for an extended period of time, so there's also that]

Okay normally I would ask why people are actually venturing outdoors when shit's going down like this, but something tells me that's a super pointless question so instead here's this one:

So we got one account of what zombies are like in one person's world, but I was wondering what other incarnations are out there. [Newt folds his arms on the table, leaning down on them a bit] In Haven, there were a couple running around in some of the tunnels and they were from the same world as a couple of my housemates--one of them almost bit me. That was a trip. [he pauses, briefly, blinking] Er. The zombie, not my housemates. [--except--] Well, okay, one of them stabbed me in the chest and killed me but that wasn't until later so I don't think that really counts in this conversation? [he says it so casually. . . . . . . ANYWAY, back on topic as Newt waves a hand] Anyway, these zombies were taken over by a fungus called cordyceps. Basically it took over the brain of the corpse of whatever it attached itself to and made it into a puppet.

Now, we have this same fungus in my world, but it never went all zombie on human beings, just small animals. I'm talking, like...bugs. Sooo basically I'm wondering what other types of zombies people might've either run into, whether from their own world or a different one. And what caused them to become zombies in the first place. I'm talking like virus or fungus or whatever.

Or, like, whatever else anyone wants to talk about because holy shit I'm so bored right now.

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[....right. He's just going to sit down on the couch next to Sans]...Sans, don't take this the wrong way, but every time you're opening your mouth right now it sounds like it's Opposite Day and you're saying the exact opposite of everything you actually mean.

[He...he need to pull it together. He needs to pull it the fuck together, right now before he just cracks completely. As if he hasn't already. Hah. Maybe not on this brane.

His tone is light, far too light and far too false.]

You, uh, you know quite a few people in the city, huh?

[Newt takes half a moment to process that statement. He's lived for almost two years in a place where his friends died frequently, and that sort of levity...

He lets out a hard breath, rubbing his hands over his face.]

Fuck. Who is it?

Edited 2016-09-19 22:23 (UTC)

[His hand opens to cover his eyesockets, as if that might blot out the technicolor, high-definition memory unspooling across the forefront of his mind. The way it spread. The way her expression had been dark with knowing, tight with recognition of what was happening to her.

The way she'd asked him if he could get sick and he'd said no, even if he didn't really know, even if he was taking a risk by staying, but it was glaringly apparent that she didn't want to be alone when it happened.]

Little kid. Girl named Arya.

[Sans grins.]

She knew exactly what was happenin' to her the whole time, heh. Real brave about it but, uh, it was kinda obvious.

[Arya.]

Shit. [Arya. Little kid. A girl. Hermann likes her. Well, okay, Newt likes her too but there are certain kids that just seem to gravitate towards Hermann that he then acts like a grumpy stuffy uncle around and she's the one here and fuck fuck she's a little kid and Hermann's going to be devastated. ] Shit! [more forcibly this time and he's grabbing one of the pillows off the couch to chuck across the room because he doesn't know what else to do, there's nothing he can do, and it's not fair and fuck this place, fuck it six ways to Sunday and fuck Fear in particular.

And Newt's standing suddenly, because he can't sit any more, striding quickly across the room to the pillow to snatch it up angrily, upset roiling in his gut as he walks back over to the couch, tossing the pillow back on it. It's then he glances at Sans and now notices his hands over his eyesockets, his grin.

After a moment, Newt sits again]

Did you...were you, uh...with her? The whole time?

[because that's sure what it sounds like]

[Sans's hand drops to his side. He stares at the ceiling without seeing it. Fuck, he can't stop seeing - the way she was. The way it had happened. He could've made that offer, to cut it all off. He could've - could've circumvented the restrictions laid out by EXP, by LOVE, just put her in a situation to die real easy, but he doesn't justify that to anyone, not to himself, he does not do that to himself unless it's necessary.

He really is just a selfish, sorry son of a bitch, huh?

He looks at Newt. His eyesockets are black and black and black.

That's an answer in and of itself, but it's cheating to leave a trail of ellipses and nothin' else.]

She didn't wanna be alone.

[Sans turns his head to look at him and Newt's stomach drops. He can feel it, like a lead weight, sinking because he knows, he knows. He's been there, done that, can't think about it without feeling sickening guilt, can't even think of spirals to the point where sometimes living in this house is torturous, can't watch Hermann's hands sometimes write equations in the air without thinking--

--Newt knows. And therefore also knows that there's nothing anyone can say or do to make it better. Nothing that could wash away the guilt and the horror. Nothing that can fix it. Nothing that can change the inevitability and the helplessness of the unimaginable. So for a moment he just looks back at Sans, sad and suddenly tired and, above all things, understanding.]

[And after a moment he's just going to--reach out and enfold Sans in a hug, wrapping arms around him as if it could provide any sort of respite or stability.]

Then you did the only thing you could do. [it's a piss poor comfort and he knows it. Knows it because Wade said something similar, when he had been the one watching Hermann die. And so it goes...]

[He's bein'...hugged now, it feels like. Doesn't matter much, in the end. It's a foreign feeling, one that he usually reserves for Papyrus but...eh. Eh. Newt probably needs it more than Sans does.

