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The footsteps of a man who is precisely one smidge under five foot seven, aware of it, and moderate-to-severely insecure about it, are pretty distinctive. Newt would know. He’s been told by several people, including his boyfriend, that they’re the equivalent of a bell around his neck going, “ding ding ding! Here comes the man that always smells like ammonia, and rubbing alcohol, and as of recently, John Frieda Detox and Repair Green Tea and Lemon Balm Conditioner!”, which was mildly emasculating at the time, but hey, there’s a price to pay for growing one’s hair out whilst also recovering from severe malnutrition.
There was a point to this particular trail of thought, Newt just knows it.
Regardless, he’s not surprised when Anako doesn’t even raise their head as he bangs into their infirmary office one afternoon. As the door shudders shut behind him, they raise a single eyebrow.
“You don’t appear to be actively dying.”
“Not physically!” Newt confirms, and runs a hand through his hair like an overwhelmed fifties housewife the day before Thanksgiving. “Anako, I am in a fucking pickle of quite frankly distressing proportions.”
“Boy did I miss this,” they say flatly. “What did you lick?”
Newt blinks. “Nothing. Sheesh, you can’t figure out if something is vodka or tetrachlorocarbon one freaking time. No, I need life advice.”
Anako makes a face like someone just dropped a sack of rocks on their unprotected toes. “Oh Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, I could use his help too, come to think of it. Are you still Catholic?”
“Is your boyfriend still a fuckin’ Jack?”
“Technically German, but yes.”
“Then yeah, aggressively.” They set their pen down and peer at him curiously. “What on Earth has you coming to me for life advice?”
Taking their words as an invitation, Newt strides over to the couch across from their desk and flops onto it, spreading his knees and placing his elbows on them, palms outstretched. “Okay, right, so: you know how Hermann has friends now?”
Anako frowns. “Hasn’t he always?”
“That aren’t part of the weird homosocial tri-dependant crime ring he and his sisters have got going on,” Newt clarifies. “He has friends now, is the point.” Anako nods.
“Go on.”
“And one of those friends is, somehow, in yet another attempt by the universe to screw me harder than–”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“–than a screwdriver, whatever,” he continues, “Liwen Shao.”
“Ah.” Anako shares Newt’s disdain for Shao Industries’ clearly deliberate lack of any union activities. “I can see how that could pose a problem.”
“Well boy is it ever right fucking now!” Newt exclaims. “Because for some unbelievable reason beyond even the comprehension of our unbreakable psychic bond, Hermann’s invited her over to dinner! At our apartment! For a period of time that includes, but is not limited to,” he begins listing activities off on his fingers, “pre-meal small talk, eating the meal, dessert, post-meal small talk, cocktails, and pretending like any of us should, or want to, do this again sometime. Basically,” he finishes, “what Paramore meant with the term ‘misery business’.”
“Why would he even do that?” they ask. “Surely he knows that mixing the two of you isn’t exactly…” they work to choose their words tactfully, “a recipe for success.”
Newt snorts disdainfully. “Ugh. He wants us to ‘make our peace’ and ‘become at least acquaintances’, and for her to ‘get to know the real me outside of the context of legal proceedings’.”
“That’s bunk,” says Anako. “It’s impossible to get to know the real you outside of legal proceedings. You’ve committed more OSHA violations than any war crimes the Precursors did.”
“Comforting,” says Newt, but it’s meant sincerely. “I still need help, though?”
“I can imagine. What’s your main question?”
Newt bobs his head to show he’s thinking. “Okay. So unfortunately, the thing about Shao is that she’s the exception to the rule where everybody is afraid of me, and I know we’ve got that squared away and fixed up with most of everybody here on the base, but the thing is: I need that to not be the case with her.”
“Elaborate,” requests Anako. Newt sighs.
“She worked with the Precursors the whole time, man. She never took ‘em seriously, especially after she found out they were a bunch of dumb aliens who still didn’t know how to use Excel, so there was never any real fear involved. Then I show up, and the only impression she gets of me is this dude traumatized out the wazoo and acting as Hermann’s personal human koala, so I don’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of intimidating her!”
“And you want to?” Anako confirms. He nods, eyes wide for effect.
“Uh, yeah! She’s got the tech version of NastyGal running a zoo of human and workers’ rights violations under her sensible three-inch heel. Back in the day, I would have totally roasted her on Twitter!”
“I’m sure that would have gone just grandly,” Anako mutters under their breath. Newt, newly improved hearing kicking in, sends them a glare.
“Look, the point is I need you to help me be intimidating. You’re the best person I know for the job; I mean, may the kid rest in peace and all that, but you managed to make Chuck Hansen get vaccinated. That takes some serious balls, dude.”
Anako considers this for a moment. Then, their expression shifts from a pensive frown to a determined one. “You’ve appealed to my sense of professional pride. I’ll take your case. But Geiszler, you have to know that you’re going to have to adapt your strategy a little. We’re quite…” they incline their head towards his general height and demeanor, then back to their six-foot-one frame and squared shoulders. “Different.”
