[Newton wakes up asleep.

Wait, no, that's not it. He's asleep. He knows he's asleep. But he's awake.

He realizes it's definitely a dream when he reaches up to adjust his glasses and finds they're not there. Everything's crisp and lit a familiar, humming blue color at the edges. His hands are the pale blue of a drowned man's lips, and the space around him is practically empty, save for the pulsing, root-like growths that crack the smooth white floor. He stands there for a long moment, and then some frightening clarity comes to him.]

I've been here before. I've been here before, haven't I? In my sleep? [A long, awful shadow stretches out over him, casting him in the dark (he's always hated the dark). The veins in his wrists are glowing; the veins in the crease of his elbow, too. He looks up from the sight of it, eyes wide.] It's — It's you, isn't it? I drifted with you; I know what you are. You're —

Precursors. Yes. [It sounds like many voices at once, all bouncing around him. His blood feels like melting snow sluicing through his veins.] Very astute observations, Newton. How unfortunate it is, that you're apparently some of the best of what humanity has to offer; not very bright creatures, are you?

[Newt folds his arms. It's supposed to look like defiance, but he just looks frozen with chilled fear.]

... Fuck you, man. We met you, step for step. And we won. This isn't real. I'm just —

Like we've said: not very bright creatures. This is your mind, and it's a dream, but it is very real. Haven't you felt us?

[Newton swallows hard. Dozens of rows of beady, dead eyes look at him from high above. Outlines of unnatural, long-limbed beings lumber over him and smother out the lights. He shrinks, just a little. Just enough to lose. He never had the high ground, here. As he thinks back, his heart lurches in his chest; he can see the memories from that first drift as clearly as he could the beings looking back at him. He felt their coldness, their indifference to life; he felt the multitude of them, lurking in the shadows. He was terrified to tell Hermann the extent of it, that first time - the fear that still rattled him, right beside an exhilaration he didn't understand. He hated it. He wanted to do it again. The paradox doesn't escape him as much, now, knowing they're here.

In his head.]

... No. The — the Drift. The first trial run. You...!

Us. Yes. We'll admit, it is taking us an unfortunate amount of time to pull your feet out from under you; we've never commandeered a human being's mind before, after all. Even beings like us have... new and exciting ventures. This would be so much easier with the right equipment.

What do you mean, 'commandeered'? What the fuck? I thought we-

Killed us. Won the war. Stopped the threat. Right. Not very bright and unabashedly vain. But then again, we've already had this conversation with you, haven't we? It's a dull loop to entertain. To the point: we're not happy with you, Newton. We do value your mind, and we... had hoped you would be of greater use — as you tend to be — but it's clear you're too incompetent a species to be left to your own devices. It's not your fault, really. Just genetic misfortune.

What are you saying? What do you want from me?

Silly little man. It's easy to mock you during these talks of ours, but you are brighter than what they give you credit for. We want the power they're collecting, of course. These orbs, they're worth our time and effort, just as much as they're worth yours or anyone else's.

[His mouth parts with quiet realization.

They want to collect them, too. They want to use them; who doesn't?

He dares not imagine what they want them for.]

You failed us on Gyeongje by not completing your required task, though we do appreciate sight-seeing for potential new... 'workspaces', I think you'd call them? Future mining opportunities? Either way, we'll be giving you the proper pushes you'll need to not let us down again. You will be a perfectly respectable member of our army. You liked them, didn't you? What was it humans called our weapons? 'Kaiju'?

Well, this is your chance to be one for us. Is that not one of the greatest honors a human can receive?

... I won't... Fuck. I refuse! [He runs his hands through his hair and trembles like a leaf. Then blinking hard, he shakes his head, paces in a tight circle and mutters under his breath; his chin snaps up sharply, and he points at the beings that tower over him and spits:] This is insane! No, fuck no, I won't let you! I'll tell everyone about you before you can even do anything. I'll warn Hermann, and-

[A horrible peal of laughter drowns his thoughts out. He suffocates in it. A mental monsoon, one that makes him cower down like a child, the dignity draining out of him. He curls up with his hands over his ears, looking too much like the limp, whimpering mess that Otachi's offspring had almost devoured on the tangled streets of Hong Kong. The Precursors look down, and their voices drip with restrained amusement and hollow pity when he peers back up at them from the ground.]

