Newt Geiszler | Pacific Rim (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
groupiedrifter) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ximilialog2022-03-18 01:18 pm
groupiedrifter) wrote in ximilialog2022-03-18 01:18 pm
Entry tags:
[Closed] 2 people tainted by alien influence walk into a bar
CHARACTERS: Newton Geiszler (what's left of him, anyway) & Gwen Stacy
LOCATION: Newton's Sedorum Apartment
DATE: End of the month, but before the second mission log.
CONTENT: Newt loses full control.
WARNINGS: HUGE WARNING for attempted suicide and possession/lack of bodily autonomy, emetophobia, as well as mental health issues in general - including hallucinations/psychosis, because Gwen is also a mess.
[It occurs to him as he steps out of the shower, really.
He's putting on his fresh clothes, buttoning his top, slipping on his tie — all the things needed to look presentable for his job among the military engineers — when he stares into his face and feels like he doesn't recognize the person staring back. He looks wrong, looks naked without the glasses that used to frame his eyes. His wrists look unnaturally bare. His tie is a little too tight around his neck. His leather jacket's abandoned on the one chair in his small temporary apartment.
He really should hurry and go, but he just... stares at himself. Leans in and looks at the stranger looking back. And he thinks about all of it: the hollow, cold feeling after an outburst; the sleeplessness; the disdain of people he feels like he'd loved beforehand; the fog that seems to get him all turned around, just when he thinks he's got a grip on himself.
'Look at the bigger framework, Newton!,' Hermann had said. 'This is about investigating what in the bloody hell went on with our neural handshake. We have the resources right there at our fingertips. Let’s not squander this moment!'
His fingers curl tightly on the lip of the counter.
And then it hits him like cold water to the face. Like a hammer to the skull. Like a fireworks. He looks into his eyes and can feel hundreds of eyes looking back. He trembles then with fear, head to toe, so hard he's nearly convulsing. He whispers so very quietly:]
It's you.
[The dreams. Night after night, it had been a niggling feeling. He would wake up so tired. He would be so upset all day, the images from the night on the tip of his tongue, just barely out of frame from his view. Even now, they're blurry, but he can remember — a little. Long, gnarled fingers dragging him down, knitting their watermarks into his head, tweaking things here, adjusting things there. Night after night after night-
The precursors.
The moment he thinks it, his arms and legs lock up. His tongue is a useless, heavy mass in his mouth. The muscles they've threaded their puppet strings through barely flinch when he tries to will movement. Oh, wow, so the wall finally came crashing down? they think. Well, we all know how useless walls are in the end, so that's fair. It was a matter of time, wasn't it?
He's possessed by aliens.
He's being rewired.
Daisy was right, Newt thinks, his eyes watering. Blue saw...
Don't cry. Such a pathetic, human reaction. A non-solution.
I can't let you do this, Newt thinks, because he can't say it aloud.
You can and you will. Now, take your medication for the day and put your nice, clean shoes on, and go put on the best show of your life... you little rockstar, you. They sound amused, but they also sound like him. It's easier to give in to compulsions when it's your own voice in your head, isn't it? Behave yourself, and you'll be rewarded at the end of this road, Newton Geiszler.
His body relaxes, and his tense fingers uncurl from the counter. He brushes his teeth and combs his hair, parts it just the way he likes. Today's gonna be a nice day; he's got so much work to do, advancements to be proud of in the engineering field. Besides, their orb is out there somewhere, isn't it? Can't just leave it waiting. He steps out of the bathroom, his footfalls full of purpose as they carry him to his medication on the nightstand. McCoy gave him a whole extra bottle, just in case.
Newt's thoughts flutter out of their sync.
McCoy gave him an extra bottle, just in case.
He should really take his meds.
Wouldn't want another seizure.
There's this thing called Hysterical strength. It's when there's this short, incredible burst of physical strength by human beings — usually, during some incredible life and death situation. Family lifting heavy things off their kids or parents. Cars, mostly. People think it's increased adrenaline, maybe Norepinephrine.
You just need that one moment where you can give it all you got.
He picks up the medicine bottle in shaking hands that fumble the cap to the floor. A few pills end up on the floor, but most of the bottle ends up in his mouth, swallowed down one after another — his world teeter-tots to the sound of an inhuman hiss in his head, and then he throws the bottle on the floor. He lays himself on the bed, laughing wetly. I'm sorry, Hermann. I'm sorry, Clara. I'm sorry Daisy. I'm sorry for being such a prick.]