Newt rolls his eyes. “Duh. I have a plan, don’t worry.” He gives them a crooked grin, unsettling in the way a cat looks at a vase within their reach. “I’ve had ten years of watching psychological corporate warfare at its most insufferable. I picked up on a few things.”
Part One: Rondo in F Minor for Piano and Orchestra
One thing Newt will admit the Precursors knew a thing or two about was how to match an outfit to the occasion. Torturing your meatbag with his kinda-sorta-ex? Pants so tailored just looking at them gets you a trip to HR. Ending the world with genetically engineered robo-monsters? An embroidered waistcoat that matches the markings you put on the things, just for coordination’s sake. The weirdos even had a black silk dressing gown trimmed with puma fur for maximum evil plotting. And they had the audacity to call Newt a fruitcake.
When the doorbell to their apartment rings, Newt turns the knob and flips the door open smoothly, beaming with a closed-lipped, arguably slightly smug smile. There, her presence taking up twice as much space in the doorway as her height, stands Liwen Shao, a slim powder blue clutch in her hand. It’s the most color he’s ever seen in her general vicinity.
“Howdy,” says Newt, watching her eyes narrow slightly as she takes in his dinosaur-printed button up, the “Free Pussy Riot” pin affixed to his blazer lapel, and the single red rose earring dangling from his right lobe. His hair is pulled back into a half-up bun, combining the hippie energy of the “man bun” with his naturally unruly waves. He looks like exactly the kind of person he remembers seeing holding a picket sign outside the doors of Shao HQ. Bingo
“Dr. Geiszler,” says Shao in a neutral voice. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“Oh that was Hermann,” Newt says cheerfully. “I had no idea you were coming until,” he pretends to check his battered, lime green digital watch, “I’d say forty eight hours ago! Dunno why he would possibly want to hide the fact that you were coming to dinner, but oh well! Come on in, let’s get the party started.”
He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm and beckons her inside. Shao gives him a three second long blank stare, crosses the threshold, and takes a look around. “I see you’ve settled in with Dr. Gottlieb.”
“I mean, we’re boyfriends,” Newt replies, putting emphasis on the last word. “And some of my good taste bled over from at least the first Drift.”
Shao looks pointedly at the Kaiju figurines scattered about their bookcase. “Evidently. Where is he, may I ask?”
“Probably caramelizing the onions out of pure intimidation.” He allows himself a lovesick glance towards the kitchen. “And melting the cheese. It’s a talent.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Shao goes the subtlest shade of green. “How nice.”
“I know, right?” Newt places a hand on the back of the couch and turns to call over his shoulder, “Hey babe! Shao’s here!”
There’s the clatter of silverware being set down quickly, and Hermann pokes his head out of the kitchen. “Is she at the door? You should have told me; I have thyme bits all over my–” When he meets Shao’s eyes, he freezes. There’s a dab of flour on his nose, another on the side of his neck, and he’s wearing Newt’s “Fossilize the Cook” apron. “Ah. Miss Shao. I didn’t see you there.”
Newt feels a little bad about the blush spreading across his boyfriend’s face, but the downturn of Shao’s mouth at this blatant show of domesticity is totally worth it. Also, Hermann looks fucking adorable. Win-win.
“Sorry,” he says, only half so. “Didn’t realize you were still cooking.”
“The galette is cooling,” says Hermann, “and the pasta’s done. I’m terribly sorry,” he tells Shao, already rubbing at the flour on his nose, “I’ll just be a minute.”
He disappears back into the kitchen, and Newt turns to Shao. “So! Guess it’s just the two of us for a hot second, then.”
She gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Yes.”
“How’s the ‘Shao two-point-oh remaster’, so to speak? Find any more evil aliens in the supply closet?”
The bottom of one eyelid twitches at the mention of the Precursors, and Newt realizes he’s gonna have to go all in. Shit. As light as he tries to make of it these days, they really are his least favorite topic; his stomach twists twice over and squirms like a slug under a rain of salt. Well. A sacrifice for the good of the common man, he supposes. The common man being obliterating any chance of him having to be civil with this woman ever again.
“It’s proceeding on schedule,” Shao answers. “There has had to be a large overhaul of much of the unused code that was unable to be checked during preparations for Tokyo. We have no idea how far and how deep their corruption ran.” She gives him a pointed look that Newt resents immediately. “A great deal of damage was done by them. Both in-house and to our public image.”
“That second one’s pretty easy to fix for a billion dollar company, yeah? Just funnel a couple hundred thousand towards ending puppy mills, or teaching amoebas to code, or something else nonpartisan and innocuous.” He flicks his eyebrows up and down. “I mean, that’s the typical PR fix, right? Nothing too crazy.”
“Having your company be the face of a malicious alien invasion that injured and displaced hundreds of people requires a bit more than donations, Dr. Geiszler,” Shao says cooly. “I would expect you to have firsthand experience in this.”
Newt swallows hard. That was a low fucking blow, and they both know it. “I think my situation was a little different.”
Shao cocks a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “How so?”