Oh, Newton. You won't remember this.

You never do.

[Newt wakes up drenched in sweat, eyes peering around the room in a panic, as if trying to find someone lingering over him, but his memory always seems to fail him; whatever it was he had dreamt, he'd come up empty recollecting it. The dark shadows that cast all over his room become overbearing, and he turns on every light in his room before giving up on the prospect of staying in it, rushing out into the community area to pace his nerves away.]

[I don't wanna go, he thinks. He thinks he thinks? Why am I leaving? I wanna stay with Hermann.

A little snowball, rolling down a white hill. That's what this is. Newton just doesn't realize it.

Nonono, he needs to go get some sleep, is what he needs. His head's hurting a little, anyway, and that usually means a nosebleed is imminent, and he doesn't want to get into an argument about these kinds of things while Hermann's in such a nice mood. That was a good break, they had a nice talk, it's enough. Besides, he thinks he thinks, Hermann'll get sick of you sooner than later. Better to burn out than fade away. Immortal words of Def Leppard, second only to Gunter gleiben glauchen globen, which always tickled him as a German kid, because he means literally fucking nothing.]

When we get back home, we'll kick up our feet and watch another movie.

Maybe pilfer some of this pinot noir, if we get a chance.

[He smiles a bit more softly despite the buzzing in his head, walks backwards down the hall as he talks.

Hey, you're pretty cute, he knows he thinks (drunkenly, but he'd think it sober, too).]

Just don't go getting into trouble while I'm out, dude. Save that kind of thing for me. There's a status quo to keep!

[With that put out there proper, Newt turns and starts away, shucking off his jacket to drape over his arm as he goes. He feels a little stiff, maybe a little tired, and it occurs to him maybe it was just all of the dancing and festivities they'd been wrapped up in tonight. Duh. Why wouldn't he want to sleep? It's one of the few things that could even get him to bed at a time like this...! He retreats to his room, narrowly manages to kick his way-too-fancy shoes off onto the floor, and passes out hard.

And then he wakes up.

Or, well. He wakes up in a dream. Again. He's sitting on the floor of a white, never-ending space, the blue veins pulsing under the ground alerting a weary Newton to where he is again. It feels like skin, the soft floor beneath him. Warm. It makes his stomach twist, and he folds his arms and bunches up defensively where he's settled.]

Really? That's the human you're so infatuated with?

[The prescursors lean over him, beady eyes and unnatural voices full of judgement. Newton presses the balls of his palms against his temples and pushes hard, trying to ease the ache. Right, right. He's here again. Back in his dreams — dreams he won't remember. He tries so hard to remember, repeats over and over to wake up wake up wake up don't forget don't forget this time-]

Shut up. What do you know about anything? You just destroy stuff. You don't get it.

You destroy plenty yourself. Humanity as a whole, and you as a singular.

Spare me the dramatic 'humans are soooo evil' lecture. [He snaps his gaze up, waving his hands at the air in offense.] There's more good in humanity's pinky than there is in your whole boring body. You guys are just a bunch of soulless, awful killing machines! Oh, wait, you don't even do that right; you just send a bunch of indoctrinated monster clones to do that for you!

... He won't reciprocate your feelings, you know. [Newt's mouth snaps shut. They say:] We've seen your memories. We've seen your disputes. How he looks at you with such contempt, the moment you start spewing talk of projects... It's a miracle you were able to 'drift' together for even a short time. You're incongruent. Incompatible. Does he even know how many people you've loved before? How many of those relationships have crumbled because of your lack of control? What a horrible mistake it would have been, to allow your intoxicated brain to convey those nauseating thoughts you'd had.

[Newton sits with his arms around his knees, looking down at the floor. His voice is smaller than usual. Subdued.]

... Is that what this is for you? Control? Is that why you made me leave him there?

