His fits were on average ten minutes apart, never surpassing two and a half minutes in length, and never draining Newt of too much energy so those dastardly beings could wrap their claws around his subconscious once more and wrack him with terror and horrifying spasms of pain Hermann could only imagine to comprehend, and could only stand and watch as it consumed him. It was like a wildfire. Hermann wished that he would become too weak for them to torture him any longer, wished he would give in to them already- and save himself the hurt, the trauma, the absolute horror of feeling your own body be torn apart by some ethereal being inside of you. He couldn’t even see what was hurting him, and surely couldn’t see Hermann, waiting and watching. Even if he was always there, Newt would never know how much he pleaded with whatever nonexistent gods the Earth believed in to let Newt go. To save him. But he could never live to know that, right?
He’d spoken at lengths to the medical team, and regrettably sobbed at lengths to Tendo, afterwards making the man swear of his life he’d never mention a soul what he’d heard from Hermann- and none of the people he’d spoken to in any form had given him a glimpse of hope for Newton’s recovery. Too far in his head, too experimental to medicate, all of the phrases and the dismay it had brought him flurried together and formed a general torment of gloom.
A panicked cry from beyond the one-sided glass brought Hermann abruptly from his uneasy thoughts, and he found himself staring through the glass as the smaller man was riveting by tremors and sputters of blood from his lips. Hermann stumbled to his feet instantly and pressed one hand against the window. The blood trailed down his chin, staining the white of his shirt, and Hermann’s eyes widened, mouth contorted in terror.
Every time Hermann visited him, he didn't know what to expect.
It was never what he did.
Mathematics laid out everything simply for him, and this was what he liked about it. Every question had a solution and a systematic series of steps to find the said solution. There were rules to follow that could lucidly guide him through a query- and one outcome, one possibility, one expected and predicted output to a complex series of input. This was what he liked, and this was what he functioned off of. Order.
But Newton had always been unpredictable, and despite the anxiety of simply not knowing that bothered him every day of their peership, there was something strangely enthralling about his spontaneity. Erratic unbelievability. A rush of adrenaline, a glimpse of a life of nonlinear expectations and indecisive steps in an unstable path.
That was biology.
There was so much they did not know, and Newton had found himself right at home, happy to map new territories, while Hermann retreated to the safe shell of his predictable patterns and unchanging formulas. He felt sheltered, and it wasn't until he'd felt Newton's mind within his own had he really understood why he couldn't handle the orderly formality of mathematic solutions- and why Hermann himself couldn't handle the wild expanse of Newton's biological theories and escapades.
Newt was sleeping, for the first time in days, he'd been told.
"Withdrawal," the K-Science medic offered with a shrug. "a fever breaking, we don't know. But it's a good sign. The patterns are changing."
Indeed they were, changing, out of his reach and control, and he knew he couldn't input any variables to make it right. Like Newton's study of life beyond genetic code, it was everchanging, and nothing could determine how this would turn out for him. His cells, multiplying, mutating, dispelling, adapting, to the Precursor's claw-like strings that pulled and prodded at his every neuron.
Hermann for once in his life found himself giving in to an undeniable breathlessness of not knowing, and it was fucking terrifying.
And thus began the Paroxysm of Newton Geizler.