Before Newt has the chance to open his mouth and inform her exactly how different their situations really are, Hermann emerges from the kitchen, flourless and sweater smoothed into place. “Hello,” he says with aggressive pleasantness, setting a hand on Newt’s shoulder. Newt gets the familiar message: shut up, Newton, my darling boyfriend and reason for all the Tylenol in our bathroom. “We really are quite glad you’re here.”
Shao gives him the tiniest of polite smiles. “Thank you, Dr. Gottlieb.” A sidelong glance at Newt. “I can certainly tell.”
Part Two: Intermezzo in C Minor
Clink.
Hermann sets the bowl of pasta in the middle of the table and the sauce spoon beside it. He takes a seat next to Newt and nods at the spoon, then Shao. “Please help yourself.”
She takes her own bowl, scoops exactly one portion of pasta into the center, and begins to mix it in with the sauce. Hermann takes a cake slicer and divides the galette evenly. It makes the faintest scraping sound against the plate, like a pinpoint-sharp nail on cement. Newt sits between them and watches. To be quite frank, he has no idea when he’s allowed to start eating. This dinner party shit is weird.
Finally, the galette is cut and Newt helps himself to the pasta. He takes a bite and hums happily at the sharp tang of lemon against the cheese. “This is great, Herms,” he says, “did you use the basil we got last week?”
Hermann nods. “There’s a farmer’s market a few blocks away that Newton and I like to frequent,” he explains to Shao.
“The produce there is really great,” Newt adds. “We get our jam there too, and some stuff they bring in from the fisheries nearby. I think it’s important that with, y’know, all the damage from Kaiju Blue leakage during the first war, people make an effort to support the guys trying to do things sustainably.”
Hermann raises a finger as a thought arrives, and points it at Shao. “Oh yes, you all are funding something like that, I believe? Coral reef cleanup in the Australian region, now that The Black has been cleared.”
Shao nods. “It’s part of our conservation efforts. We’re looking to implement the remote Jaegers, once they’ve been finalized, as replacements for on-location divers.”
Before he can mask the expression, Newt feels his mouth slip down into a scowl. One of his PhDs is in marine biology; that kind of thing was supposed to be an option for post-war employment. And research, obviously. If the Kaiju hadn’t happened, Newt has no doubt his arms and torso would have ended up covered in jellyfish and anemone. It combines his two favorite things: getting his hands dirty, and getting up close and personal with extremely dangerous sets of teeth. It would have been nice to get back into that field, he thinks. He would have been happy.
Of course Shao would try and turn it into a PR stunt.
“You really think they can replace actual trained professionals?” he asks nonchalantly, forking a piece of galette. “I mean, I get the commercial appeal of using the drones; it’s like a swimming billboard, but in my opinion as one of those professionals, you just gotta be in there. Field work, especially after a while– it gives you these instincts.” He sets his fork down to gesture with his hands. “You get a sense for what to look for just based on how the water feels, the temperature, the current, the way the animals are reacting. It’s what lets you do your job and do it well, but also be on the lookout for problems.”
Shao levels him with a look that wouldn’t seem out of place on a prosecuting attorney. “Such as?”
“Sharks?” Newt suggests. “I know it’s cliche, but I can’t count how many times I’ve been out in the field, seen stuff in my peripheral, gotten a gut feeling, and turned around to see one coming right in my direction. Of course, freaking vending machines kill four times as many people a year as sharks, so it’s not a life or death situation, but that’s as long as you keep your cool. You put some tech kid in there, or even an experienced diver but out of his element, and you may not like the result.” He shrugs and pops a noodle into his mouth. “Just sayin’.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Shao replies, very obviously intending to do just the opposite. Newt feels his jaw tighten by a fraction.
“Look, sorry for knowing what I’m talking about. Wouldn’t want you guys to have another project blow up in your face.” He flinches internally at the snideness in his voice, but holds his ground. People like Shao only care about one thing, and putting underlings (which, Newt knows from experience, the poor guys in those suits definitely will be) in the line of fire is no skin off their back.
Shao sits up even straighter in her chair, if possible. “Dr. Geiszler, I am not interested in debating your level of education. If anything, that would be not only impossible, but perhaps tempt one to ask just why you felt the need to acquire six different doctorates rather than simply enter into a field of employment after one. But I can assure you that we, as always, and now more than ever, are taking steps to ensure the safety of everyone involved.” She fixes him with a pointed tilt of her chin. “Including extensive participant screening. And background checks.”
The stem of Newt’s fork digs into his clenched fist. “Oh, just learning how to actually do those, then?”
Hermann sets his water glass down suddenly with a clatter, making Shao blink and Newt freeze in his seat. He shoots a look at Newt that’s half-apologetic, half-admonishing. “I’m sure Miss Shao has everything under control,” he says in a way that is clearly directed at both of them. Turning to Shao, he continues, “Speaking of the market, there’s a very nice tea shop nearby that Newton and I went to the other day. They have a lovely Ginseng.”
Newt lets out a quiet, heavy sigh and forces his hands to relax. “Yeah. I dunno how, but I lived in China for almost fifteen years and never learned the right way to make matcha.”
“Well that’s because when we were working together, all you drank was coffee so watered down with creamer, I’m surprised there was any caffeine left.”