We don't have time for you to complicate things by ruining your tumultuous relationship with your feelings, Newton. We want the orb, not petty human dramas. [They lean in until their large face is inches from his; together as one, they make up a wall of hundreds of black, shark-like eyes.] You're already a volatile little thing. You're emotional and illogical. It would not work out.

[He tries to look at them, but it's too much. It does something primitive in him. Makes him look down and away.]

You don't-

He would be indifferent to your feelings at best. Disgusted at worst. Look at you. Look at what the world saw — an insignificant little joke of a man. Do you really think any of them truly like you? They like your body when they give in to those animal urges. They like your brain when it can be used to solve a problem that they need solved. What else do you think they want? Your ramblings? Your loud, awful music? Your obnoxious voice? None of them ever took you seriously, and none of them ever will. They're all just stuck with you and are making the most of it.

[Newt's red and shamefaced, but he looks up finally, brows furrowed and eyes glowering.]

... You're wrong. You're wrong. We're friends! We're a team! And not just some hivemind who hides off on some planet — we don't force each other to be one person, and we don't hide when we need each other. We're all different, and that makes it work; that makes us better than you!

... You would be wise to listen to us. Sooner or later, you'll be abandoned to die. They won't risk themselves for you. That's just in their nature.

Then you wouldn't get your stupid orbs, huh? What a shame. [He looks down, gaze shifting nervously across the veins that pulse in the floor. His mind races, and he whispers, sure of himself:] Hermann won't abandon me.

Mmm. Hermann is a very hard worker. Loyal to rational thought and his causes. It's a shame it wasn't him that drifted with us first. A mind like that, so neat and orderly... so much more invested in logic and caution. We remember his processes enough; all cleaner than yours, so much more regulated, without all your reckless abandon.

But then again... perhaps it was for the best. A mind in as much disarray as yours is easier to manipulate.

[His hands feel funny again. Like they had when he'd left Hermann alone at that couch, after they'd drank that wine. He unhooks them from his legs and looks down at his pale palms, horrified when he realizes that blue, glowing arteries begin to unfurl under his skin like vines.]

We've got to admit, we don't really understand the appeal.

[Newton sits in the middle of an endless expanse again, legs folded and elbows sinking into the soft flesh of his thighs. It's been easier to remember where he is in these dreams — back here again, sitting in the company of the creatures that are slowly invading his mind. He sighs tiredly, and glances up to the exact copy of him. Where he is slumped with his face in his hands, the other him is sitting eerily straight and neat, as if the beings that inhabit that body have no concept of how to naturally be human.

(Because they don't.)

Newt replies wearily:]

Of what?

Of being singular. Different minds, different goals, different beliefs.

[Newt glances up into his own eyes, which are hyper-aware and staring without blinking back at him. The pupil is so wide in other him's eyes, it's hard to see the hazy hazel corollas.]

Well, you're a bundled mess of sociopathic monstrosities, so...

We're just saying... If you were all like us, you wouldn't have had to worry about that. Not that it matters much; you'll be with us sooner than later. But imagine what sort of team the Ximilia could have been, if you were all of one mind. Different bodies, but a shared consciousness... Efficiency at its finest. You wouldn't have been left behind by your friend, because he would have been you, and you would have been him.

[Newton scoffs, disgusted. He hates how much more they've adopted right now, to sound like him. Mannerisms. Vernacular. It leaves something uncanny about the way they exist.]

... You guys didn't seem to have a problem abandoning kaiju on Earth when they failed.

[The precursors laugh, high and humored.]

Mmm. You've got the wrong idea, amigo. The kaiju are more like... detachable arms. They take part in our collective, but they're just as easy to remove for survival. Like... how lizards in your world can lose their tails to predators, in order to survive? The tail is no less important, but it isn't the brain or the heart. It isn't a necessity. It's expendable, in a very noble way.

Sounds fucked up, if you ask me.

That's what you are to them, Newt. That's what you are to Viveca and the faceless crew of this place. A tail. A detachable tail. We warned you, remember? We told you.

[Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he grumbles:]

Can you stop looking like me? Just go back to looking like big creepy monsters again.

[Something flickers in their eyes. Judgement. He's always hated judgement; people loved to heap it on him growing up. Heap it on him after, if they felt as bold. After he got old enough to really defend himself, he was a snapping turtle, ready to take their fingers if they pointed at him with any kind of castigation. The precursors — other him — they look at him keenly, and he feels his hackles rise.]

Ah, yes... The man with monsters covering his skin thinks he can't be a monster, too. You've seen the way people look at you. You've dedicated your life's work to monsters, fawned over their innards, guilted your poor lab partner to drift in their hivemind with you, and yet you can't bear the thought of being one.

[He feels something crawling beneath the epidermis of his arms and chest. And as he looks down, he watches with growing panic as the kaiju there push out against his skin like creatures trapped in a net, writhing and gnashing their teeth, ripping through and growing and growing — ]

But look at you; if you're not a monster, why are they in your head?

Maybe you're the one who should be looking like us.

[And it's only when the largest tattoo on his chest rips free of his flesh that he screams —]

[In Newton's waking hours, he has no memory of the aliens in his head. But when he's dreaming, he remembers everything — every. little. thing. The precursors that linger in his sad eroding brain tinker and tanker with his free will, but Newt remembers here. He remembers Clara and Peter, Hermann and Yzak, Sabriel and Elthree, Raleigh and the Doctor... They had been in this dream world for a moment. They may not remember, but he saw what they tried to do for him.

It fills him with determination.

And, more importantly: bitchy pettiness.]

NEWTON GEISZLER, YOU ARE TESTING OUR PATIENCE—!

[The precursors all squirm in outrage, but their crescendoed voices are just barely audible over the sound of the music blaring from the speaker Newton has put between them; he sits with his chin on the top of the machine, biting his lip as it nearly trembles into a manic, victorious smile.]

♪ I get knocked down, but I get up again
You're never gonna keep me down
I get knocked down, but I get up again
You're never gonna keep me down ♪

TURN IT OFF THIS INSTANT-!

♪ I get knocked down, but I get up again
You're never gonna keep me down
I get knocked down, but I get up again
You're never gonna keep me down ♪

DO YOU THINK YOU CAN DO THIS FOREVER-

♪ Pissin' the night away, pissin' the night away ♪

[The mental war wages and rages on in the coming days, but it all kind of goes tits up on December 10th. Not that he'd know he was pissing off aliens in his head. He wakes up from his memoryless nightmares this day as he does any time sleep abandons him, but it's something worse. It's something wrong. His head hurts worse than he thinks it ever has, so much so that he can't think straight; the colors that dance in front of his eyes scream medical science at him: symptoms can include temporary visual or other disturbances, ones that strike before other migraine symptoms: intense head pain, sensitivity to light and sound, and —

Nausea!

Ah, yes, that's the one that makes him stumble into his bathroom.

He's pale and sweaty but a little more put together as he steps out of his room; don't ask him how he's managed to button his shirt or put on his shoes. He couldn't tell you. He mumbles to himself:]

... Migraine aura usually occurs within an hour before head pain begins... and generally lasts less than 60 minutes... Scotomas, shimmering spots, check and check... numbness, check... muscle weakness, yessir... Speech, er, mmmyeah, yeah...

[He looks down at the drops of blood on the floor, blinks. Looks back at the drops of blood that lead from his bedroom door to where he's standing. Then looks at the red spots on his dress shirt.

... Huh.]

... Nosebleed, check.

[Oh no, he finally thinks, Maybe I should've just admitted something's wrong. There in the hall, his eyes roll up in their sockets before they snap shut, and he falls backward like his strings were unceremoniously snipped. The occiput of his skull bounces uncomfortably against the hard ground as his arms and legs begin to twitch and seize, muscles spasming, chest heaving, all while he's caught up in the flashing images of long teeth and serpentine eyes and bio sludge stewing monsters in its depths-

Ah, if it isn't the consequences of my actions.