I'm sorry.
[He holds on to the controls as long as he can — but it's not enough. That's all he's got. The endurance falls, adrenaline fades, and the precursors stick his finger down his throat after a few long minutes. The pills he'd managed to get down end up on the floor in a foul mess. The precursors sit him up, make him wipe his mouth with the edge of the blanket.
That was a very stupid choice.
Newt feels hopelessness flood him, just before he begins slipping under the surface.
Very, very stupid.
They lay there on the bed and sigh, checking the time with their earpiece. The room reeks of human toxins now, and they wrinkle their nose, the discomforting burn of the man's throat a reminder that sometimes you suffer for someone else's stupid choices.
... So much for letting Newton do most of the work.]
LOCATION: Newton's Sedorum Apartment
DATE: End of the month, but before the second mission log.
CONTENT: Newt loses full control.
WARNINGS: HUGE WARNING for attempted suicide and possession/lack of bodily autonomy, emetophobia, as well as mental health issues in general - including hallucinations/psychosis, because Gwen is also a mess.
[It occurs to him as he steps out of the shower, really.
He's putting on his fresh clothes, buttoning his top, slipping on his tie — all the things needed to look presentable for his job among the military engineers — when he stares into his face and feels like he doesn't recognize the person staring back. He looks wrong, looks naked without the glasses that used to frame his eyes. His wrists look unnaturally bare. His tie is a little too tight around his neck. His leather jacket's abandoned on the one chair in his small temporary apartment.
He really should hurry and go, but he just... stares at himself. Leans in and looks at the stranger looking back. And he thinks about all of it: the hollow, cold feeling after an outburst; the sleeplessness; the disdain of people he feels like he'd loved beforehand; the fog that seems to get him all turned around, just when he thinks he's got a grip on himself.
'Look at the bigger framework, Newton!,' Hermann had said. 'This is about investigating what in the bloody hell went on with our neural handshake. We have the resources right there at our fingertips. Let’s not squander this moment!'
His fingers curl tightly on the lip of the counter.
And then it hits him like cold water to the face. Like a hammer to the skull. Like a fireworks. He looks into his eyes and can feel hundreds of eyes looking back. He trembles then with fear, head to toe, so hard he's nearly convulsing. He whispers so very quietly:]
It's you.
[The dreams. Night after night, it had been a niggling feeling. He would wake up so tired. He would be so upset all day, the images from the night on the tip of his tongue, just barely out of frame from his view. Even now, they're blurry, but he can remember — a little. Long, gnarled fingers dragging him down, knitting their watermarks into his head, tweaking things here, adjusting things there. Night after night after night-
The precursors.
The moment he thinks it, his arms and legs lock up. His tongue is a useless, heavy mass in his mouth. The muscles they've threaded their puppet strings through barely flinch when he tries to will movement. Oh, wow, so the wall finally came crashing down? they think. Well, we all know how useless walls are in the end, so that's fair. It was a matter of time, wasn't it?
He's possessed by aliens.
He's being rewired.
Daisy was right, Newt thinks, his eyes watering. Blue saw...
Don't cry. Such a pathetic, human reaction. A non-solution.
I can't let you do this, Newt thinks, because he can't say it aloud.
You can and you will. Now, take your medication for the day and put your nice, clean shoes on, and go put on the best show of your life... you little rockstar, you. They sound amused, but they also sound like him. It's easier to give in to compulsions when it's your own voice in your head, isn't it? Behave yourself, and you'll be rewarded at the end of this road, Newton Geiszler.
His body relaxes, and his tense fingers uncurl from the counter. He brushes his teeth and combs his hair, parts it just the way he likes. Today's gonna be a nice day; he's got so much work to do, advancements to be proud of in the engineering field. Besides, their orb is out there somewhere, isn't it? Can't just leave it waiting. He steps out of the bathroom, his footfalls full of purpose as they carry him to his medication on the nightstand. McCoy gave him a whole extra bottle, just in case.
Newt's thoughts flutter out of their sync.
McCoy gave him an extra bottle, just in case.
He should really take his meds.
Wouldn't want another seizure.
There's this thing called Hysterical strength. It's when there's this short, incredible burst of physical strength by human beings — usually, during some incredible life and death situation. Family lifting heavy things off their kids or parents. Cars, mostly. People think it's increased adrenaline, maybe Norepinephrine.
