I.
The early light of the dawn does little to warm the cold, imposing structure of the Hong Kong Shatterdome. The steel and concrete exoskeleton is impervious to both Kaiju and the ordinary flow of life. Inside the Shatterdome, life is married to the carefully regulated 24 hour clock run with all the efficiency of military practice. For the rest of the world, there is variance, change to daily routines as the days shift into new seasons and roll into new years. The rising of the sun changes minutely from one day to the next. The only man to ever frown on the sun for being undependable is composed more of numbers and abstract mathematics than blood and bone.
At exactly 6:58 AM, Hermann Gottlieb walks into the k-science lab carrying a ceramic mug of hot tea in his hand. It is in the first hour of the day that most of his better work gets done. The rest of the staff, a variety of PhDs and accompanying grad students, don't arrive until eight, inundating the lab with superfluous noise and incessant chatter that only serve as an annoying distraction.
He is three steps into the lab (leaning heavily on his cane because his leg is incredibly stiff in the morning) when he observes that the lab is not, as it usually is this early, entirely deserted. Newton Geiszler, Hermann notices with a frown, is slumped over a desk, bathed in the sickening yellow glow of a specimen tank behind him. Papers are skewed at various angles beneath his akimbo arms, and a small puddle of saliva is staining a half-completed PPDC data log.
Forcing a burst of air through his nose in annoyance, Hermann places his mug of tea on his own (pristine) desk and makes a detour over to the sleeping biologist. Looking down at the unabashed disarray that is his labmate - shirt sleeves rolled up to expose gaudy tattoos, hair sticking up in tufts, glasses askew with the left lenses mashed against his eye - Hermann tsks.
He taps his cane firmly against Newt's leg.
"Dr. Geiszler." Again. "Dr. Geiszler."
Not even a twitch in response.
"For the love of God, Newton, wake up!"
Newt starts awake, bolting upright in his chair and blinking rapidly. He quickly peels off the PPDC log that has grafted itself to the side of his face.
"Dammit, Hermann," he groans, "What time is it?"
"It is seven o'clock in the morning, Newton," Hermann informs stiffly, "If I were you, I would take the next hour before the others arrive to make it look like you haven't been sleeping in a nest of unfinished paperwork."
Hermann stalks back to his own desk as Newton stretches and yawns loudly behind him.
II.
When the Jaeger Program starts losing funding in favor of the Wall of Life, k-science loses staff members steadily and quickly until, in only three months time, the Hong Kong shatterdome's lab goes from being a fully staffed facility to a two-man team. The first few weeks like this are difficult; the lab is suddenly almost empty, and the silence is strange for both Hermann and Newt (though Hermann isn't about to complain about it). Newt, on the other hand, finds it disconcerting and becomes even more talkative to combat it: talking to himself, to Hermann, to no one in general, in order to fill up the space.
"I can't believe those idiots think that a giant wall is going to keep the Kaiju out! Now, I may not be an engineer, but I don't have to be one to know that that is a stupid idea."
Newton slices through the tissue of a lung sample with particular gusto.
"Sure, maybe it could keep out category one and two Kaiju, maybe a small category three , but anything bigger than that? If they don't walk right through it, they'll tear it down in a matter of hours - days at the most!"
A thinly sliced lung sample finds itself mounted carefully on a glass slide.
"And what happens then? After the Jaeger Program gets completely shut down, we'll be back to stopping Kaiju with airstrikes and nukes - and look how that turned out for us the first time!"
Hermann yawns as Newt slides the tissue sample beneath a microscope. Out of the corner of his eye, Newt sees Hermann's head bob forward and then jerk back up as the mathematician fights off sleep.
"Not tired are you, Hermann?" Newt goads. A glance at the wall's digital clock shows the time to be 21:37.
Hermann looks at Newt over the rims of his glasses from where he is situated before his computer's 3D projection. Since the cuts, both he and Newt have been working longer, harder hours to make up for the sudden drop in k-science productivity.
"I've been up since 5:30 this morning, Newton. I only regret that sleep has to interrupt my work." Hermann turns back to his console and continues to make minute adjustments to the model he is working on. "Even if the PPDC fails to recognize the importance of my research, I don't intend to abandon it based on the whims of a few short-sighted political figures."
"That's probably the only thing you and I agree on, Hermann," Newt responds, adjusting the focus of the microscope's lens. "And that is, what do a bunch of stuffed-up, talking heads know about science?" He jots of few illegible notes into a notebook (there are cartoonish doodles of Kaiju in the margins).
"Many scientists agree with the PPDC, you know," Hermann says after a pregnant pause, "They say that our work is becoming less relevant; that we are wasting time and resources in the Jaeger Program when The Wall is the obvious choice for the future." The acidity of the words are not masked by the groggy yawn that follows.