Hermann raises a wry eyebrow, and Newt chuckles. “Hey, I’m a lightweight now. And matcha has a slower release time, right?” he asks Shao. “You don’t get that spike and crash like with coffee.”
“I don’t drink either,” she replies. “I prefer morning exercise as a natural stimulant.”
Jesus fucking Christ, Newt thinks. You’re not human, we get it.
He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, you couldn’t drag me out of bed before ten if I didn’t have to teach. Upside of getting past the midlife crisis: you realize you’ve earned the right to lay around a little.” He sends a wink at Hermann, who they both know would prefer to stay sequestered among the blankets and his boyfriend’s arms until at least eleven. Hermann, on the part of his good nature, only blushes a little.
Shao watches their exchange closely. “I’m surprised,” she says, then clarifies, “that you’ve chosen to continue to work with the PPDC, Dr. Geiszler. I would expect you to accept your pension and, if not retire, at least look for employment elsewhere.”
“Nah, I would get bored,” Newt says with a shake of his head. “Even if I went back to teaching at a normal university, I think I’d go a little crazy if I couldn’t walk down the hall and point out what was wrong with whatever Hermann was working on.”
Hermann flicks his gaze up to the ceiling in an aborted eye roll. “Wherever would I be without you, dear?”
“Forgetting to carry the one, probably.” Newt gives him a guileful grin. “Admit it, you’d totally miss me.”
“And you’d miss someone to carry around all your extra hair ties,” Hermann shoots back. “They don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“You’re right, rubber comes from the trunk.”
“It comes from the liquid inside the trunk.”
“That’s still the trunk, though. Like, the liquid is part of the structure.”
Shao clears her throat pointedly, drawing their attention. “Forgive me. What I meant was, I’m surprised that you and the PPDC remained a good fit for each other. After everything that occurred.”
She really, really wants to have this out, huh? Newt thinks with a grind of his teeth. Well fuck her. If she wants all the juicy details, her slimy ass can come out and ask for them. “Ten years of dedicated work, and saving the world, tends to create an impression that lasts,” he finally says. “Jake asked me if I was comfortable being on the payroll. I said well, I’d love to go back to teaching anyway. So everything just worked out.”
“And they were ‘comfortable’ with you?” she asks.
Newt blinks once, very, very slowly, which Hermann knows is his way of carefully preparing his admittedly compact body to suddenly host a lot of loud, angry screaming. They draw their breaths in sync. Then, Hermann makes a quick maneuver to avoid possibly yet another international crisis.
“Would anyone care for dessert?” he asks, voice at least a pitch sharper than normal. “Newton did a lovely job with it; darling, why don’t you get it for us, yes?”
“I’d love to, honey,” Newt grits out, very deliberately settling his breaths into counts of four. He pointedly sets down his knife and rises, pushing his chair in with a bit more force than usual. Shao has not broken his gaze the entire time. He holds it, stepping backwards for as long as possible until turning the corner into the kitchen, and wrenching open the refrigerator door. The shock of cold air helps. Slightly.
Taking a deep breath, Newt plasters on a non confrontational smile and removes the pan from the top shelf. “Hope you guys like key lime pie!”
Part Three: Dark Minuet
In a display of either supreme cunning or scintillating awkwardness, Newt manages to cut his slice of pie into enough pieces to keep his mouth routinely chewing on something at all times. He ends up making a game of it; half counting how many rotations of his jaw it takes to turn the rapidly unappetizing dessert into a flavorless mash, then swallowing it down his dry throat like a lump of sand. Shao finished half of her slice at some point, politely pushed it aside, and is now making occasional furtive glances towards any window within her line of sight. Hermann has had two pieces. He is not particularly fond of citrus.
Newt twirls his fork back and forth between his fingers, if only for something to focus on. Its tines clink on the plate unbearably loudly. God, he thinks, sneaking a look at Shao, why won’t she just make an excuse to leave?
Hermann must be, blessedly, wondering the same thing, because he dabs at his mouth with a napkin and asks, “So. Have you found yourself busy these days, with the renovations?”
Interesting word choice, Newt thinks, but is grateful for a break in the silence all the same. Shao, unfortunately, is harder to get a read on.
“Yes. Very. The drones were not our only project, and we’re working with multiple versions of that same neural technology in other sectors.” She falls silent again, clearly unwilling to elaborate. Finally, something Newt can be pushy about. Being a good host was starting to get boring.
“See, the only ones I remember off the top of my head are the monitoring thing you were gonna develop up to prototype and sell to Amazon, which,” he sucks in a breath through his teeth, “yikes. And the neural prosthetics. Which really surprised me.”
Shao arches one eyebrow to an impressive height. “How so?”
Newt shrugs. “Well it’s not something I expected from Shao. Usually that comes from more philanthropic sectors of development, or federal projects; not a tech startup. Then again,” he inclines his head, “I’m assuming you weren’t planning on just giving those out to people en masse. There’s an agenda somewhere.”