You just need that one moment where you can give it all you got.
He picks up the medicine bottle in shaking hands that fumble the cap to the floor. A few pills end up on the floor, but most of the bottle ends up in his mouth, swallowed down one after another — his world teeter-tots to the sound of an inhuman hiss in his head, and then he throws the bottle on the floor. He lays himself on the bed, laughing wetly. I'm sorry, Hermann. I'm sorry, Clara. I'm sorry Daisy. I'm sorry for being such a prick.]
I'm sorry.
[He holds on to the controls as long as he can — but it's not enough. That's all he's got. The endurance falls, adrenaline fades, and the precursors stick his finger down his throat after a few long minutes. The pills he'd managed to get down end up on the floor in a foul mess. The precursors sit him up, make him wipe his mouth with the edge of the blanket.
That was a very stupid choice.
Newt feels hopelessness flood him, just before he begins slipping under the surface.
Very, very stupid.
They lay there on the bed and sigh, checking the time with their earpiece. The room reeks of human toxins now, and they wrinkle their nose, the discomforting burn of the man's throat a reminder that sometimes you suffer for someone else's stupid choices.
... So much for letting Newton do most of the work.]
no subject
They feel Newton thrashing desperately against his own muscle and nerve; they can hear his rabid, panicked thoughts as he begs for freedom, calls Gwen's name out, but the name has nowhere to go, just echoes into a void nobody else hears.
The precursors then gaze through Newton's hazel eyes, a silent displeasure twinkling behind them as they track Venom. They puppet Newton, force him to look down and away as he sits captive in his body; it's a way for human beings to display submission, to hide their shame. How unsightly — but they do it anyway, because keeping up appearances are better, and Newton has little choice in the matter. The way his eyes water now, they're not doing so from the precursor's work. Newton's hopelessness is palpable. Gwen, help. I don't know what to do.]
... It was an accident. I wasn't...
It was an accident. I'm not gonna let it happen again, so just — drop it.
no subject
but gwen does not have answers. gwen's is a tortured mind, hearing voices, haunted by her dead friend. gwen is anger and fear and loss straining against the too tight wrapping of her skin.
gwen only feels horror. and venom echoes it, amplifies it, until horror is all either of them know. ]
One is an accident. An entire bottle?
[ the strange white eyes bore into newt. ] Why would you try something like this?
no subject
... To their own chosen degree.
Go ahead, Newton, they think, sounding like a disappointed father more than a plague on his neurons. Tell her why you did it. Newt looks at Gwen and tries to say a number of things.
But all he can do is answer her question, with an honesty that is so very carefully preened and presented and censored.]
... I thought it — would be for the best.
[His voice wavers. His expression falls into helplessness.]
It was a bad decision. I won't do it again.
no subject
[ something here does not make sense. like a piece of a puzzle that was fitted incorrectly and now the rest do not join as they should. something about newt's behavior. what he says. what he doesn't. right now… right now, the priority is making sure he cannot try this shit again.
the window resists opening, but a sharp shove clears the obstacle. the quality air outside isn't great. the air inside, though, has turned acrid from the smell of acid and bile. the stray pills on the floor find themselves dropped down the sink. ]
What else do you have here?
[ if he tried killing himself once, odds are he'll try it again. they can at least limit his options. ]
no subject
[They huff in annoyance, following her on shaky feet.]
I can't just toss it all...! You know, you shouldn't be getting rid of those; I kind of need them to not have violent, deadly seizures. [Newt kept the original bottle at his place in the engineering and weaponry department of the army, so hey, at least that's not as big a concern as it could be. Come to think of it, that's where his handgun is, too. Gee, it's almost as if the beings in his mind had known Newton would try something so stupidly brazen soon.
Running a hand over Newton's face, they sigh and lean against the bathroom doorframe.]
It doesn't matter, because I'm not going to do anything.
[There's not a lot, really. In the apartment. It's barebones, but digging around will provide a small amount of knives in the kitchenette. Some cans for haircare in the bathroom, because of course. Bedsheets, now tangled up in vomit.
Nothing too concerning that they would have to rid the room of, for the most part.]
Are you done?
no subject
Strange concern for the man with the botched suicide. [ their tone is wry. ] Will the seizures make you more dead?