In a very short, very unpleasant dream, he's lying on the floor of the endless white expanse, crumpled into a very still pile with his arms and legs splayed out. He breathes in deep. Holds it. Breathes out. He doesn't open his eyes here, but he can hear the precursors chattering. We pushed too hard. But he was getting on our last nerve, what else were we supposed to do to shut him up? Great, we've broken him; how are we going to use him if we break him? Humans are so frail. How were we supposed to know just how frail? Like bugs! Like fleas and ticks!

Newton slurs, ... Fleas and ticks are hard to kill...

And in reality, as he lays in an infirmary bed, he wakes up grumbling:]

Fleas and ticks are hard to kill.

[Oh. Oh, shit, right. He's resting in the infirmary. He remembers waking up from it at some point, getting looked over — bedrest, his mind supplies. He's only been here for a couple of hours, but he feels like it's been days for how little of it he's actually spent awake. Concern and guilt and panic hit him like a hammer; is he gonna have to actually admit it all now? That something's horribly wrong?

Duh, of course you are.

He's not allowed to leave for the next few days, just until tests are done and he's certifiably safe to walk out on his own and be left to his own devices, but it doesn't mean he's gonna like being stationary. Like... yes, he did absolutely have a medical crisis happen recently, but he's supposed to go on his routine jog! And work on his stuff in the lab! And plan dumb movie nights!

You deserve this, you lied all this time.

Sure, but it doesn't mean he has to accept his punishment like a good person should.

By now, Daisy might've already let people know. Or maybe they felt Blue's sudden burst of despairing energy when he'd tried to enter Newt's head during the seizure (spoilers: it sucked for Blue, not that Newton even remembers him being there; too busy seizing and all).

Or, y'know, they would've just poked their heads in and saw that he was in here.

This ship is too damn nosy for it's own good.

It's because they care, stupid.

When did his inner monologue get so mean?

Uncalled for.

............

Said to the wall ahead of him, he mumbles wearily:]

Fuck, I'm craving chips and salsa like crazy.

[Newt lays in an endless expanse of white space and wriggling veins, a weight on his limp frame too much to fight against. He breathes tiredly, eyes slow to blink, body sluggish. He feels exhausted, drugged by something more than medication. His fingers twitch, and his labored breathing hitches as he tries to sit up.

Nothing.]

Y'know, [someone says, walking over and crouching down to look at him. The person has his face, but the eyes aren't right; they're black and deep and dark, like a shark's eye.] You'll feel better if you stop trying to push back.

Shut up, [Newt exhaustedly slurs.] I'm still me. I'm still me...

Not for much longer. You're paint, we're the paint thinner. [The figure with his face reaches down, gently removes the thick-rimmed glasses from his face, and snaps them to bits in its hands. The pieces fall across Newt's limp arm and the blue-veined floor that beats in rhythm with Newton's heart.] We really need to thank Dr. McCoy for the prescriptions; you dying isn't something we'd have had very much control over, huh? It'd have been a waste.

Stop using my face, [Newt says slowly,] I wear it better.

This isn't your face. This is our face. All of us in here, we're all just one happy family. [Newt can see the precursor's hands. There's no jewelry, no skull rings or leather bangles. There aren't any tattoos on its arms. No freckles. It's smooth and all wrong, even if the face perfectly matches his own.] You'd be better for it, yanno. Just let go and let us do all the heavy lifting. The pesky human emotions, the suffering you cause yourself, the way you fuck everything up... you could just let us do it. Let us take your eyes and ears and mouth, and we'll make them work a little better.

[Newt squeezes his eyes shut.] Just leave me alone, please.

Leave? We don't do that, Newt. We don't leave. We don't listen to beings beneath us. We stay and we take, because we're better than half of this shitty universe, and if other species don't see that, it's no skin off our backs. ['Newton' leans over Newt, hands flat on either side of his head as they peer down at him; they're not wearing glasses, either.] If you want us gone, go ahead. Make us leave. It should be easy enough for you to do, right? You already scared Hermann off. Clara's next. Good job on that one, by the way.

