[Well, at least his birthday was before this mess, huh?
Still, it sucks, and he's a bit helpless when he watches the townspeople crumble away to dust. He'd hung out with a lot of them, y'know? He'd worked in the saloon and visited sindown and had a great time with the rowdiest of the bunch, even if they weren't... necessarily real. So it's easy to fall into a funk like so many others — even if his stomach is telling him to snap out of it and get to work. The best he can really do right now for those around him is to put his biological studies to the test: instruct on what insects and creatures are likely safe to eat (read: not poisonous and about to murder you) and how to find the appropriate wells of water beneath the soil.
He's tired, though, like the rest of 'em. Tired and annoyed and irritable and nervous about what happens next. They gotta find that Welford Branson guy, but Newt's... not helpful there. He'll have to leave it to the pros.
So he can be found in the saloon instead, quietly pecking at the half of the ivory keys left on the piano; it makes an ugly, distorted sound, the strings inside aged and in poor condition. The noise seems to weaken his resolve for just that moment, his expression falling into something hopeless.
When night falls, he goes to wherever the others have decided to hole up and sleep for the meantime. The air's gone terribly cold, and even with the blankets he's managed to scrounge from different places (and curtains, as the coarse material he's draped in implies) don't keep away the cold as much as anyone'd like. He ends up curled on the floor of the room some have started slumbering in, shivering stubbornly under his covers. Now's really not the time to bitch and moan, even if he would absolutely like to.
His stomach does it for him, though. The gurgling is loud and obvious, even if he doesn't say a peep in reaction.
He hates the cold so fucking much, man.
Irritability, thy name is Geiszler.
As he finally lulls into a sleep, things can only get worse from here. He knows it, dreads it, but there's no point in trying to side-step it; the memoryless nightmares strike him hard and fast, as they especially love to when there's a lot of strain and stress and mess in his head. He lays there twitching, a low moan of someone afraid leaving his curled up figure. If one listens, they may hear five little words:]
Just leave me alone, please.
II. YOUR WAKE UP CALL
[The attack is fast and ugly, but Newt was fortunate enough to be on the other side of the town. The danger's been mostly intercepted, and it gives him time to think. Think, think, think. His brain is a good one, it's a powerful one, it's awesome for situations where people need back-up. He's great back-up. And such a peptalk to himself is just what he needs before he gets to work. You don't have long he thinks. He grabs his suitcase lab, opens it up and starts putting everything on an old table in the saloon that he'd sat at many times before. He's got (1) sample to use — a knife imbued with pulsefire, dropped and discarded in a shuffle he wasn't apart of.
It shouldn't take him too long, he thinks, to make something out of this.
It's just chemical compounds, after all. Everything is made of something that can be counteracted. And that's just what people will find if they're here to defend the saloon or to check in on any survivors: Newton hunched over the table, rambling maniacally as the glow of the pulsefire illuminates his face. His gloves go up to his elbows, and he handles the energy with the utmost caution. Bits of old piano wire, mechanical pieces from discarded machines, all sorts of bits and bobs from the upstairs clocks left abandoned, they're taken apart and scavenged for pieces. Smeared with soot and running on fumes, Newt snaps urgently:]
Don't interrupt me right now! I got a flow! Just - just keep them away.
III. GUINEA PIG (CLOSED TO ITACHI)
[And eventually, near the last act of the waging battle against the Bouldersnakes -
He messages Itachi.]
I need your help with something. Come to the saloon ASAP.
[The ninja may or may not be surprised at the mad scientist aesthetic he's got going on, hair unkempt and tie completely abandoned, oil and grease from his creations staining the front of his usually white shirt. He looks... a bit unhinged, but with it there's confidence.]
If it isn't my fire extinguisher! You ready to take some insta-death out of the equation?
IV. THE NEWTRILIZER | CW: violence
[After the Newtilizer is officially posted about, he'll make a point to start distributing where he can. The fight's already been going for a while, and time's against them. So with that in mind, he equips whoever is around him first, then stuffs his creations into a duffel that he slings around his shoulder before heading out into the battleground. He says with lingering mania:]
If you want something done, don't be a puss; do it yourself.
[He's gonna be bringing the supplies to you guys.
And for the most part, he's learned to make his way around a tense situation without getting shot, maimed, blown up, and so forth. Maybe being little and low to the ground helps? Yeah, that's totally it. Somewhere in his travels, he finally gets unlucky:
"What've we got here?"
He ends up grabbed by the back of his shirt like a disobedient pup, hoisted up off the ground effortlessly. His legs kick and flail and he reaches up to try and disentangle his shirt from the bandit's iron grip; the dude is huge, scales covering his arms and legs, his four eyes sharp and full of amusement. "Got something for me, little fella? Don't mind if I do-" He grabs Newton's duffel, and Newt panics, grabbing it to pull back to him. Panic and fear are at war with hungry, tired outrage, and he hollers:]
Get off me, you oversized prick-!
[And then proceeds to bite the wrist playing tug of war with him hard. It awards him being unceremoniously dropped to the floor, and he staggers and runs as hard and fast as he can with the duffel hugged to his chest. The scaly bandit, taller than Rosinante or Yamato, steps toward him with newfound disgust in his eyes. "You better not have any diseases, you filthy little desert rat," he growls, drawing a pistol imbued with pulsefire from his thigh holster.
Newt doesn't look back as the bandit aims his weapon carefully at the back fleeing from him. But the distressed look on Newt's face as he tries to get away says he figures he might get taken out trying.]
