Full Summary:

E-Day, Extermination Day, is when everything changed. The Kaiju won, and all the Jaegers were destroyed. Having seen this outcome in the Drift, Hermann and Newt fight to help save humanity and before it's too late and partially succeed, only to be separated. Newt is sure of Hermann's death and secludes himself from the last remnants of humanity.

Five years later, Newt is an accomplished inventor and mechanic and lives happily in his (totally awesome) post-apocalyptic base in abandoned Berlin, occasionally getting visitors asking for inventions or other services. His life is turned upside-down, however, when an achingly familiar face appears in his city...except that it's ten years younger than it should be.

This is so much fun to write. o3o I have five chapters planned right now, but I know it's going to be longer than that, and I'm swearing to myself I'm gonna finish this one.

Hope you all enjoy something from me that's a little deeper and more technical! :D

Newt stared at the sky stretched before him from his rooftop perch. The sky was the wrong color, the wrong feeling, different than he remembered and what it was made to be. It was opalescent and grey with ash, dust and broken families, broken hearts, broken minds…

But Newt didn't like to look back. He knew there was no real point, and he was happy as he was, relatively speaking. He was alive, which was more than he could say for most of the human population. The Kaiju had won, and Newt had known it was going to happen before anyone else. The first Drift had shown him the outcome of the war, the inevitable destruction of his species in a blaze of artificial fire, Exterminators and Harvesters, but he hadn't understood: not yet.

The second Drift solidified the vague doom eating away at the hindquarters of Newt's thoughts, the paralyzing fear in his heart realized fully as he stared at the man in front of him with shocked awe; his insufferable colleague, the only man who could pull off a sweater vest in the middle of summer, who could unravel the mysteries of the universe with nothing but determination and a literal ton of chalk, the man with whom he had shared everything, the only other human being who knew the final fate of their race.

Newt didn't look at the sky much anymore. It reminded him too much of the past and looked too far away through the lenses of a gas mask. Besides, Newt liked to be positive and productive, and dwelling didn't help anyone with anything, really.

Slipping off of the rooftop down to the rusting fire escape, Newt whistled shrilly, the tinny rattle of the sound echoing through and out of his mask setting his teeth on edge. He would never get used to that haunting noise, no matter how many times he used it to call Ares back to him. The Imperial eagle only needed one summons; any sound carried in the overpowering silence of post-apocalyptic Berlin.

Newt finished his descent to the dusty ground below in several bounds and slides, then brushed the rust residue from his gloves with a flourish as he began the short walk back to his home; at least, he called it home. It was more like a secret base, now that he thought about it. Well, mostly secret. He did get visitors every now and then, travelers who stopped by wanting inventions or supplies. They never stayed long, and Newt didn't mind. He didn't like company, preferring the silent companionship of his machines and Ares's snarky commentary.

As if on cue, the Imperial eagle swooped down from the overhanging clouds, looking for all the world like a small dragon descending on its unsuspecting prey. Thankfully, Newt was expecting Ares and threw his thickly gloved left hand into the air just in time for the bird to sink his claws into the material. A wide grin spread over Newt's face, invisible as it was behind his mask.

"It's good to see you, Ares," he said brightly, his voice too loud and too close in his ears. The bird, if that's what he could be called, ruffled his feathers and chirped. The long, scaled tail that grew from underneath his regular tail feathers curled around Newt's arm, stabilizing him as he stared at the human in silence with burning golden eyes. "Well fine, if you don't feel like talking. I hope you've gotten enough food, 'cause we may not be going out for a while." Newt glanced at the cloud cover once again. "Looks like a storm is coming." Ares didn't speak, and Newt didn't complain; just having someone else there with him was good enough.