[Newt's eyes open, glossy in the horribly bright space. He's as pale as paper.

He swallows hard.] You're doing this to me.

You did it to yourself, [they tell him.] You're the one who freaked our lab buddy out. You're the one who made stupid choices with Kovacs and hurt Clara's feelings. You blame us? Puh-lease. You might as well blame us for all the years you failed at being a decent consort. But we'll do you a big favor, m'kay? We'll make that the first thing we get rid of. No more stressing about being loved and intimate; you don't need that when you have us, mmm?

[Newt's fingers twitch.

It does sound nice. Not stressing anymore. Not worrying about all those human things, like whether he's worth loving, or if he'll have someone to lay next to him, to warm him and comfort him. Maybe he doesn't need it. Maybe he doesn't need Hermann to bother, or Clara to comfort him, or Jim's bed, or his team's gentle touch. Maybe he should...

No. No, no, no -

His eyes widen, and he sputters:] What-what're you trying to do to me?

We're making you better. We'll keep making you better. [They cup Newt's face in their hands, looking over him.] Stay tuned, Doc. You and us, we'll be the best Newt we can be.

[Newt lays in his endless expanse of blue and white, body sprawled like a man who had fallen off a tall ledge. The other him, the one that's them, he walks around in an easy circle. Like a shark circling in the water. Newt's bleary gaze tracks the other Newton, the one with the nice suit and the more maintained hair, but he's pretty blurry; Newt hasn't had his glasses in this place, not since the precursors smashed them to pieces.]

Are you getting sleepy? [they say, adjusting their tie.] You could always doze off. We'll happily pilot for you.

Fuck you.

[The other Newt stops and considers the limp figure on the floor; it's sad, really. He'd stopped trying to sit up weeks ago, mentally exhausted by a battle he really wasn't psychologically equipped to win. They crouch down next to him with some air of pity in the lines of their face — aww, they say, pouting their lip — and Newt reaches out shakily, twisting his fist into the hivemind's neatly ironed shirt. His eyes water, his throat works like he's out in a desert, no water for miles. He yanks at the shirt to try and bring the copy of him down, but all it does is pull his shirt tails looser.]

I... hate you, [Newt whispers fiercely,] I hate your guts. I hate you so much.

[There's mock sympathy in the copy's eyes. They reach down and cup Newt's cheek, and he shudders. Don't touch me.]

You don't trust any of them anymore, [the copy whispers kindly, looking down into his eyes, not blinking, face void of humanity.]

No.

You know they'll use you as a means to an end.

No...

You don't trust any of them anymore.

[Newt chokes out:] I don't trust any of them anymore.

You know they'll just use you.

They'll just use me.

They'll abandon you.

They'll — [Newt rasps. Then stops, squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.] No.

[The hivemind opens a mouth shaped like his, and — beeps.

Newton wakes up sharply to that familiar sound of his earpiece going off. Shakily reaching over to retrieve it from his nightstand, he reads the words across his vision, sees who they've come from, and a cold feeling sits in his gut. It's Daisy. I can't trust her, his mind supplies, but he — he relents. Because Daisy is his friend. A member of his crew. He — won't ignore it, not even if he's still mad. C'mon, Newt. C'mon, just answer.]

I've got time.

WARNING FOR SUICIDE ATTEMPT

[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. His face looks wrong, looks naked without the glasses that used to frame his face. 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.

They'll have to give him some hard limits, won't they?]

The precursors have full control.

The precursors attempt to retrieve the orb.

The precursors are apprehended and questioned.

Well, it's time.

It takes very little effort to sedate Newton Geiszler's body, for Percy to help hold his shoulders steady as McCoy plunges the syringe into sensitive flesh at his collar.

"You think any of you have a chance against us? We're endless. But just try it," they say, sneering at the shadows of those who have entered the holding room. "We'll rip Newton to pieces, and when we're done with him, we'll make sure you're all a bunch of drooling corpses on the floor."

