Some of Hermann's memories in the Drift show him holding a toy plane and wearing a helmet when he was young, and then undertaking an eye test when he's older. Based on that I got the impression that he wanted to be a pilot but was never able to, and then I thought about it a bit more and then a bit more again and then ended up writing all of this.
Thank you for reading, and for any comments you may have!
"I'll go with you."
The first time Hermann says this is to his Father in the middle of the study.
He's eight years old with a lopsided pilot's helmet on his head and a toy plane clutched tightly in his hand, and he speaks the words with a dignified seriousness at odds with both how he looks and how he feels.
In response his Father looks long and hard at his leg damaged since birth and clasps his hands behind his back. His Father's intake of air is too long and his exhale too loud to convince anyone that he's surprised at receiving Hermann's request to join him at the air base meeting this evening. His Father wrote equations for new defensive manoeuvres for the air force and, although he spends much of his time immersed in aviation, Hermann knows the thought of climbing behind the controls of an aircraft generates an unpleasant taste in his mouth and causes a condescending smirk to pull at his lips.
His Father then slowly looks him in the eye and delivers a smooth refusal that's deliberately roughed at the edges, as he explains that the confines of a well-worn cockpit is no place for men of intellect such as theirs. Flying is all about burning engines and warm gears and rainbow oil and grease and dirt and noisy slipstreams, and using only part of your brain to try and control something with more vectors than there are stars in the sky. Flying is a risk, and therefore its unpredictable and uncertain nature should only be used in a defensive capacity, and only rarely in an offensive one. If you fly you might fall, and if you pilot you might fail, and do you really want all that responsibility on your shoulders Hermann? Do you really want all of that doubt?
But numbers though Hermann; now numbers are something that can be controlled. They do not require instinct or emotion or reckless bouts of foolishness the rest of the world mistakes for selfless bravery; their comprehension and manipulation do not require a perfect physique or a sensitive disposition, and they won't ever argue back or raise their voice or seed a doubt and their timeless stability is all the protection you're ever going to need.
To pilot a plane - to pilot anything - requires perfect compatibility with a number of things that you just don't have. To pilot is like a ladder; it's like a smooth key in a well-oiled lock; it's like a zip being pulled smoothly up to join two loose sides to encase and protect what's inside and you can't do that Hermann because you're not perfect; not in the ways you want to be or the ways they need you to be, so why don't you take off that ridiculous headgear and complete your studies and put an end to this foolish notion.
It's what's best for the world and what is best for you.
No doubt you think me harsh, but always remember I have your best interests at heart here; you shouldn't ever be a pilot because you'll never be a great one, and if you can't excel at something then you shouldn't bother at all. We both know you're far above smart and that you understand this – that you understand all of this – and I trust I've made myself clear to you and this subject will now be closed for good.
Hermann nods that yes, that everything is clear so painfully clear and closed, and as his Father turns abruptly to leave he slides his helmet off to land on the carpet and the dull thump it makes matches what is in his head but not what's in his heart, because what's in his chest is echoing what's in his hand, as he grips the toy plane hard and tight and feels it bite into him like a hot knife but he can't let it go and he doesn't want to let it go and he can't let it go.
He's always loved numbers but doesn't crave the safety of them; he doesn't want a latticed wall of digits to hide behind and sharp rows of equations to stand guard and protect him, for he wants to be the one in front, not behind. He wants to set his figures in order and use them to catalogue the unknown and then send them out fighting, send them out streaming; he wants to marshal their power and make a difference and use them in tandem with physical action not just abstract computation and the thought of possibly actually being able to do both makes his head spin and sets his blood on fire.
But…but maybe his Father's right, and he's simply not cut out for the life he's already funnelled out for himself. This world is full of monsters and constant change, and if he wants to carve his part in it he will have to change too. He's nothing if not adaptable if he puts his mind to it, and so he immediately makes a curt decision to put things in place at home first and then focus on his future, on any future, as he packs away his helmet and opens his math book. He sits down and takes a deep breath and looks at the rows and columns of numbers laid out in invitation before him, and while the logical part of him knows they are inked onto the page in pitch black, he only sees them in strobing red.