“You think we should have made them available to the public?” Shao asks carefully. Which, of course. People like her can’t even conceive of healthcare deprivatization and medical equity. They see people rationing insulin and think, Oh boy! Supply and demand really does put the bang in my blood money!
“Uh, yeah, of course? If you have the kind of technology that can drastically improve people’s lives like that, and it’s something they want, fu- freaking give it to them? You have–” he nearly drops his fork in his haste to begin gesturing, “you have all these ‘prototypes’ of stuff that could be incredibly beneficial to, say, amputees? People dealing with pain? Diseases and illnesses that affect internal organs, degenerative conditions, people born with birth defects? I get that your goal is the bottom line hypothetical here, but this kind of thing could change lives! If you were dealing with something like that, and things could get a little bit easier–”
He cuts himself off, turning to Hermann, caught up in his tirade but too preoccupied with the weight behind his own words to bother with Shao. Hermann, his boyfriend, whose spoons he knows like the back of his hand, whose hands he’s held when they’re stiff and swollen from a flare up. Hermann’s best friend, Vanessa, and quickly becoming Newt’s, her jaw tight with annoyance and fatigue when a low slows her in her tracks, swearing a blue streak at a poorly chosen pump site. Mako slowly learning to write left-handed, the only one she has now. His own memories of hot tears, pustulant mortification, wondering what was so broken about his genius that it left him struggling to read the textbooks he could debate without issue. It’s different. But he understands. His friends, who are happy and lucky and living their lives, yes, but who he knows wouldn't mind a little less pain, a few less sleepless, sweating nights, the chance for once, for things to simply be easy.
But life is complicated and Liwen Shao, human bullet train and uninterested in any effort less than total collapse, thrives on that. To her, this isn’t an open door. It’s a paycheck.
It’s maybe that, with his freshly bleeding heart so tender for the people who have shown him more kindness than he deserves, that Newt hates most about her.
Whatever storm is happening on his face, Hermann sees it and nods gently. Underneath the table, he puts a hand on Newt’s knee. Newt sighs, closing his eyes for a moment, then turns back to Shao. He’s long past trying to hide the venom in his voice when he says, “I just think you guys could use all the help you can get, y’know? Maybe you can bribe some kid out there to use his Make a Wish on you.”
Shao doesn’t blink for several seconds. “You seem very intrigued by biological augmentation, Dr. Geiszler. Considering the improvements to be made?”
He gives her a crooked half-simper. “Well. If the transtibial prosthesis fits.”
Her gaze goes flinty just as the hand on Newt’s knee tightens a fraction. “How disappointing we must seem to you. With our infuriatingly anthropoid limitations.” He opens his mouth to respond, to ask what the hell she means by that, it’s not like he’s still–
Shao settles her hands, one folded over the other, on the table, and appears to contemplate them. Her voice shatters that illusion. Newt’s tongue freezes at her next words.
“Well. You know what they say about the more things change.”
Oh, says the little voice in the back of his head, the one that never fails to point out hindsight like a car crash. There’s the kicker.
The itching starts in his hands, as it always does, then around his wrists, up his forearms, over his shoulder and setting the skin on the back of his neck buzzing. Suddenly the room feels like a straightjacket, a too-tight suit, a layer of chafing grime choking his nerve endings until Newt’s throat is a cocktail straw, his chest a squishing, pulsing generator, and he cannot ever remember a time when he knew how to breathe. The world thrums with a low vibration. Colors, ones he can’t describe with human words on a spectrum he was never meant to see, dance at the edges of his vision. He needs to get out of here, he needs to go be very small in a very dark space, but most importantly he needs to come up with an excuse to bolt before he loses it.
Crushing his voice into a practiced resemblance of calm, Newt clears his throat. “I’ll be right back,” he says, “restroom. Excuse me.”
Hermann’s eyes on him feel like a searchlight. He darts out from under their gaze, gently pushing away from the table and walking steadily, normally, movements dancing on the edge of the uncanny valley, down the hall to the bedroom, then into the bathroom, then against the closed door as the tension in his body hardens into crystal.
He knows what he is supposed to do. This is how you pretend to be a person, after everything. With substitutions. Tools in your toolbox. Breathing in counts of four. Newt grips the doorknob until his knuckles ache, then steps in front of the sink.
The water is cold underneath his hands, a puncturing shock, and he runs his forearms underneath it before splashing it onto his face. His body swells underneath himself, like an allergic reaction. Newt caves a little; he grips his shoulders and rubs his hands harshly up and down his biceps until the skin is streaked with red. But he’s good at this now. The act is sharpening into something real. So he splashes his face again, pats it gently with a towel, and turns off the water. Avoids looking in the mirror. Rubs a hand against the back of his neck, feeling the length and softness of his hair. The knowledge that he does not want to cut it, so it will not happen. His hands tremble, but he can cup them around his mouth and let out a sigh into the space.
A knock on the door sends his heart rocketing into his throat, but when he hears Hermann’s muffled, delicate, “Newton?”, he relaxes somewhat.
The doorknob twitches, and when Hermann finds it unlocked, he peeks inside. Newt meets his eyes like a deer staring down the barrel of a gun. “Hey.”
