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Hermann ambles into the lab at seven o'clock on the dot—punctuality, poise, professionalism, he repeats to himself—although it's very likely that the only human company he will have today will be his lab partner, whom he is not particularly eager to impress. After months spent working with Dr. Geiszler, Hermann feels that they are past formalities, and well, it's evident how little Geiszler cares about leaving a good impression on Hermann. Regardless, he still addresses Newton by his title, partly out of respect, but partly because deep down he enjoys pushing Newton to the edge. I can't let him have all of the fun, can I? Newton thinks Hermann is a stuffy old codger, and he's right, mostly, but Hermann also knows that he can play this game just as well as Newton can.
Regardless, he is always on time, dressed smartly in neatly pressed slacks, polished shoes, and a well-ironed Oxford. Somewhere in his head he hears Dr. Geiszler's voice, “Really, Hermann, who has time to starch and iron their pants while we're out here in the middle of a goddamn war,” and it's funny that Newton of all people should say it, putting so much emphasis on that last word, when he seems to take his own duties so lightly. Drifting with a mangled Kaiju brain... I mean, really.
Newton has always said that it's not just a war, it's a goddamn war, and somehow it seems to make all the difference. Hermann wonders how the world got by before now. If they all survive this, will countries revive old rivalries in the wake of the Anteverse's destruction? To think that this whole time world peace was only an apocalypse away.
Newton is in the lab early this morning—in fact, he never left the night before, but that's not unusual by his standards. Someone once told Dr. Geiszler that people like him don't have girlfriends—that if anything, he's married to his lab. Newton's brain is constantly in hyperdrive, due in part to the copious quantities of coffee he drinks daily. Hermann never made the effort to learn much about Newton beyond his dossier. He knows that he was born in Berlin, that his parents were musicians. That his uncle raised him and that he had six doctorates by the time he was twenty-five. Impressive facts, even on paper, but still—only facts. The circumference of the Earth is 40,075 kilometers, and we are all going to die.
Hermann knows some odd things, here and there. Newton takes his coffee black, of course, and once he starts talking about Kaiju you better hope you have an hour to spare. Newton's dossier chalks up his eccentricities to a borderline manic personality and poor social skills, but Hermann thinks there is more to him than that. Although his research methods are unorthodox, Hermann concedes that Stacker would be hard-pressed to find anyone else so utterly committed to the field of Kaiju science.
Hermann comes in on time as he always does, annoyance fresh on his face, which is par for the course these days. Newton should know by now that the last thing Hermann—Dr. Gottlieb—wants to hear at seven in the morning is The Clash. Newton takes no notice of his new company and continues to hack away at Kaiju entrails with nary a care in the world while Joe Strummer's shrill, staccato guitar and gruff voice continue to assault Hermann's eardrums. Newton had almost perfected a sort of dance—if you could call it that—while working in the lab. Often he got too excited and his heat of the moment arm waving (or dancing, as he called it, though God only knows where he learned to dance like that) would result in bits and pieces of Kaiju entrails all over the lab, which Hermann would find weeks later, crusted onto the walls.
It would almost be endearing if it were, say, some biology lab on a college campus. But they are not boys any more—they are the resistance, the last hope. They are fighting a war, one that they are likely to lose, if Hermann's predictions are anything to go by (and they are). Although they aren't out there—in the jaegers, fighting—Hermann knows, and maybe Newton does too, that what they are doing is just as important.
Hermann knows many things—he knows formulas, he knows numbers. He knows that they will never betray him, that even when humans fail him, he can find solace in the soft curvature of the number eight and the hard lines of an equals sign.
He also knows that under the tattoos, behind the the monster movies, the coffee, and the Kaiju fixation, Newton is really quite smart, if a little foolish. Hermann knows what it’s like to build up walls, what it’s like to hide behind them. What’s the use in making friends when the world is drawing to a close? Yes, Newton will always have Godzilla, The Clash, and his coffee maker, and Hermann has his numbers. Ten digits and a piece of chalk are all he needs.
The song switches over to something decidedly more mellow; there's a violin and a slow, wistful piano melody, but Hermann doesn't recognize it.
“Dr. Geiszler, if I have to ask you one more time to bring your insufferable music down to a reasonable volume one more time I will—”
“Herm—Dr. Gottlieb!” Newton shouts from across the room. He's been making an effort to address Hermann by his title lately, for which he is grateful. He doesn't know what prompted the change, but he doesn't ask. Hermann doesn't move. Instead, he bores holes into Newton's skull with his eyes, something which he had become very good at as of late. He thinks to himself that if his eyes were lasers, Newton would probably look like a piece of swiss cheese by now. Hermann almost chuckles at the mental image, can feel the corners of his mouth quirking upward, but quickly halts himself, resulting in something resembling a wince.