He reads and focuses and studies and tries to forget, turning page after page with one hand while never once letting go of the plane embedded sharp and slick and throbbing in the other.
"I'll go with you."
The second time Hermann says this is to his roommate one morning when they're standing in the queue for breakfast.
He's just about to complete another year of study and everyone's thinking about their careers and futures, and the test centre for Jaeger pilots has been advertising everywhere lately to find the next pair of drift compatible poster boy heroes.
His roommate automatically flicks a glance down to his leg, and he just knows the next words spoken will be buoyed up by the same small tremors of condescending indulgence when he dares to suggest he wants to do something like this, followed quickly by a brief eyebrow raising look of disbelief when he argues that he can do something like this.
True to form the roommate completes this performance act for act, shrugs briefly, and then offers the oh so generously encouraging yet utterly empty words of yeah, sure, of course you can tag along with me, why not, we'll…we'll even test together! I mean what harm will it do?
He sets a military record by passing the verbal reasoning tests before the examiner has even finished his coffee, and before he knows it another officer is briskly wheeling in the eye test equipment and giving orders in what could almost be described as a rush.
He has twenty-twenty vision and passes the eye tests perfectly, and even though he fights it back and fights it down and really really doesn't want it there's a gnawing anticipation thrumming just below his skin, like a low voltage electric current, and the look the officers share kick it up a gear, and now it's spreading through him and his muscles are shivering and his heart is pounding hard and there's a sweet sickness in his stomach that he doesn't ever want to dry out.
But he can't escape the physical test, and although he at once tries to both ignore it and plan every centimetre of movement he can't hide it; he can't banish the leg he favours or the leg that's damaged and the leg that everyone sees and comes to the conclusion that that's where he ends but it's not; it's where they end.
Their eyes have soon shifted one way and then another and lost their sparkle, and their hands are stretched out to him but their feet are facing the door and they'd like to thank him for his time and high test scores but perhaps there are more appropriate ways for him to serve his country, such as in the Science department or, and this is strictly off the record you understand, there might be a fresh program just about to start that's going to focus on building a great wall…
And before he knows it he's raised his voice and contorted his face into a snarl, as he cuttingly explains that he doesn't just want to serve his country any old way he wants to fly, and that a less than perfect leg does not define him and is no barrier to what he can do and what he's capable of, and even though he'll never be a picture perfect pilot it doesn't matter because perfect doesn't exist you know, haven't you ever been taught that?
There are countless types of pilots, not just the ones on tv or on the posters and surely people here aren't so stupid as to ignore the genius and the promise that's standing right in front of them that can offer the world so much for so little, and just when he's looking forward to working up a full head of steam they're barking at him and pushing him out and slamming a door, and he's so full of shame and rage and liquid heat and burning fuel he's on fire.
He crashes his forehead against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut and wants to do nothing more than burn alongside with them, but he doesn't.
Not because he can't, but because he won't.
A true pilot wouldn't bail out at the first sign of a fire; they'd fight it and land safely and begin repairs and plan to fly again.
But first they have to protect and save themselves, and so with a soft exaltation he wraps himself up in the cooling balm of numbers again.
They've been an imperfect buffer against the bullies and setbacks and heartache his life has endured so far, and while they're not perfect and never will be they're all he's got. He takes consolation in them, and most days he can convince himself that they're all he ever needs and are all he'll ever need, just like his Father promised.
But some days the gaps in them are too wide and the net they make sags, and if he wanted to he could poke a finger through to make contact with what else is out there, but that hole always seems too wide and the light shining through it too fierce.
"I'll go with you."
The third time Hermann says this is to Newton Geiszler at a Kaiju death site in Hong Kong.
His colleague of ten years is seven points higher than him on the IQ scale but still doesn't know why it's such a big deal to eat a burger with one hand and prod a Kaiju brain with another, and when he makes this offer - when he makes this statement - Newton's reaction exceeds all his expectations.
Newtown doesn't even glance at his leg let alone mention it, and that powerhouse of a mouth momentarily stalls in disbelief.