“Are you alright?” Hermann asks carefully. “I could feel–” Newt nods, cutting him off.
“I’m okay. Just needed a second to breathe. People shit.”
Hermann presses his lips together, then releases them. “I can tell her to leave. If that’s what you want. I– I know you weren’t keen on this from the beginning, and if it’s too much for you then I can–”
“No,” Newt insists, “no. I’m good. I said I just needed a second, not a panic attack. Which I’m not having.”
“You’re not,” Hermann clarifies, almost a question. Newt nods.
“Not. We can finish the night. I’ll be okay.”
“I am choosing to believe you’re telling the truth, Newton.” It’s not a threat. Newt nods again, reassuring both of them.
“Thank you, seriously, I’m fine. We can talk about it later if you want, but for right now, let’s just do the adult thing where we compartmentalize and pretend we’re super normal socially adjusted people. Please?”
This at last sparks a bit of a smile onto Hermann’s face. “Newton, we’re not fooling anyone.” Newt can’t return it, but the weight on his chest lifts just a fraction.
“Yeah. Let’s go be bad actors, then. Like everybody else on the planet.”
Part Four: Strings Con Fuoco
They move to the living room, Newt sitting as far into the corner of the couch as he can without curling himself into a pretzel. The corduroy is soft and heavy underneath his hands, soothing. He runs his nails back and forth along the grooves in the fabric, fingers never quite still. Shao is perched primly in the armchair across from him, Hermann’s favorite place to read. She looks so out of place here, he realizes, surrounded by the warm, cozy colors and various chatchkes of their apartment. The handmade bowl of fidget toys on the coffee table between them is almost comedic. It has thumbprints, Karla’s name carved into the side, swirls of lush, forest green winding around its gentle curve. And then there is Shao, off-white blouse and sharp black skirt, not a hair out of place, like a smartphone squished and misplaced between the thick pages of a photo album.
He avoids her eyes, not out of deliberate annoyance anymore, but because he cannot bear to meet them, knowing what she sees. He’s not them anymore, he knows he’s not, but, well. The Precursors were shitty actors, but there’s a grain of truth in every lie. He could look in a thousand mirrors, grow his hair out to his ankles, walk around in flannels and Hermann’s Oxford t-shirts for the rest of his life, and never be able to forget that. It’s good, in a way; a reminder. There are mistakes he will never make again. But Shao doesn’t understand the difference between his frantic, puffed-up bravado and their conqueror’s pride. She sees his hands shake and assumes incorrectly. Newt doesn’t know if she’s interested in learning.
Just before it feels like the silence will swallow them both, Hermann emerges from the kitchen with drinks. Shao takes her glass of wine, eyeing it contemplatively, and sniffs with the kind of practiced air of true snob. Newt ignores her as Hermann hands him a cup of tea, steaming in an astoundingly ugly cyan blue mug they picked up while stationed in Rio. He shoots him a grateful smile and wraps his hands around the warm ceramic. Hermann doesn’t miss a beat, setting his own wine glass on the coffee table and sitting down next to him.
His hand is soothingly resting on Newt’s shoulder in an instant. Very public. Very affectionate. Funny, the way some things are put into perspective by traumatic alien possession.
Shao not-so-subtly glances at Newt’s out of place crockery and inclines her head in a question. Newt’s eyebrows jump an inch when he finally gets it, “Oh! Oh, uh. I don’t drink. Anymore. Y’know. Except for this really disgusting beer from Ohio you’ve probably never heard of, and that’s not me being hipster; trust me, that’s a good thing.” He shuts himself up quickly before he can ramble any further and takes a sip, knowing that Hermann won’t have made it too hot. Shao, thankfully, doesn’t press the subject any further, but appears to take note of his changed demeanor. Newt winces internally. It’s always a chess game with her.
“I’d imagine,” she says, surprising him. “Our reports on y– them,” she corrects herself, almost looking embarrassed about it, “showed a, shall we say, concerning level of alcohol consumption.”
“It’s always five o’clock in the Anteverse,” Newt grumbles to himself. Hermann lets out a quickly smothered snort.
Shao nods. “They were creatures of vice, yes.” Somehow, without moving her head, she peers closer at him. “I will admit, Dr. Geiszler, you are quite… different than I expected.”
“In the sense that we’re meeting in an apartment and not a padded cell?” Newt says flatly. One of Hermann’s fingers on his shoulder gives him an admonishing tap.
“My meaning is, I am glad to see you doing so well.” Shao does not seem glad at all. She seems, in fact, perplexed, and Newt knows for a fact that is one of her least favorite things to be. Not even considering that he’s doing okay at best most days. He’s trying. Filling out the pages of his DBT workbook for dummies one by one, practicing small talk at the pharmacy while picking up Geodon and Humira, remembering to condition his hair. It’s been over a year since Tokyo, several months since his release, and the concept of trying is getting easier every day. But he hasn’t slept through the night unmedicated since 2025, and doesn’t see that likely to change anytime soon.