Newt doesn't know which news bulletins Hermann has been reading, but they sound like a total drag. (Weeks later, Newt will learn why Hermann's words sound so bitter. In the chaos of shared memories, Newt will hear those same words come from the mouth of Hermann's father, Lars Gottlieb, the creator of the Jaeger Program and one of the many to abandon it.)
"And those people, Hermann, are what I like to call 'wrong'. If they cared about actual scientific research, they wouldn't be building a wall to keep it out!" Newt pulls the slide from the microscope, labels it, and sets it aside. "Besides, this is the work that's going to save the world. After all this is over, the papers and history books are only going to have room for two names, dude: Newton Geislzer, brilliant biologist whose critical work saved billions of lives, and Hermann Gottlieb, stuffy mathematician sidekick."
One corner of his mouth pulled upward in wry amusement, Newt swivels around in his chair to smirk at his labmate. To his disappointment, he finds Hermann slumped forward, asleep in front of his computer console. His bowed head phases into the projection of the model he's been working on all night, and his glasses have slipped to the end of his nose.
Newt huffs a little at the wasted joke but decides that maybe Hermann's got the right idea. Lack of sleep in the past week has started to wear both of them down. No use trying to take notes when your brain feels like it's lying five feet away on the floor. The clock on the wall reads 21:53.
Hermann remains asleep as Newt cleans up his side of the lab, organizing his notes, storing his samples, and sterilizing his equipment. Before he leaves, Newt briefly considers just leaving Hermann there, but he instead wads up a piece of paper and chucks it in Hermann's direction. It bounces off Hermann's shoulder, and Hermann jolts awake just in time to catch the glasses that have slid the rest of the way off his nose.
From the doorway, Newt gives a mocking salute and flicks off the lights on his side of the lab before disappearing down the hall.
Mumbling something about inconsiderate biologists, Hermann stretches out his leg, which has stiffened during his brief lapse into sleep. There is no point in continuing his work tonight, so he makes a note of the last change he made to the model and shuts down his computer.
The walk to his quarters is brief, and his bed is welcome. That night he dreams about Newt throwing bits of Kaiju at him, and he wakes in darkness to mistake the shadows by his bed to be Newt crouched by his side.
III.
In September there is a lull in activity in the Hong Kong shatterdome. The west coast of North America has been taking a beating, but no Kaiju have made landfall on this side of the Pacific in six weeks. With no samples brought in from their last Kaiju - Shaolin Rogue had torn the category three to shreds, much of the carnage sinking to the bottom of the ocean by the time the ships arrived to scavenge the pieces - Newt is especially at a loss of things to do.
So when Newt fails to make an appearance in the lab for two days, Hermann doesn't take any special note of his absence. Given the lack of fresh Kaiju samples, slow progress of his work was to be expected. But when the third and then fourth day passes without a sighting of Newt, not even at meals, Hermann notices. Even without work to do, Newt would normally be inclined to stop by at least briefly to ruffle Hermann's feathers before sweeping off like a whirlwind of to some other part of the Shatterdome. The silence of his absence has become loud.
At 11:45 Hermann descends from the monstrous blackboard, sets down his chalk, and picks up his cane. Instead of heading to the mess hall for lunch, he goes to Newt's quarters, not far from the lab, and knocks. When there is no response he tries the large, metal door, and finds it moveable; Newt hasn't bothered to lock it. Without invitation, Hermann enters the dark room and pulls the door shut behind him.
His hand fumbles along the wall in the blackness before he manages to flip on one of the light switches, which sends one half of the fluorescent lighting strip above flickering to life. Newt's quarters are a mess. Clothes lie in various piles on the floor; books and computer printouts coat most of the horizontal surfaces in the room; and various kaiju memorabilia decorate what space is left.
On the bed Newt lies silently, a pillow over his head, his limbs splayed out, sticking haphazardly out of the mangled sheets.
"Good morning, Newton," Hermann says, his voice crisp and formal. Newt doesn't respond.
Hermann picks his way across the room to the bathroom. White capped orange pill bottles line the top of the sink, and Hermann bends at the waist to peer with familiarity at the labels. Reaching for a particular bottle, he knocks two of the small, peach colored tablets into his hand. A glass sits on the edge of the sink, and he fills it before walking with the pills back into the bedroom.
He places the pills and water on the table beside Newt's bed. A beat passes by, and he draws himself up before saying,
"It's been much too quiet without you, Newton; I can hardly concentrate." Another beat, and he cautiously places a firm hand on Newt's shoulder, the thin sheet an insulator between their skin, "I will see you in the lab."
Withdrawing his hand, Hermann retreats, turns off the fluorescent light, and shuts the door behind him.
Newt does not appear for the rest of the day, but the following morning, he is already in the lab when Hermann arrives. Muttering excitedly, he is engrossed in making meticulous comparisons between old and more recent samples.
They exchange greetings casually, and the previous day is not mentioned. The weight of a hand on a shoulder hovers between them.
