#newton geißler

[levil0vesyou]

[fanpersoningfox]

@moun-chan tagged me to name ten of my favorite characters from ten different fandoms so here we go (in no particular order):

Captain Jim Kirk - Star Trek

Captain Jack Harkness - Dr. Who

Captain Marvel/Carol Danvers - MCU

Captain Jack Sparrow - potc

Minerva McGonagall - Harry Potter

Superman/Clark Kent - DC

Eowyn - Lord of the Rings

Robin Hood - Disney (animated movies)

Prof. Dr. Boerne - Tatort

Newton Geißler - Pacific Rim

Honorable mentions go to Captain America/Steve Rogers, who fits in perfectly well with my penchant for Captains but had to take second place behind Carol, and good old Schiller and Goethe, who just don't fit into a list of characters since they're real people and that makes everything way more complicated.

Tagging anyone who wants to do it!

[sunriseverse]

I saw this prompt and it was the most newmann thing i've ever seen lol: We argued so much during a class discussion that we both got kicked out and we’re still arguing outside the class

Newt argues about the stupidest shit

“—absolutely not!” Hermann yells, glaring daggers at him, knuckles white on his cane, which he’s gripping tightly, despite sitting down. “Geißler, that—”

“Out,” interrupts Mr. Hansen, in a tone that he only takes when he is at the end of his rope. “Mr. Gottlieb, Mr. Geißler, you may rejoin us when you are ready to stop disrupting my class.” The pointed look at Hermann makes him flush.

Newton at least has the decency to look shame-faced as he vacates his seat, following Hermann out of the room, silent. For a moment, Hermann thinks that he’s finally shut up, but the assumption proves to be untrue, as he says, “Okay, but I’m right—I mean, technically speaking.”

Hermann feels his lip twitch. “Really?” he asks, “you’re attempting to continue this conversation—this argument—even after you got us sent out of the room for it?”

Newton scowls at him darkly. “Well, if you recall,” he says, peevishly, “you started shouting first, so really, it’s all your fault, really, Hermann.” Hermann purses his lips.

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, and the other rolls his eyes.

“Well, what else am I meant to call you, dude? It’s your given name,” he complains, spreading his hands and affecting an innocent look. “It could be worse, really—I could be calling you, uh…Herms or something, so be glad.”

“Oh yes, I am so grateful,” Hermann says, deadpan.

The other’s scowl grows. “You could’ve just accepted that I was right and saved us this mess,” he whines, fingers already fidgeting with the hem of his shirt despite the fact that they’ve only been in the hall for two, maybe three minutes.

Hermann sighs. “Your argument is ridiculous,” he points out. “Obviously, as part of the animal kingdom, human flesh constitutes as meat.”

“Yeah, maybe biologically, but philosophically—” Newton’s gesticulating wildly again—“humans are different from animals, at least in the social consciousness.”

“Since when have you paid that any mind?” Hermann shoots back.

The other drags a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated huff. “You—why am I arguing with you about this? You’re wrong. So just—just sit there in your wrongness and be wrong.”

Hermann raises a brow. “That sounds suspiciously like admitting defeat…Newton.”

(They aren’t allowed back into class)

(On the upside, though, Hermann learns that the other is quite adorable when flustered)

(However, the fact that the conversation is about whether or not a cannibalistic diet, without the consumption of animal meats, constitutes as vegetarianism, does not fail to make a few of their classmates skittish around them for a while afterwards)

[sunriseverse]

angst below the cut

“We will keep coming and coming and we will destroy you and you cannot stop us!”

Hermann stops the footage. Newt’s wrists are shackled to the chair, his lips bared, blood crusted on his lip. They’ve refused to let him visit—refused to let him see Newton, even though the brain scans show that the Precursors no longer have any foothold in his mind. The footage is old—from the first month of Newt’s captivity.

“I’m sorry, Gottlieb,” Pentecost says, “there’s nothing I can do. The council has ruled—”

“Has ruled what? That an innocent man should take the blame for actions he had no control over?” Hermann asks bitterly. Pentecost purses his lips, but Hermann knows what he’s thinking. It’s the same thing the public is, and has been, for years—he was bound to go off the rails at some point.

It’s not true, Hermann wants to snarl at them. It’s not his fault—he’s as much a victim as anyone else.

Pentecost shifts, obviously ill at ease. “Well,” he says, refusing to meet Hermann’s gaze, “it was sort of inevitable.”

“Don’t speak to me of inevitabilities,” Hermann hisses, shoving past him and stalking out of the room.

The date of the execution is set for January first—it’s a sick sort of metaphor for rebirth, Hermann muses. And it is to be a public execution. His lip curls derisively. You were right all along, he thinks, could weep at the thought if he hadn’t already cried himself dry.

In the end, it all comes down to blame—it’s easier for the Council to sentence an innocent man to death than to allow him to recover, to admit that they should have been monitoring for this sort of thing—like Newton always told them, he remembers bitterly. Like we both always told them.

They won’t even allow him to attend—security risk echoes in his mind, and he thinks, if only. So he’s forced to watch it on the holoscreen; watches as they bind Newton’s wrists behind his back, the camera zooming in on his gaunt, drawn face, his lips pale and cracked, eyes sunken into his face.

“Oh, Newton,” he murmurs, knuckles white on his cane, “have they no sense of decency?”

The attendant judge—they do not broadcast his name; again, they tell him it’s for security reasons—says, levelly, “Newton Geißler, you have been tried and found guilty of collusion with the alien Precursors in an attempt to destroy humanity. Do you have any last words?”

Newton’s gaze, when he meets the camera, is still as piercing as Hermann remembers it. He clears his throat and swallows. In a hoarse voice, he says, “I’m sorry, Hermann.”

They usher him to the stand, and he allows them to, the blade of the guillotine—a guillotine—glimmering under the lighting, but Hermann’s barely aware of it, a wet sob ripping itself free from his throat, the breath knocked from his lungs.

The blade comes down with a sickening sniiiiick, and Newt’s head rolls off and into the basket, blood spurting out before slowing to a sluggish stream. Hermann switches of the display and tries not to be sick.

He quits the PPDC as soon as he can speak without weeping impeding his words.

They can burn, he thinks, viciously, they can all burn on the fire of their hubris.