all that was left (in pandora's box)
Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary: "Post-Uprising, the precursors only leave Newt in control when he's alone. Or when what must be a hallucination of Hermann appears, because they know they killed him."
"Food," the guard says, shortly; the tray clattering onto the table harshly, its contents sloshing and barely stay below the room.
Newt closes his eyes.
They stare at the tray on the table, his eyes narrowing; bare his teeth in a snarl and direct a glare at the guard. "Human filth."
The guard doesn't reply; Newt honestly doesn't blame him.
The food—tomato soup, two slices of bread, and one small bowl of rice, with a complementary plastic spoon—looks so fucking good, honestly; and that could just be the hunger talking, not—well, they've had him on a three-day hunger strike; at this point Newt could eat a hippo.
Still; they pull his lips back in disgust; growl again: "Filth."
God, Newt thinks; resignation, mostly; watches them poke at the rice. What I wouldn't give for a moment of peace.
Well; here's to that. At least they're keeping him fed now, which is more than can be said for when they first brought him in. Also see: less shouting, which is also very nice since that shit really tears his throat up.
"We're not doing this for you," they remind him, "we're going to escape, Geiszler, and then you will all pay. At best, you have temporarily halted our progress."
Sure, Newt thinks, and rolls his eyes.
Really, once you get over the whole "possessed by genocidal aliens" part of it, it's pretty mundane. The Precursors are huge pissbabies, but like, honestly? It's pretty boring. Though it would be nice if they'd give him the reigns a bit more.
They give a soft huff. "In your dreams, Geiszler."
They eat the rest of the food and stare at a spot on the ceiling; quietly concoct plans of—
Let's not, Newt says, fantasise about breaking Hermann's neck, okay? Please?
"Oh don't be sad," the Precursors sneer, "it's not like he's alive. We've killed him already—surely you cannot be that upset about it."
Fuck you bastards, Newt snarls, I swear to god I will kill you—
They laugh; short and sharp. "Good luck with that."
Still, though, they let go; leave him blinking for a moment in the bright LED-strip lighting; the fabric of his clothing uncomfortable against his skin and a plastic spoon bent nearly in half in his hand. He takes a breath; drops it and winces as it clatters on the ground.
"It's okay," he says; quietly, though he's not even sure who he's trying to convince at this point because it really, really isn't okay even in the slightest.
The door clicks; suddenly, and Newt's head snaps at the sound; stiffening as they dig their claws back in; wrench control from him—
And let go.
The room fades back into view; Hermann.
He smiles crookedly. Good to know his imagination is still working, at least; though this is kind of new.
The other mirrors it; though more hesitantly; realistic, really, which is unexpected. "Newton," he says.
The Precursors, for once, are silent. Maybe they've realised the best way to hurt Newt is to let him torture himself with thoughts of how it could have been. He lets his smile drop. "Nice to see you," he says, because if he can't stop this, he might as well try and live it to its fullest.
"Yes, well," Hermann pauses; thumb rubbing the head of his cane, and Newt thinks, Oh, I'd forgotten about that. "I'd have been by sooner, but…" he trails off; licks his lips.
Newt nods; plays along. "Nah, man, I get it," he says. "You needed your time."
Don't we all, he adds, internally. It's kind of nice, though, to—well, not see Hermann again, because that's never going to happen, but…to imagine him so fully.
"It's…good to see you," Hermann says; after a moment's silence. "Well—assuming it is you."
Newt smiles; a bit too wide. "Genuine Newton Geiszler, baby," he says, "I'm allll alone—it's not like they have any reason to be in control right now."
Hermann's expression flickers. "Pardon?" he says, "I have—sorry, what?"
"It's not great," Newt says, with a shrug, "but they let me have control if I'm alone."
"Alone," Hermann repeats. "Alone?"
"Just me, myself, and I," Newt says, and gives a short laugh. "Trust me, dude, we all know you're not here. Just," he taps the side of his head, "a very accurate imaginary construct."
Hermann sputters. "That's—ridiculous!" he says, "Newton—"
"H—hah," Newt chokes, "dude—"
Hermann crosses the room; cane tapping, rhythmic, across the ground, and Newt tenses. Then, a moment later; warmth. Hermann's hand on his arm, the warmth piercing through the thick fabric; and Newt's fingers tighten.
"…shit," he hisses.
Hermann pulls back. "Are you quite alright—?"
"We killed you," they roar; and Newt strains, grateful, so grateful for the restraints that snap tight and dig into his skin, stopping him from reaching Hermann as he scrambles away. "You are dead—you were dead! We saw it!"
Hermann draws his shoulders back; lips pursed thin. "No," he says, "no, you didn't. Oh, you tried—but you didn't succeed. You didn't succeed—"
"We will—"
"You will not," Hermann says; voice raising, for the first time, "you will not succeed. Do you know why? You will not succeed because Newton is a good man, and you will never win against him. He is far stronger than you can imagine—"
"Shut up!" they roar, "shut up—"
"Newton," Hermann says; loud enough that Newt can hear; ignores the Precursors' incensed shouting, "Newton, I know you're in there. Stay strong, and—" he stops; closes his eyes for a moment. "I'll be back."
"Shut the fuck up!"
The door closes behind Hermann, and they continue to scream; voice cracking and breaking but full of fury and hate, and yet—
And yet, still, Newt feels…peace, almost. Hermann isn't dead; and Hermann…Hermann thinks Newt is a good man; thinks Newt is strong.
Maybe…maybe he's right.
Of course I am, a little voice that sounds suspiciously like Hermann's snaps; the thought makes Newt smile a little
Hope.