Newt knows he shouldn't be insulted, he knows it’s all perfunctory, meaningless small talk, but here sits the woman who watched what she saw as a showboating, sociopathic, bottom-line nightmare of an R&D head, and made excuses for everything. Smiled and nodded. And Tokyo wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t have known, but a tiny, bitter part of Newt thinks that if she had just fired their asses on day one like any ethical person would, none of this would have happened.
Liwen Shao is one of his worst what-ifs, and here she sits, drinking a Cabernet Sauvignon and complimenting his normalcy.
You are a feminist, Newt reminds himself, then allows a single, vitriolic, Cunt.
“You were expecting something different, then,” he says, wishing for this whole night to just be over. “You were expecting me to be… ‘different’.”
Shao wants to lose her cool, bite his head off; he can see her aching for it, and if this is the way it has to be, if she wants to see him as nothing but a ragdoll copy of them, then okay, alright, fine. Let’s fucking do this.
“I did not mean–” she starts, and Newt cuts her off with an assholeish wave of his hand.
“No, no, no, nah, you told me, after your little thing about my PhDs, of which I have four more than you; let’s make that clear, that you thought ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same’. I think it’s emphatically clear what you meant by that. Boss,” he adds sarcastically, with a raise of the eyebrow for effect.
Shao’s straight, thin mouth snaps in two into an elegant scowl. “Well, you have certainly chosen to remind me exactly why I despised working with you.”
“Oh!” he exclaims, raising a finger before Hermann can stop him, “Oh, let’s go there! Let’s just outright admit it, then: you’re having a little trouble with the semantics! Because let me make this very fucking clear: if it had been me still in that body when you blew up my inbox? I would have told you to take your corpocratic, boot-licking, sheEO-esque hiring package and shove it di-rectly up your ass alongside your head. In the kind of eloquent detail that writing and defending six separate thesis can get you.”
“Thank you,” she grinds out, “Dr. Geiszler, for providing the best possible argument for my earlier statement.”
“What, that I don’t properly fit your idea of what a person recovering from ten years of possession should look like? Go fuck yourself!”
Shao grips the armrests of her chair so tightly, the fabric puckers. “I imagine my ‘idea’ would look slightly different than this, yes. A bit more chastised, perhaps.”
Beside him, Hermann stiffens, and Newt knows he’s just been given free rein to tell her the fuck off. “Look I’m sorry that we don’t see eye to eye on, well, everything actually, but it is not my job to be your trauma porn just so you can say to yourself, ‘Oh, well, he’s different now’! I am. Anyone who knows me, and is actually my friend, was able to figure that out after five minutes of talking to me. But we’re not friends. Quite frankly, I don’t think we ever will be! So if I don’t seem different enough to you? If I’m not adequately losing my shit? Well that’s not my problem; I’ve got enough already.”
“Evidently,” she hisses. “I would categorize my expectations less as your ‘trauma porn’ and more of a man not attempting to undermine everything I am doing to repair the damage he caused!”
“First of all,” Newt screeches, “let’s get our pronouns in check before we go any further! I have been through too much goddamn therapy to not remind you that they fucked up your drone project, they made everybody’s lives miserable for ten fiscal fucking years, and they were the ones you let parade around in those ridiculous suits like they were a legitimate head of R&D–”
“If they had shown their face in what you’re wearing now, I would have murdered them.”
“And hundreds of lives saved if you had! How’s it feel?” He sounds hysterical, he can hear his voice cracking as its pitch builds alongside his fury, but this has been a long time coming and Newt’s digging up the hatchet. “Don’t tell me you never considered what would have happened if you’d done the moderately intelligent thing and just fired them. You didn’t have to know they weren’t me, you didn’t even have to know they were a bunch of aliens! But let’s lay this out in the open: your company had a culture so unbelievably toxic that a chauvinistic, dictatorial, literally genuinely evil hivemind of eugenicist colonizers was not only able to remain in a high-salary position simply based off the fact that their meat puppet was a scientific celebrity, but get away with at least one HR violation a month, abusing interns, mediocre product output, and, oh yeah, not having that product checked for such things as modified Kaiju brains!”
“And your advice? Your solution to this ‘company culture’ you deem such an issue?” She leans forward, and Newt realizes too late that she’s decided to go in for the kill. “You have a lot of grievances with my company, Dr. Geiszler, for a man who did nothing those ten years but, as you say, assume incorporeal form. And now you teach adolescent soldiers the elements of the periodic table.”
“At least I’m giving those kids a future outside of getting thrown at Kaiju!”
“Good for you!” she shouts. “But you are not the head of Shao Industries, you are not even an employee of mine anymore, and yet here you sit rattling off your grievances while presenting no solutions to them, no advice; nothing concrete whatsoever. So are you truly interested in the changes I have been telling you all night we are trying to make? Or do you simply want something to satisfy your guilt?”
Newt opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off sharply with a beleaguered sigh. “What do you gain from this, Dr. Geiszler? Closure? For what? I am not here to be a scapegoat for the consequences of your mistakes and their actions.”
He pauses, thinking; catching his breath, his heart pounding. Shao stares him down, waiting for his next words, and Newt allows himself to let her squirm a little. But he’s the one in the hot seat now. She has– he hates to admit– a point.
