It all starts, for Newt, with a call in the middle of his kidney lecture. It's his third year teaching, and he's in the process of finishing his fifth doctorate (which has to be some kind of record). He has a growing reputation as a cool professor on campus, which is how he ends up with so many people wanting to take his classes that he's teaching during the summer too (he could use the extra income anyway).
As a rule, he leaves his phone on at all times because he figures his friends know better than to call him during class. Ergo, anyone who contacts him must have a very good reason to be interrupting his very important task of shaping the minds of the next generation (or rather, his generation, seeing as most of them are at most a few years younger than he is).
But still, he won't deny it's a bit embarrassing when Guren no Yumiya starts blaring as he's describing the Bowman's capsule.
"Hello?" he says, noting with a flash of – what, geeky pride? – that a few of his students had surreptitiously checked their bags when his phone rang.
"Newt? Thank God you're here."
"Tendo? I'm teaching right now."
"I know. Sorry. I couldn't reach the Becket brothers, and you're the only other friend I have out-of-state." He sounds strangely calm, Newt thinks. "I need you to call a number for me."
"What's going on?"
"Please, just call," Tendo says, voice starting to crack.
"Right. Give it to me." He reaches for a pen and flips over a page of his lecture notes, hand poised over a blank spot between the cramped lines of print and handwritten annotations.
"Four one five, five one seven, one nine nine two." Newt repeats each number after him, scribbling the digits down on the corner of the paper. Tendo begs him to call as quickly as he can before hanging up without any further explanation.
"Sorry about that," Newt says to the class seated in front of him, forcing humor into his voice. "Give me a minute or two." He dials the number. No one picks up. He tries again. Still nothing. A vague sense of dread rises in his chest as he listens to the dial tone for the third time. Fourth. He calls Tendo.
"Hey. No one picked up."
Tendo unleashes a hurricane of curses and incoherent half-sentences and dry sobs.
"Tendo, I need you to tell me what's going on," he says, aware that the whispering in the room is increasing.
"Just – just pull up the news, ok? I have to go." He hangs up without another word, leaving Newt looking uselessly at the phone in his hand.
"Give me another minute," he says to his restive class, switching the projector into standby mode. The headline, bolded in size thirty-six font, hits him as soon as he opens the Yahoo homepage. Incredulous, he clicks on the link and skims through the article, glancing at the grainy photos of the thing.
"Can I your attention please?" he calls out over the murmuring. The room quiets down. "Do any of you have family or friends in San Francisco?" A good portion of the class raises their hands. His stomach twists.
He taps his fingers on the podium, turning over different words in his head to find a better way to break the news than Tendo had done.
"Um. I want you to, uh, prepare yourselves. If you need to, you're free to leave the room or make a call, send a text, anything."
"Did something happen?" someone from the back asks.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Newt replies weakly, turning the projector back on. "See for yourself."
There's a dead quiet as thirty pairs of eyes absorb the information on the screen in front of them. Newt already knows what the words are, his brain having already memorized the most important facts and looping them over and over again in a futile effort to grasp what's going on.
August 10, 2013, 7:00 a.m. (Pacific Daylight Time), size: approximately 300 feet tall, weighing at least 2500 tons, earthquake of 7.1 on the Richter scale preceded its appearance in the San Francisco Bay by half an hour, estimated total damage caused so far: 325 million U.S. dollars.
The world is ending.
"This is bullshit," the same person from the back shouts. "Bullshit." He snatches up his bag and storms outside, followed more calmly by seven other students. The rest of the room sits in stunned silence.
"Well, I guess class is over today," Newt says with as even of a tone as he can keep. "I – there's not gonna be any class for the rest of the week, but if you need someone to talk to, I'll be in my office or the lab. I mean, if there's anything at all that I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."
A sense of helplessness fills him as he watches his students file gravely out, and he slumps down into his chair. He pushes his glasses up and rubs his eyes. He's only twenty-three, for crying out loud; how the hell is he supposed to deal with this? Who is he kidding? How is he even supposed to help anyone else?
And he squishes down the guiltiest thought of all: holy shit, that thing is fucking awesome.
He works up the nerve after the third attack (codename Kaiceph, breach date: June 1, 2014, tore through Cabo San Lucas, taken down by a nuclear strike in the heart of the city, God, I wish I'd seen it in person).
"A Kaiju?" the woman at the tattoo parlor asks, unconcealed disgust in her voice. Newt shrinks back from her scathing glare, the paper with the design he'd commissioned hanging limply in his grip. He tries to smile.
"Yeah, it's like a tribute, or a memorial, or something."
"Get the fuck out of my shop."
"No, it's not what – look, my best friend… he – he lost his grandfather in the first attack. And I had a grad student who was at UC San Francisco on a summer research program in 2013. She'd been working in my lab for months, and I two of my friends were on their honeymoon in Cabo last week, and it's – it's about them and about not forgetting, you know what I mean?" The words rush out of his mouth, raw, jumbled, partly because there's a strange weight in his chest, mostly because the Kaiju are so fascinating and he feels so guilty.