Newt had found the Imperial eagle when he was just a fledgling, mutated and barely able to fly. He had raised the bird and studied it, discovered its superior intellect and named it Ares, after the Greek god of war. 'It' was a 'he' now, and, even if he didn't actually possess the ability to talk, Newt's imagination was enough to provide him with company; plus, the bird's mutations were too incredible not to investigate. In addition to his tail, Ares's head was intermittently scaled, and short, scaled spikes ran from the plume at the base of his head to the tip of his tail. Even his wings showed some scaling of the skin over the humerus, radius and alula, causing the creature to look not unlike a feathered wyvern. Though Newt hadn't quite discovered the natural use for these mutations yet, other than possibly stability or protection, he was currently satisfied with his conclusion that they were there 'to look freaking awesome'.

The sky had darkened considerably and the wind was picking up by the time Newt reached the entrance to his underground dwelling. He transferred Ares to his shoulder before proceeding into the first of several descending antechambers designed to filter the air and prevent Newt's home from becoming a giant, carbon dioxide filled gas chamber. Heavy metal doors complete with equally intimidating locks sealed the rooms completely while a filtering system of Newt's own design cleared the air in succession until it was pure enough to breathe safely.

No one was entirely sure why carbon dioxide was so prevalent in the atmosphere these days; last time Newt had checked, the atmosphere was twelve percent CO2, much greater than the usual 0.03 percent. The air hadn't been toxic after the Exterminators, but monitors had shown increased levels of carbon dioxide only a month or so after the first Harvesters began their work. The remaining scientists that could still get in contact with each other all had different theories, though the prevailing one (and the one Newt agreed with) was that the destruction of most of Earth's plant life, coupled with some new, apparently unintentional Kaiju landscaping that created some toxic, above-ground gas vents, had pushed the levels of CO2 far beyond normal levels. The Kaiju didn't seem to mind, but Earth was now basically uninhabitable, not counting the few plant and animal species that had adapted to the new climate. There was enough oxygen left that filtering air wasn't really a problem, but a few minutes outside without a mask left a human trembling and unable to see. Another minute or two would lead to hypercapnia-induced convulsions and death.

After the antechambers had regulated the airflow around him, Newt made his way through several more sparsely furnished rooms (which he used for consultations and entertaining when necessary) before reaching his main living quarters. The base was constantly growing; it was an abstract illustration of Newt's own mental state, a twisting maze of metal, gears and wires and pulleys and pistons cranking away in a never-ending, symphonic ode to Newt's creativity and ingenuity. He loved it.

Aside from the filtering chambers and meeting rooms, the base contained six bedrooms (furnished using whatever Newt could find in the city above him), five bathrooms (complete with running water that was constantly recycled using a device of Newt's own design), two laboratories, a mechanic's workshop, a medical suite (filled with tools both made and scavenged from the local hospital), a sitting room, a kitchen, a greenhouse and several other unfinished chambers that Newt hadn't devised a use for yet. The scientist would be the first to admit that it was, perhaps, a little over the top, but he needed something to keep him busy between the rare visits from customers.

The sitting room was relatively cozy for a post-apocalyptic secret base. Several gas lamps, which Newt began to light after he stripped off his heavy cloak, were scattered around the room, bathing the chamber in warm light. Several cushy sofas and armchairs sat in the center of the room around a short-legged table; the furniture was a little ratty, as most had to be brought down through the base in several pieces and then repaired, but it was still perfectly comfortable.

Once the room was well-lit, Newt collapsed in his favorite chair, causing Ares to spring to off to his perch in an undignified flutter with an irate squawk.

"Sorry, bud," Newt said as he set his back-sheath (holding his gun, Hardship) on the table and yanked off his gas mask with a sigh. "Forgot about you for a minute, you know how it is. Wanna get this thing off as soon as possible." He stared down at the mask now resting in his lap, tracing the ornate, embossed designs in the metal casing with his thumb. The original design had been his pride and joy during his time in Beijing; the mask didn't need replacement filters – some of the most irritating design flaws Newt had ever come across – thanks to an in-mask, mechanical filtering system that was positioned in the mask's long nose; it was fashioned after a plague doctor's mask. It took nearly a month of trial and error to get correct, but it had proven its worth during the six month journey to Berlin. The decorative, metal outer covering hadn't been added until Newt was well situated in his new home in (or rather, underneath) Berlin. The mask, along with Newt's tendencies toward scavenging from the city, had earned him the nickname 'the Vulture of Berlin,' a title which he supported whole-heartedly. He thought it was cool and preferred that people didn't know his real name anyway.