He hasn't got the energy to shrug out of it.]

I'm sure it was a real comfort to her, yeah. [His tone is flat and dark and empty.]

That's really all you can do for someone. [nope, not letting go yet.]

Speakin' from experience, are ya?

[He just lets it happen. Lets himself stay like that, slack in other guy's arms. Maybe those words are a little to double-edged, a little too cold to be levered at someone who's probably grieving.

Then again, maybe not.]

[Newt isn't really bothered at all by the coldness of San's tone. It's not like Newt was anything nearing nice when the situation was reversed.]

Yeah.

Yeah. It's real great, ain't it? It's even better when ya get to see it up close.

[A hooded figure watches from afar. A hooded figure says nothing, does nothing, but watches and watches and watches and waits until they bring him ever closer to the end.]

Like winnin' a lottery, ain't it?

The worst lottery you can imagine, man. [quietly, tiredly, before he leans back, releasing him from the hug but still keeping an arm around him] You should get some sleep. Or eat something. Either way, you need to regain energy.

[ Hermann reaches the top of the stairs, on a trajectory toward the kitchen, just as Newton pulls back. He slows, not that he'd been advancing at anything approximating an accelerated pace, neutral expression shifting wary at the sight.

It isn't the fact of the finished embrace or that of the lingering touch, the slung arm. It is those and their expressions (however it is he's gradually acclimated, eyes adjusting, to be better able to discern those shifts on an oddly emotive skull), and the heaviness of the atmosphere.

The air is thick with it. It contaminates the oxygen, suffocates. At a time like this, there are a number of possible conclusions, but one the most probable, the most logical. His hand tightens on the head of his cane and Hermann hesitates.

Then steps forward. No stupid, pointless questions with obvious answers, like are you all right? ]

You look like you should.

[ Do as Newton says, which is as close as he prefers to get to agreeing with Newton.

But -- ]

Who was it?

[Newt is a real tactile fella, he's learned. A guy who's all about touching and movement and not knowing what to do with his hands and sometimes that reveals itself with the frantic flurrying of fingertips latching onto the nearest person to serve as his anchor. Sans doesn't mind. He doesn't care, more like, but, y'know. That's a pretty rude thing to say.

He's gonna have to break the news again, ain't he? Well, that's just too bad for everyone involved. He's never one to break the news. Got no skill to it, no finesse whatsoever.

So he smiles patiently at Hermann, and answers the question.]

Arya. Gotta bite in her, hung on for as long as she could. [He laughs, short and sharp and mirthless.] Brave kid, huh?

[Newt glances up as Hermann comes closer, dread already a twisting thing in his gut because this...this is going to suck. And of course, it's entirely to the point, simple, cut and dry except how it isn't, and Newt swallows as Sans answers. He's already pushing to his feet as the inevitable knowledge is once again imparted, already reaching for Hermann, because it isn't the first time;] Hermann--

Edited 2016-09-20 15:48 (UTC)

[ Arya.

Miss Arya.

There had been nothing to prepare him for it, except his own question and expectation, except the numbers. Only, he had not expected -- could not have, but should have --

Dr. Hermann Gottlieb isn't a man who needs finesse or sugarcoating. He is more like to resent it. He had long been the one to give the bad news, the statistics, seen so many fall -- but though in some rare cases the very young joined the Jaeger Academy, they had been a little older once in the Jaeger.

If the stages of grief have any legitimacy, they pass in fractions of seconds. Shock precedes them, he'd expected a familiar name but not hers, she may have been honed and hardened, may have killed and stopped seeing herself as a child, the bitter necessities of her world, but even with all that, even with her confession, even acknowledging her ability, his mind had been unable to entirely dismantle initial impressions, unable to dismiss any piece of data, those hints that remained of youth, and not only in body.

Shock first, then, everything stilling, thudding in his hot ears, whites around his eyes. Denial is a flicker, less than a breath, irrational, and all of it is irrational and as quick -- fury may stick, later, but he cannot be at Mr. Sans, he can do nothing with Mr. Fear, the "zombies" are equally futile targets, there's a tempting instinct in lashing out at Newton, who reaches, the familiar impulse, to snarl and pull back, but he doesn't, paralyzed, slowed in it -- bargaining, with whom? Mr. Hope would likely return her regardless and that was as close as it could be to undone -- depression and acceptance bleed together, shuttering. His face closes.

He hadn't been that close to the kitchen and he steps back still, avoiding Newton's touch. ]

Oh.

[ Is that all? It might be. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, or why there should be something, and he hasn't realized they're shaking. Hermann looks at them a moment longer, then turns back to the stairs. ]

Yes, yes she is. She wouldn't like it if you -- [ called her that, kid, but curiously, his voice catches, and he has to swallow, how irritating ] -- called her that.

You should get some sleep. Not in the kitchen. I've said.