[ one moment, devastated. the next, halfway to irritated. a prickle of unease drags down their spine. it is as if newt is trying on different masks—like an actor who has yet to decide on the correct tone for the scene.
this isn't right, they think, and it is impossible to tell where the thought originated: venom or gwen. it belongs simultaneously to both. ]
no subject
Just saying. If you're trying to keep me alive, the pills are kind of a catch-22. But... whatever.
[His neck feels hot. Newton's gone and made his body feel unwell. But there are more important things to worry about; they look up at Gwen, eyes still red and irritated. They don't have to try to make him look pitiful, he already looks like the mess everyone's aware he is.]
You're not going to tell everyone, are you?
[Newton Geiszler desperately wishes she would.
"Newton Geiszler" is, of course, hoping she won't.]
no subject
[ but neither will they tell no one.
it's funny. they know how to hunt a man over weeks. they can disarm multiple attackers. they punched captain fucking america out cold. this—
this fucked up situation newt decided to grab onto with both hands the moment he tipped the bottle's contents into his mouth… this is so far outside their skills it's in another fucking universe. there is so much they don't know. is this reaction to be expected or is it a warning of something else? ]
no subject
The precursors are not, of course. They're more annoyed by the potential inconvenience. Newton will have to learn, they suppose, what happens when the creatures they utilize kick and scream and fight them all the way home. Trouble happens. And now they must try to salvage this situation as best they can, so that they can move forward properly. Nobody hears you, they remind him. Nobody is coming to help someone they cannot see drowning.
But it's still the last way they meant to spend this evening.
With a sigh, they reach into Newton's inner pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
The defeated look on their face is borrowed from Newton.
Either way, both could use the nicotine.]
Great. As if they didn't have enough reasons to look at me funny.
Now I'm gonna be the nutjob on suicide watch.
no subject
Poor little Newton, [ they croon scornfully. ] His plans to choke on his own vomit sadly interrupted.
[ pitching him out the window would run contrary to their goal here. a web-line pulls the box of cigarettes from his hand, instead. box with cigarettes both fly out the window. ]
no subject
[They curse as the cigarettes go out the window, too, stress etching the lines of their face. His face. Of all the impulsive, reckless people to drift with, they had to have the one who made the loss of the nicotine particularly straining.]
Oh, fucking great! Just what I need, everything calming thrown right out the window. Real great method of keeping me steady, or whatever this is. [They swipe a hand over the sweat on their brow. Humans are so leaky.] Listen, I'm sorry, okay? But I shoved my finger down my throat for a reason; it was a mistake, and I knew it the moment I did it.
What else do you want? To watch me every waking hour?
no subject
venom does not glance in its direction. the symbiote simultaneously receives visual input from multiple angles and converges it into an expansive, coherent image. ]
Turns out we like you alive. We want you to stay that way.
[ as they speak, they take in how ill newt appears: pale, shaky, sweating copiously. however soon he forced himself to throw up, it wasn't enough to avoid some intoxication. he is coherent, aware (alive). he also made the decision to down them in the first place, a decision for which he has yet to provide a reason why. only that it was an accident, it was a mistake, he regretted it immediately, and he won't do it again.
if only if it were so easy to believe it. ]
no subject
Well, this is easy enough, then. Using the paranoia and mood destabilization they'd employed to weaken Newton's resolve, they probe his mind for what he'd already been feeling, just before they'd taken full control. They find what they'd placed there: an isolated man who felt unwanted, distrustful, abandoned. Oh, how Newton Geiszler feared abandonment. How he feared rejection. The human had been so desperate for affection and understanding. He had been so terrified of being left by himself.
It's a shame they didn't latch onto Hermann Gottlieb first. Sure, the man had his own flaws, but he's so much more methodical. Newton is a messy, explosive little beast, and his only truly redeeming feature is the ingenuity that would light up his neurons.
They leech up Newton, mirror back his genuine agonies.]
Please. Don't act like you actually care; you'll end up ditching me when you realize it's not worth it anyway, so do me a favor and don't get my hopes up like the rest of 'em. [Newt is hysterical in the unruly wiring of his mind. His flimsy attempts to push thoughts into words is just tragic.] ... You won't have to make an emergency anything. They weren't in my stomach for very long.
[They breathe a deep breath, moving to lay this flimsy body on the bed.]
... I don't feel all that great, though. Guess I'll lay here until you decide to bounce.
no subject
Guess you'll do that.
[ and finding a chair to drop into, they stay in the apartment with him until newt physically looks less like death. ]