She hesitates, the full force of her withering stare still directed at him. Shuffling his feet nervously, he coughs and looks down at the ground.
"Get out of my shop," she says again, less firmly this time.
"They – they hurt at first, don't they? Tattoos? But after a while, the pain goes away, even though the marks on your skin don't."
The silence that follows brings him back to the classroom nine and a half months ago and the call that had signaled the beginning of the end. She snatches the paper from him and studies it more closely.
"Where'd you want this again?"
"I don't know what goes through a Kaiju's head," the woman on television says. "I'd like to think we surprised it. And when it bled, I'd like to think it was scared. But I know one thing for sure: it felt pain. And the message was clear – we are far bigger than we look."
Newt's ninety-nine percent certain his mouth's been hanging open for the past five minutes. The spoon lies on the table where he'd dropped it, a piece of cereal still stuck to its bottom. He drags the chair closer to the television as the report shifts back to footage of – what had they called it? "Brawler Yukon"?
"Jaeger." Hunter.
A giant, vaguely hominoid machine, moved through the combined neural control of two pilots. What declassified information the news station's allowed to release passes into his brain, stored away for future processing because at the moment his thoughts are completely occupied by awe and a growing excitement that Evangelion and Gundam and every mecha anime from his childhood are things that are happening.
"… against the Kaiju. The Pan Pacific Defense Corps has just announced that several more Jaegers are scheduled to be completed and deployed by the end of the year. They will be housed in special complexes called 'Shatterdomes,' the largest of which is currently under construction in Hong Kong. Recruitment offices will open at select locations within the next few weeks. Candidates must be at least sixteen years of age and are encouraged to enlist with a family member or close friend. For more information, contact…"
Not only are they making more of these, but they're also offering to let anyone have a shot at piloting? No way. This can't be real. He defaults to stereotypes and pinches himself on the arm. Nope. Not dreaming. He is in heaven.
He toys with the idea of enlisting (he'd get to see the Kaiju up close and personal and live out his childhood dreams: score!), typing in the address of the PPDC website as he finishes his soggy breakfast. He clicks through all the links, speed-reading through pages of both information and propaganda. The last page details the key members of the Jaeger Program. He scrolls through it, giving each picture (mug shot, he thinks) a cursory glance before one in the middle catches his eye. He takes a closer look and chokes.
There, with the ugliest haircut Newt has ever seen and an equally hideous sweater vest, is Hermann Gottlieb.
"Are you kidding?" Newt says out loud to himself, scanning the short biography by the photo. "What would a guy like Hermann have to do with awesome mechs?"
He eats his words a second later when he gets to the line proudly stating that Dr. Gottlieb wrote the Jaeger programming code, punk, what have you done with your life that's been this awesome? Ok, that may have been an exaggeration, but he feels a sense of having been cheated in life because no one's ever asked him to join a project as cool as giant alien-punching robots.
Put out, he shuts the laptop down and shoves it into his bag. He tries to convince himself it really doesn't matter at all that Hermann gets to work with the Jaeger Program and fails miserably. He is a biologist after all, and Hermann's involved in the one project that has the best chances of getting him actual Kaiju remains for research.
Fine then. He'll just have to work his way in. The Jaeger Program had better prepare itself; here, there be Dr. Newton Geiszler.
His hands shake as he takes the sealed jar out of its layers of packaging, something bordering veneration in his movements. He holds it up to the light and turns it, looking over the fist-sized chunk of flesh that had cost him almost four months of his salary.
This was once part of a monster that destroyed an entire metropolis.
The realization hits Newt with such an awful clarity that his euphoria sours and he almost drops the jar. He tells himself it's for the good of mankind if someone actually took the time to understand the Kaiju and that it pays to have a decent respect for the prowess of the enemy.
But that doesn't stop the statistics and the faces of his dead friends from flashing through his mind as he sets the jar down carefully – carefully – on the kitchen table.
The phone rings, and Newt irritably puts the forceps down on the dissection tray. Pulling off his gloves, he flicks them into the bin with the biohazard bag (he'll have to empty it at the lab soon) and picks up the receiver.
"Yeah?"
"Oh, Newt, what have you done?" his elderly landlady asks, distressed.
"Sorry, what?"
"They drove up in black cars and asked where you live," she explains. "They wouldn't tell me why they wanted to see you."
His blood chills.
"I – look, it's probably nothing. I'll deal with this, ok? You don't need to worry," he says hurriedly, hanging up as she starts the say something about the rent. He looks around himself at his sizeable collection of Kaiju parts that were obtained in ways that could possibly be construed as "illegal." Yeah, it would probably be for the best that his mysterious visitor not see those.