Setting the mask aside, Newt transferred his attention to massive gun on the table. Modified (heavily) from a handheld harpoon gun, the weapon was capable of shooting six, eight inch, solid steel bolts within fifteen seconds from its six barrels and was easily reloadable. Newt had built the gun and several different types of harpoons and arrows along with his mask when he was still in China and named it Hardship (after one of his old favorite Kaiju). These days, he mainly used it for hunting and warding off any dangerous animals during his excursions, but he had had to deter thieves and whatnot during his trip from Beijing to Berlin. Thankfully, he hadn't had to test the gun on any Kaiju or Miniju (as he called the smaller Kaiju that often popped out of the random rifts that spontaneously appeared); he doubted it would hurt a full size Kaiju, but the thirty foot Miniju might go down after some poisoned bolts.

The occasional rifts that opened were another scientific mystery that even Newt could only begin to explain. He thought the rifts were probably the result of the Precursors tearing several different, large breaches around the world, further blurring the edges between their two dimensions. After prolonged use and exposure, the pathways pulled the dimensions together, grating them against each other like massive tectonic plates, creating shivers and rips that couldn't be tracked and allowed more Kaiju through. Newt knew it sounded a little crazy, but hell, he was known for crazy, and this was alien, inter-dimensional crap. No one really knew what was going on anyway. It was possible the Precursors themselves didn't know what was causing the rifts, as they hadn't stopped in five years; of course, it was also entirely possible that they just didn't care. More likely, actually.

Loath to leave the comfort of his chair, Newt pulled Hardship into his lap and began some quick maintenance work, greasing the mechanisms and cleaning the barrels for a few minutes before convincing himself that he needed to go water the plants. The greenhouse was near the back of the completed part of the base and up a long flight of currently unlit stairs, so Newt grabbed a lantern and called Ares to his shoulder before beginning the trek to his plants.

The base's design was rather convoluted; Newt had actually run out of hallways to build from and was beginning a new passage from his labs, which he passed and ignored on his way to the greenhouse. Though some of the rooms (like the medical suite) were sealed and converted basements, he had done everything else himself; all the excavating, the finishing, furnishing, even the plumbing had been completed with the help of a few small machines he had pieced together, and he couldn't have been more proud. It had definitely been a labor of love, but the years of welding, forging metal, moving rock and learning from trial and error had definitely been worth the trouble. As he would never have children, the closest things Newt would get was Ares and his base, and he was perfectly happy with that.

The greenhouse was one of the few rooms that had electricity, so Newt squinted against the artificial lights once he had made it up the steps and put out the lantern. The water recycling machine, which doubled as a generator and worked almost like an hydroelectric dam, was next to (albeit a two dozen feet below) the greenhouse in Newt's workshop, so running wires along the walls hadn't been a big deal, and lights were definitely necessary for the plants to grow. One wall was almost entirely lined with crates of cylindrical, artificial-sunlight-producing light bulbs he had taken over several days from the nearest hardware store warehouse; the bulbs lasted a long time, so he wasn't worried about running out. The hardest part of building the greenhouse was bringing the wood for the rows of growing tables from the same hardware store to the room. He had gotten a truck running for the transfer day after scaring away several mutated wolves (at least, they looked like wolves) intent on having him for lunch, but the boards were awkwardly long and extremely irritating to get around the tight corners of the hallways.

Nevertheless, after months of preparation, the greenhouse was eventually finished and was now producing its third crop of modified wheat, potatoes, spinach, blackberries, carrots and tomatoes. Newt had hoarded dozens of different types of seeds after E-Day (what the survivors called the first day the Exterminators came), but had only managed to modify those six species so far. They grew well and were nutritious, so he didn't mind. Every now and then a traveler would want to trade sugar, milk, bread, beef or other luxuries for his services, but those didn't come along very often; apparently, some colonies had managed to keep, breed and trade livestock, but Newt hadn't managed to get his hands on a cow quite yet (though it was next on his list).