Newton Geiszler | Pacific Rim
[Well, at least his birthday was before this mess, huh?
Still, it sucks, and he's a bit helpless when he watches the townspeople crumble away to dust. He'd hung out with a lot of them, y'know? He'd worked in the saloon and visited sindown and had a great time with the rowdiest of the bunch, even if they weren't... necessarily real. So it's easy to fall into a funk like so many others — even if his stomach is telling him to snap out of it and get to work. The best he can really do right now for those around him is to put his biological studies to the test: instruct on what insects and creatures are likely safe to eat (read: not poisonous and about to murder you) and how to find the appropriate wells of water beneath the soil.
He's tired, though, like the rest of 'em. Tired and annoyed and irritable and nervous about what happens next. They gotta find that Welford Branson guy, but Newt's... not helpful there. He'll have to leave it to the pros.
So he can be found in the saloon instead, quietly pecking at the half of the ivory keys left on the piano; it makes an ugly, distorted sound, the strings inside aged and in poor condition. The noise seems to weaken his resolve for just that moment, his expression falling into something hopeless.
When night falls, he goes to wherever the others have decided to hole up and sleep for the meantime. The air's gone terribly cold, and even with the blankets he's managed to scrounge from different places (and curtains, as the coarse material he's draped in implies) don't keep away the cold as much as anyone'd like. He ends up curled on the floor of the room some have started slumbering in, shivering stubbornly under his covers. Now's really not the time to bitch and moan, even if he would absolutely like to.
His stomach does it for him, though. The gurgling is loud and obvious, even if he doesn't say a peep in reaction.
He hates the cold so fucking much, man.
Irritability, thy name is Geiszler.
As he finally lulls into a sleep, things can only get worse from here. He knows it, dreads it, but there's no point in trying to side-step it; the memoryless nightmares strike him hard and fast, as they especially love to when there's a lot of strain and stress and mess in his head. He lays there twitching, a low moan of someone afraid leaving his curled up figure. If one listens, they may hear five little words:]
Just leave me alone, please.
II. YOUR WAKE UP CALL
[The attack is fast and ugly, but Newt was fortunate enough to be on the other side of the town. The danger's been mostly intercepted, and it gives him time to think. Think, think, think. His brain is a good one, it's a powerful one, it's awesome for situations where people need back-up. He's great back-up. And such a peptalk to himself is just what he needs before he gets to work. You don't have long he thinks. He grabs his suitcase lab, opens it up and starts putting everything on an old table in the saloon that he'd sat at many times before. He's got (1) sample to use — a knife imbued with pulsefire, dropped and discarded in a shuffle he wasn't apart of.
It shouldn't take him too long, he thinks, to make something out of this.
It's just chemical compounds, after all. Everything is made of something that can be counteracted. And that's just what people will find if they're here to defend the saloon or to check in on any survivors: Newton hunched over the table, rambling maniacally as the glow of the pulsefire illuminates his face. His gloves go up to his elbows, and he handles the energy with the utmost caution. Bits of old piano wire, mechanical pieces from discarded machines, all sorts of bits and bobs from the upstairs clocks left abandoned, they're taken apart and scavenged for pieces. Smeared with soot and running on fumes, Newt snaps urgently:]
Don't interrupt me right now! I got a flow! Just - just keep them away.
III. GUINEA PIG (CLOSED TO ITACHI)
[And eventually, near the last act of the waging battle against the Bouldersnakes -
He messages Itachi.]
I need your help with something.
Come to the saloon ASAP.
[The ninja may or may not be surprised at the mad scientist aesthetic he's got going on, hair unkempt and tie completely abandoned, oil and grease from his creations staining the front of his usually white shirt. He looks... a bit unhinged, but with it there's confidence.]
If it isn't my fire extinguisher! You ready to take some insta-death out of the equation?
IV. THE NEWTRILIZER | CW: violence
[After the Newtilizer is officially posted about, he'll make a point to start distributing where he can. The fight's already been going for a while, and time's against them. So with that in mind, he equips whoever is around him first, then stuffs his creations into a duffel that he slings around his shoulder before heading out into the battleground. He says with lingering mania:]
If you want something done, don't be a puss; do it yourself.
[He's gonna be bringing the supplies to you guys.
And for the most part, he's learned to make his way around a tense situation without getting shot, maimed, blown up, and so forth. Maybe being little and low to the ground helps? Yeah, that's totally it. Somewhere in his travels, he finally gets unlucky:
"What've we got here?"
He ends up grabbed by the back of his shirt like a disobedient pup, hoisted up off the ground effortlessly. His legs kick and flail and he reaches up to try and disentangle his shirt from the bandit's iron grip; the dude is huge, scales covering his arms and legs, his four eyes sharp and full of amusement. "Got something for me, little fella? Don't mind if I do-" He grabs Newton's duffel, and Newt panics, grabbing it to pull back to him. Panic and fear are at war with hungry, tired outrage, and he hollers:]
Get off me, you oversized prick-!
[And then proceeds to bite the wrist playing tug of war with him hard. It awards him being unceremoniously dropped to the floor, and he staggers and runs as hard and fast as he can with the duffel hugged to his chest. The scaly bandit, taller than Rosinante or Yamato, steps toward him with newfound disgust in his eyes. "You better not have any diseases, you filthy little desert rat," he growls, drawing a pistol imbued with pulsefire from his thigh holster.
Newt doesn't look back as the bandit aims his weapon carefully at the back fleeing from him. But the distressed look on Newt's face as he tries to get away says he figures he might get taken out trying.]