“You’re right,” he admits finally, and the look of shock on her face is almost worth it. Newt takes a deep breath. “I can’t be mad that you didn’t realize your head of R&D was possessed by aliens from another dimension; that’s crazy. Hell, Hermann didn’t even realize until they had opened the breaches, and he’s the smartest person I know.” The hand on Newt’s shoulder begins to move its thumb back and forth comfortingly, and he swallows hard. “But your higher ups treat their employees like shit, people had dick-measuring competitions over how little they slept and ate to turn in projects to fit your ridiculous standards, and I distinctly remember the interns talking about their favorite bathroom stall to cry in. You can’t start fixing problems without knowing what they are, and I did see everything.” He nods at her. “You can have all the environmental initiatives you want, all the accessibility tech you could possibly create, but Shao Industries has some fucking internal issues, and you are rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.”
Shao presses her lips together and takes a measured breath in and out. “So? What? Are you offering to help, then?”
Newt bursts into a fit of incredulous laughter. “No! I don’t work for you anymore, and it’s not my job to tell you how to run your company; you made that point very clear. But I can tell you how to start: listen to the underlings. Have a confidential way for them to air grievances that won’t make them terrified of being fired, then swallow your pride and your PR goggles and take their suggestions. Remember the names that keep coming up so you can fire their asses and hire better people. Don’t reward self-destructive behavior.” He raises an eyebrow. “Stop using surveillance tech to track your employees. That’s not even bad business, that’s just creepy. And be prepared to get told you’re wrong.” He shrugs. “Messing up is universal, but so is a good apology. I would know.”
From beside him, Hermann clears his throat pointedly. Newt lets out a huffy groan. “So I’m sorry for being a dick tonight.” He turns to Hermann. “And I’m sorry for ruining your nice dinner. I know you just wanted us to get along. But,” he turns to Shao, “no offence, seriously– I don’t really think that’s gonna happen.”
Shao, in an uncharacteristic moment of weariness, pinches her nose with her fingers and rubs at the corners of her eyes. “I agree. Dr. Gottlieb?” She smiles at Hermann. “You will always be welcome in my office. Dr. Geiszler?” Her voice is wry, but deadly serious. “If I hear word of a man at my door wearing Chuck Taylors at age forty, I will have one of our drones kick you out onto the street.” She sets her wineglass on the table and stands. “This has been one of the worst evenings of my life. I have a splitting headache and six emails I could have been sending instead. But I needed this. Thank you.”
Newt gives her a mock salute. “It was a nightmare to have you, Liwen.”
“We are not on a first name basis.” She nods at the two of them sitting together. “I will show myself out, if you don’t mind.”
Hermann makes a sheepish gesture with his hand, and they watch her stride to the door, pick up her clutch, and give them a single curt nod before gently closing it behind her.
After several seconds, Newt turns to Hermann, an exhausted smile on his face. “So, should we tell her I’m also gonna be ‘Dr. Gottlieb’ in a few months?” He wiggles his right hand, on which is the skull ring Hermann had saved and kept all those years, recently presented to him in a hand-painted box over the kitchen table, first to confusion, then joyful tears. Hermann snorts.
“If you’re still insisting on taking my last name, then I’ll certainly have to mention it at some point.”
Newt leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I am. I told you, it’s not hiding. I love you, and your sisters, and I wanna be a part of your family.” He takes Hermann’s hand and squeezes it. “I wanna be your husband in the most disgustingly normie way our society has. Also, it basically says, ‘If found once more full of aliens, please return to Hermann Gottlieb’”.
Hermann rolls his eyes. “You’re ridiculous. But you don’t need to be humorous about it.” He kisses the knuckles of Newt’s hand, eyes achingly honest. “You can be however you like around me. Whatever the new you, or the old you, or some combination of the two, looks like. I love you no matter what.”
“Aw.” Newt leans his head on Hermann’s shoulder. “Even when I’m antagonizing the dinner guests?”
“Let’s not push it, dear.”
He snuggles deeper into Hermann’s side and sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t be friends with her. I know you wanted that.”
“I did,” Hermann admits. “But I understand where you’re coming from. And you have your right to like or dislike whoever you choose.” He shoots Newt a look. “I do expect you to play nice at the wedding, however.”
Newt pretends to gag. “Ugh. Fine. But we’re sitting her next to Lambert at the boring table.”
“I appreciate your willingness to compromise,” Hermann says flatly. “Now let’s get everything cleaned up and into bed. I think between the two of us there’s exactly half a spoon left, and I’d rather not waste it.”
“Nah, I owe you for tonight. I’ll handle it.” Hermann begins to protest, but Newt is already standing and collecting the glasses and mug. He kisses his fiancé’s forehead. “Lemme do this for you. Okay?”
Hermann smiles softly. “Well. That certainly hasn’t changed.”
“What hasn’t?” Newt asks with a frown. Then he realizes, blushes, and kisses the top of Hermann’s head. “Takeout tomorrow. I’ll pick it up, you pick the place. My treat.”
“Apology accepted, darling. Turn the lights out, please, before you come to bed.”