None of the current crops were quite ready to harvest yet, so Newt filled an old watering can (which he had found in someone's garden on the way into the city) from the hose bolted to the wall and made his way down the rows, chatting amicably with Ares – who had foregone Newt's shoulder for a roost at the end of the room – the plants and himself whenever the quiet became too oppressive. He sang as well, mostly his own melodies, as he composed and wrote songs in his spare time with a guitar he had salvaged from another home. He had long gotten over the fact that he was rooting around in other people's homes; the occupants were dead and gone after all, and there were no bodies. The Exterminators apparently didn't hurt any non-human material and left no remains, though no one knew why or how.

Once he had finished watering and pruning, Newt checked the clock perched on a shelf near the door. There were only two clocks in the base, if one excluded Newt's pocket watch. The one in Newt's bedroom was a digital alarm clock so that he didn't sleep in, while the greenhouse clock was an old analog that had taken Newt several hours to refurbish to working condition. It was easy to lose time among his plants, so a clock in the greenhouse was a must. The current time was five passed nine, so Newt sighed, waved at his plants and grabbed his lantern before heading down the steps towards his bedroom. Ares followed, swooping into the room as soon as the door was opened.

Newt's bedroom was relatively large and furnished not unlike the sitting room. A queen sized bed (which had been an absolute pain to get into the base, but was just as absolutely worth it, in Newt's opinion) occupied much of the far wall and was flanked with two bedside tables, each of which sported a gas lamp. Much of the metal coated floor was covered with a thick rug Newt had taken from a bedroom topside. A mirror on the wall behind the door reflected a squashy armchair, which had to be broken into several pieces to make the trip through the hallways and was now pushed into the near left corner. A small bookshelf stocked with whatever reading materials Newt could get his hands on was next to the chair, and a gas lamp hung from the ceiling between them. The right wall was lined with hooks for Newt's small selection of clothes.

Ares flew to his nest in far right corner – which Newt had made in a gnarled branch and attached to the wall over a large pan to catch any late night droppings (Newt cleaned the tray every morning and had long since gotten used to the faint smell) – while Newt lit one of the lamps, stepped out of his boots, stripped off his gloves, jacket and shirt and transferred them to their respective hooks. His tool belt came off next, followed by his pants, which were each hung up as well. Now entirely naked, Newt rolled his shoulders and did some stretches before slinking into bed. Foregoing his tablet (which he had modified from a tablet he had found in a remarkably pristine electronics store), the man pulled his blanket up to his hips and plucked his book off the nearest bedside table for a little reading before bedtime.

This life was definitely not what Newt had pictured when he had entered the PPDC so many years ago, and it definitely wasn't ideal, but he couldn't deny that he enjoyed it. Simplicity for survival was challenging, rewarding and interesting to say the least, and the former biologist was never bored with his life. There was just the one thing that was hard to live with… Sighing, Newt fingered the charm on the cord around his neck; he had had the little moonstone eagle for years before E-Day and rarely took it off. Though he had almost discarded it several times through the past five years, he just couldn't bring himself to destroy the last little tidbit of the doctor he had loved for years and would never see again. A little reminiscing every now and then never hurt anyone, after all.

After several minutes of reading the same sentence repeatedly, Newt returned his book to its place beside his alarm clock and dimmed the lamp to its lowest setting so it would easily burn though the night before settling onto his stomach, hands clasped under his pillow. Getting to sleep always took a while, but Newt didn't mind; he liked thinking about what he was going to make or look for the next day.

It wasn't a particularly easy or glamorous life, but it was Newt's life, and he found it was almost everything he had ever wanted.

Almost.

I have a map of Newt's base on my computer, which I might post later if I start getting confused. :P I might also get some references of Newt (and later, Hermann's) outfits, because I reeeaaaaaallllllyyyyyyyy like them.

I'm always open for questions (Tumblr is probably the best place to reach me; .com) and comments/reviews are greatly loved! Anyway, thanks for reading!