Walking over to the closet, he yanks it open and starts shoving in the largest of the specimen containers. He hides the smaller jars in the mostly empty pantry, leaving only a few more incriminating pieces in the dining area when the doorbell sounds. He jumps at the noise.
"Wait a sec," he hollers, stashing away the last things and closing the pantry door behind him. He crosses over to the entryway and takes a deep breath.
"Can I help you?" he asks, opening the door. Everything about the man standing there screams military: from his immaculate uniform to his ramrod straight posture and his buzz cut. Newt isn't sure who he is, but his face is worryingly familiar.
"Good evening, Dr. Geiszler. I'm Marshal Stacker Pentecost from the PPDC – "
That's who it is. One of the former pilots of Coyote Tango and the new leader of the Jaeger Program. Newt's heart rate skyrockets.
"Look, about the Kaiju, there aren't technically any legislative regulation… oh, you're not here for that, are you?"
The marshal eyes him warily.
"Is there something the PPDC should know about, Dr. Geiszler?"
"No, no. Nothing. Come on in." He steps aside to allow Pentecost into the apartment. "It's, uh, it's not much, but you know how it is, what with the rising costs of living and all," he says, neglecting to mention that it's the cost of the smuggled Kaiju organs more than anything that's forced him to sell almost all his furniture and live off cheap takeout.
"I'll make this brief," Pentecost says as Newt ushers him in to the kitchen and dining room combo. "The board has reviewed your ground-breaking research in artificial tissue replication as well as your extensive background in biochemistry and anatomy, and as a result the Jaeger Program would like to extend an invitation to join its K-Science lab."
Newt stares at him blankly.
"Sorry, could you repeat that again?"
"K-Science is offering you a job," Pentecost says, clearly annoyed at having to repeat himself.
"Are you serious? K-Science? You want me to work in K-Science? As in the K-Science lab? Do you even need to ask? Of course I will! Just give me a week or so to tie up loose ends in the university. Wow, I can't believe – me. K-Science. Wow."
"Very well. When you are ready to go, call this number, and we'll arrange for transportation to the Anchorage Shatterdome." Pentecost slides him a business card and turns to leave.
"By the way, Doctor," he says at the door. Newt looks up from the card. "The PPDC has been monitoring your… 'purchases' for some time now. You should choose your dealers more wisely next time."
Alaska in early autumn is about the same as Massachusetts in late autumn. And it hasn't even started snowing yet.
"We're a bit short on space at the moment," Pentecost shouts over the whir of the helicopter blades. Newt doesn't pay him much attention, his focus directed instead at the people who plainly have no clue how to handle delicate specimen. "You'll be sharing the lab with the other Anchorage K-Science member."
"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Hey, careful how you move that. That is an extremely rare gland from a Category II, and I'd prefer it to be intact."
"Would you like to see your quarters first or the lab?" the marshal ask him as they enter the Shatterdome.
"Lab. Definitely the lab," Newt replies, taking in the hustle and bustle around them. Stacker guides him through a grid of corridors, the path cementing itself in Newt's memory as they travel it.
"As I mentioned previously, the Anchorage K-Science lab currently employs another researcher in addition to you. You'll each have half of the lab space, but I must warn you ahead of time that he is rather fastidious. Here we are. That's your side."
Newt rounds the corner and follows Pentecost's finger to a workbench surrounded by plastic-wrapped equipment. Squinting, he estimates the size he has to work with; he can probably fit all of his old lab stuff in there as well. He steps into the room, and something crinkles under his feet.
Hazmat tape.
His eyes trace the line down the center of the room before he shifts his gaze to the other side of the room. The wall is dominated by three large chalkboards, two of which are filled with tiny, cramped writing. A figure stands at the top of a tall ladder, scribbling furiously in the upper corner of the last board.
"Sorry, let me finish this calculation," the man says without turning around. Newt grins, stepping over the demarcation on the floor.
"Hey, it's been a while, hasn't it?"
The man stops writing abruptly, the squeaking of the chalk cutting off cleanly.
"Nice to see you again, Hermann."
A/N: "Bowman's capsule" is just a really funny term for some reason ok. Also, don't even try to tell me he wouldn't still be watching the latest anime at age 23. For the scene where he's eating breakfast, I totally picture him as Charlie at the end of the It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia episode "The Gang Finds a Dead Guy." For those of you who haven't read the graphic novel, the woman on TV is Dr. Caitlin Lightcap, who copiloted the prototype Jaeger Brawler Yukon (the lines are taken from the graphic novel too).
Thank you everyone for reading this fic! This is the longest thing I've ever written, and there's no way I could've ever finished it if I hadn't been motivated by the support you all gave me (seriously, I have like 0 motivation normally). I'll probably keep editing some sections I don't like, but other than that, this is officially the end. I'll miss working on this, but I'll definitely be writing more for Pacific Rim!