And for the first time he hears someone's disbelief fuelled by awe instead of doubt, and a stuttering hesitation that he will retract his offer instead of expanding upon it, and at the look on Newton's face after he's given his end of the world justification for wanting to share the neural load he feels his chest constrict, and a foreign heat slowly ignites in the centre of it.
He knows by now that there are more ways to fly than just climbing into a cockpit, and that to pilot something is not just to guide and control and order; it's to be in tandem with something which seeks the same outcome as you do, and to give as much of yourself to that which freely offers itself back, and that when each party brings their strengths to bolster and their weaknesses to be filled, then the mission can be accomplished and the world can be saved and you can soar freely even though you're bound so tightly you can barely breathe.
He takes his glasses off before he connects his headset, an unavoidable aid he's needed for the last few years to bolster his now less than perfect vision. They're an inevitable price to pay for hours spent absorbing shapes and letters and screens and blackboards in a narrow beam of focus that's been guarded on all sides by a dense foam of numbers.
He doesn't stop to consider if they're Drift Compatible until after they've finished, and they're now waiting for the helicopter to take them back to the Shatterdome. It's evident they must be Compatible, because they Drifted seamlessly into themselves and each other and then the Breach and then the Kaiju themselves. They learnt all that they needed to know and more, and when it had finished his head was shaking and his stomach was churning and he still can't put a finger on what flash of memory is still making his heart race and his breathing stutter.
He still can't assign a number of priority against each thought and memory and experience that makes him want to at once both sew his mouth shut and scream until his voice breaks. Newton was given unrestricted access to plenty of bad memories and fears and rejections that make him want to do the former, but the prospect of someone finally understanding everything else there is about him makes him want to do the latter even more.
He knows that when they Drifted together what superseded all his other wants was his desire to pilot a Jaeger.
This aspiration has been with him since he was young, when he first learnt of their magnificence and employed his splendid imagination to dream of flight and fight and the controlled chaos of numbers underpinning it all. When he first knew he didn't want to remain a passive observer all his life, and instead wanted to be an active participant; when he wanted to be a pilot, not a passenger.
He knows that Newton will have seen this desire in all its blue blazing glory: how he wants to find a Jaeger, any Jaeger, because essentially it's just metal and wires and electric circuits but what's truly important is how it's controlled, because how it's controlled will not just be down to him: he won't have to run that risk of burdening a crushing responsibility he feels is still woven into his very skin, because a Jaeger needs two pilots and now that the inner secrets of his mind and heart have been laid bare, he knows exactly who he wants to fly alongside with.
He knows he's already made up his mind to find a Jaeger with or without Newton but oh God it has to be with him, it has to be, because it just won't be the same it won't be right with anyone else.
There are no numbers pointing the way to this conclusion, but it's the truest one he's ever calculated.
But whatever happens he's going to climb up into the control deck of a Jaeger and lock into its soul and fly; he's going to do it after all this is finished and the world is either saved or its on its knees, because there's only so many chances you get to try something and there's only so many times you can believe the word no.
He wastes half a second frozen with fear that he'll never be able to articulate these desires and justifications effectively to Newton, before it hits him that he doesn't have to. Thanks to the Drift, Newton already knows them and understands them and has already accepted them, and this is almost too much to organize so soon but maybe he doesn't have to structure and catalogue it all.
Not this time maybe not ever but especially not now; not now that Newton's shuffling towards him closer and closer and the man doesn't stop even when he's right next to him and is resting a shoulder against his, and pressing an arm against his, and sliding his hand into his and oh there's that heat again, but this time it's everywhere and it's burning hotter and deeper and feels more protective than any electric blanket of numbers he's ever had wrapped around him.
His head is spinning but feels more settled than it's ever been before, and as he turns his face to look into Newton's own he feels the ground sucked out from beneath his feet. Newton's head bends and he has to close his eyes, as grinning lips are pressed up softly against his ear, and the howling vortex of background noise ceases, contracts and then vanishes completely.
He could be in space, or in a void, or facing a fresh chalkboard with not even a hint of dust upon it.
The only thing filling up his world now are the four words that Newton slowly speaks to him, which pour like liquid gold into his ear.
"…I'll go with you."