“Were you sucking on lemons all morning or are you just happy to see me?” Newton remarks, and it is only now that Hermann realizes he's been staring at his lab partner this entire time. Hermann huffs and begrudgingly grants him a forced smile.
“Anyhow,” Newt says, not looking up from his work, “I'll turn it down if you listen to the rest of this song with me.”
“I am listening,” Hermann replies sourly, still leaning on his cane, face stoic and unimpressed.
Newton strips off his elbow-length rubber gloves and walks over to Hermann, directing him to sit down.
“You've got to listen to the lyrics, dude. They're poetry! Listen, I know you think that numbers are the handwriting of the gods or whatever, but just listen to what he's saying and...” he lowers his voice to a level that is hardly audible against the music, “I promise I'll keep the volume a little lower from now on.”
Hermann knows Geiszler's promises are as good as a Kaiju black market dealer's—which is to say—not very good at all. However, he could only say no to Newton so many times before he would occasionally relent, and that is how Hermann found himself leaning back in a chair at seven in the morning listening to whatever Newton had pulsing through the stereo.
Hermann thinks to himself that the singer's voice is a bit rough, gravelly even, but it's pleasant enough, he supposes, so he concentrates on the lyrics.
Barefoot girl sittin' on the hood of a Dodge
Drinking warm beer in the soft summer rain
When was the last time he had a beer? Drinking didn't really hold the same appeal it used to when he was younger, though absentmindedly his brain corrects the last part of that thought to "when the world wasn't coming to an end".
The song's tempo picks up for a while, eventually giving way to a saxophone solo. The notes were long and drawn out, and Hermann could feel the emotion behind them. Then, everything got quiet, save for the quiet tinkling of the piano, and the singer's voice—scant more than a whisper.
Hermann thinks about saying something. That he likes the song, and that maybe, just maybe, he understands why Newton puts up so many walls.
The poets down here don't write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be
The song finally ends, but the war does not. Hermann mutters something noncommittal under his breath before he picks up a piece of chalk and begins a new set of calculations on the massive chalkboard that looms over the room. Somewhere up there was a formula that would help save the world, or so Hermann hoped.
When Newton leaves a few hours later to get a sandwich, Hermann takes his iPod off of the dock and plugs in his own. Dr. Geiszler returns thirty minutes later with two cups of coffee and a smear of mustard down the front of his white shirt.
“Hermann, what is—” but before he could say another word, Hermann had pressed a finger to his lips as if to shush him.
“I listened to yours, so now...” he trailed off, hoping Newton got the idea. Newton set his coffees down on the nearest surface and went to join Hermann, who was sitting on the floor beneath the soft glow of the specimen tanks.
“Chopin,” Hermann stated flatly, before Newton could ask who it was. His eyes were closed, but his face was peaceful. The wrinkles that usually adorned his forehead were hardly visible. Newton couldn't ever recall seeing Hermann this relaxed.
There was something beautiful about the song. Something sad, too. Without lyrics to focus on Newton found himself out of his element, but he felt that there was something poetic in this too—the rise and fall of the notes, wax and wane, piano to fortissimo. Like ocean waves crashing against the shore. The steady drip, drip, drip, of a coffee machine. The soft tapping of chalk writing on a blackboard.
Newton smiles, not wanting to spoil the silence. He swears he can see the corners of Hermann’s mouth twitch upward, if only for a second.
Hermann washes the layer of powdery white chalk dust from his hands that night before bed and stares at his reflection in the mirror, assessing the damage—the toll this war has taken on him. He’s looked better, but he's also looked worse. He could be dead, but he’s not.
Nehemiah rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem in fifty-two days. Hermann figures that he can rebuild metaphorical walls in less, so he grabs the disc Newton slipped under his door and, instead of adding it to the pile of untouched CDs that his lab partner had been giving him ever since he arrived in Hong Kong, he puts it in the disc drive of his laptop and lets it play. As he drifts off to sleep he thinks to himself that maybe some walls are meant to come down.
I slept and I dreamed of a time long ago
I saw an army of rebels, dancing on air
I dreamed as I slept, I could see the campfires
A song of the battle, that was born in the flames
And the rebels were waltzing on air