[ Definitely retreating down the stairs himself. Never mind why he came up to begin with -- he can't remember, anyway. ]

[Wouldn't like it if he called her that? Well, tough cookies. He did. He did the whole time, and it didn't do a damn thing to prevent that inevitable decline into mindless hunger. Maybe she hadn't cared. Maybe it hadn't mattered at that point. Or maybe, potentially, she -

Nah.

He aborts that train of thought right there, before it even pulls outta the station. Hypotheticals are complete and utter bullshit when there ain't a shard of evidence to support them, and it doesn't matter. It does not matter because the dead do not hold opinions about titling.

So. If Hermann wants to concern himself over a moniker that would, hypothetically, have made her unhappy, that's fine. He can do that. Sans, for his part, stands up.]

Sure.

[He'll just be on his merry, won't he? Yeah. He'll just be headin' on into his room so he can sleep and pretend he can live with himself for the next fifteen minutes to an hour.]

[Newt's long become used to the ghost drifting; the brush of Hermann's consciousness in the back of his head has become second nature to the point where he hardly notices anymore. Now, however, it would be neigh impossible not to notice. It's a miasma of emotional turmoil as Hermann pulls back and though it's not all Hermann, it's definitely not all Newt either. But then he can feel it. Like a door slammed shut, and then there's suddenly nothing. And Newt's left standing, grasping at nothing as Hermann moves down the stairs and, barely a moment later, Sans after him.

Newt watches them both go, helplessly, blinking rapidly. Once they're gone he removes his glasses, rubbing his hand over his face with a tired curse, before shoving his glasses back into place, moving to follow and seek Hermann out.]

[ Hermann prefers to "work" in their makeshift laboratory, but Haven had ingrained a lack of reliance on permanent structures. Expecting that there would be times they would be unable (or unwise) to make the trek, "work" was sometimes done at the table upstairs, and sometimes, with a similarly ramshackle desk (more a table, it was difficult to wholly understand the design, they weren't exactly drawers) and a chair.

He liked time to himself, after all. Even when the exhaustion hits, he's fundamentally opposed to slinking into bed, to spending more than strictly measured minutes there past waking. Not that there's so much for him to do.

Maths, at least, always gives him something, however without utility to Hadriel. Numbers. Not wondering -- not wondering, thinking, imagining.

He sits back at the chair, remembering now that he'd thought of coffee. Leaning to the cut of slate like rock he'd managed to find and shape during the clean up, a kind of portable chalkboard, both like and not at all like those he'd had at the Shatterdome. Smears the chalk with his palm, starts again, something like this.

Numbers, not hung on for as long as she could, not what had Mr. Sans done with her, had she "turned," was she out there, would she want that, shouldn't someone do something, but what if there was a way to undo it, but how absurd to think Newton could find it before Mr. Fear got bored, anyway?

Numbers. ]

[It's not that hard to find Hermann. After all, there's only a limited amount of places he could be. So once he's found, Newt's slipping into their bedroom, eyes flicking up to where Hermann works at his chalkboard. The door closes with a quiet click behind him as he moves further into the room, reading over the equation already on the board.]

Reimann, huh? [the question is a bit subdued as he steps closer, reaching out so that his fingers just gently brush his shoulder. It's a light pressure in comparison to the compulsion that he fights--he wants to reach for him, to curl his fingers into that stupid blazer and cling, until Hermann opens back up again.

He doesn't, though he wants to.

Instead he probes very cautiously at the partially closed connection. Not a sharp poke but more of like...as though one would rest a hand on someone's back. A gentle pressure.]

Edited 2016-09-21 00:03 (UTC)

[ She had just been texting him, he could look at the time stamps, obsess, wonder at what stage of degrading her mind had been, her body, he should have --

He's only just sat, only just started scratching the chalk, yet he hadn't heard the click. Newton's touch serves as his first indication that Newton followed him and Hermann's muscles seize, he jolts, though does not jerk around or attempt to shake him off.

Hermann's less generous in his head, though Newton's attempt is not wholly unwelcome. There is an imprecisely calculable part of him that would reach for it, only it's minute, a fifth trounced by the four-fifths that need the wall. ]

Dabbling, really.

[ They could continue like this. Skirting it with casual attention on the hypothesis, Newton earnest in his head, but the thought of it makes Hermann, abruptly and viciously, sick. He couldn't, can't bear it. ]

There isn't anything to talk about, Newton.

Okay. [Newt says, but doesn't retreat physically or mentally. Both hands, now, resting on Hermann's shoulders, a gentle pressure to match the one in his head, just...leaning against that wall. A presence.]

[Except...listen, Newt may have learned a little bit about being a bit more comforting in Haven, but he's still no expert. However, there is one thing he's always known how to do (when Lars called, when he was having a flare up, when Hermann would stand in front of the chalkboard--frustrated--fingers shaking,);]

I mean, you know, other than the fact that the denominator over there is wrong.

[He's always been really excellent at pissing Hermann off.

And so saying, he's going to reach out with a hand, it leaving Hermann's shoulder, to swipe at that number, smearing chalk and erasing it]

Edited (typoooos AUGH OKAY LAST ONE I PROMISE) 2016-09-21 06:04 (UTC)

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