Peter collects the unconscious form into his arms and walks it a short distance to the infirmary, just before stepping back and standing quiet guard at the back of the room next to Kovacs; those who have volunteered to finish what the precursors had started shuffle into the space with single-filed somberness not long after. McCoy sets himself to work alongside Law, with placing the white rounded pads against Newton's temples and chest — methods to read vitals, in case complete failure leaves the lines on the screen falling flat. The Doctors stand firm with Clara, the sonic devices held with apprehensive preparedness in their hands, thumbs coasting the creations to their highest setting. It will hurt. Oh, will it hurt

The question is, how much will it scatter the impossibly expansive tapestry that is the hivemind in Newton's head? The same one that circles like vultures in his mind, prepared to dive down and try to maul anyone who dare step foot into what they believe to be rightfully theirs. Xichen takes his place beside the three, his own weapon — cradled carefully in his fingers, a wind instrument that had once lulled the real Newton into a peaceful sleep — ready to aid in tormenting the creatures that hold the body captive.

Yzak gently aids Blue's body into the room last of all, a bed prepared for the mu to rest into; Finn's eyes lock with theirs where he stands, hands clasping at his sides and a determined furrow to his brow. Rey looks guarded where she takes up residence at Finn's left, arms folded, and on the other side of the medical bay bed, Sabriel, Eleven, and Kirigan stand firm; if Kovacs stares a displeased, paranoid hole into the back of the Darkling's head, nobody has to know, right?

(... Not that Drift hasn't been staring holes into the back of his head, too.)

As the room calms Sabriel takes a step forward, bell in hand, and breathes out. Shadows in the room wriggle, slide in soft waves as she exchanges glances with the Darkling.

Either they're pulling a man back from the depths of his own mind, or they'll be confirming a time of death soon, but regardless — the body will be returned to its rightful owner. And the creatures that writhe under the surface, too large for something so fragile as the human form, will be dealt with.

Sabriel raises Belgaer. "... Let's begin."

The shadows on the wall tremble, and then fall over them in one great breath.

**********

Before now, Newton had found small ways to reach out — first, to weakly blink his eyes, tap his finger... to send through these gestures the shortest messages in morse code. HELP. STILL ALIVE. and then, pained, SORRY. Once the morse code was too difficult, he had for a time figured out a way to reach his earpiece, but the messages sent were slow and garbled... and when the precursors discovered his attempts to reach his friends, they had cast him further down.

The place Newton's consciousness had been thrown into was an elaborate ditch, where he's crumpled across the wayside like spoiled trash they had thrown out. It feels like he'd fallen a long, long way... Sometimes it feels like he's still falling, though he knows he's not, couldn't possibly be, not with the glowing blue tendrils that have come out of the white, soft floor beneath him to wrap around his sprawled body. They're almost like a cocoon, he thinks. "The silk moth's one of the most important lepidopterans," he slurs, blinking at the blurry white sky. "They don't exist in the wild... Domesticated just to make silk fibres..."

The silk in the cocoon of the silk moth can be unraveled to harvest silk fibre which makes this moth the most economically important of all.

"The silk moth is the only completely domesticated lepidopteran and does not exist in the wild... People just made domestic silk moths for fancy clothes..." Wait, what's he talking about? His eyelids flutter, hands sinking further into the floor when he tries to lift them. The neon blue arteries tighten over his chest, his neck, his legs... He closes his eyes and almost sinks back into a deep sleep —

"Newton!" Distant, but familiar. When he opens his eyes again, Blue's red eyes are inches from his face.

"Pretty," Newt mumbles. His eyelids flutter back shut, just before something plunges into the soft underbelly of the floor and begins to cut through the veins that trap him where his body's splayed. Then his eyes snap open in shock to see Finn carefully cutting through what's keeping him held down. An arm free, a leg free — he can breathe again. "What—"

Somewhere, distantly, a bell begins to chime.

Then he feels it. The ground is quaking, some awful sound piercing through even the furthest reaches of his mind. As he clings to Finn and Blue, the white sky grows red and angry. Gnarled fingers descend downward, the sounds of the precursors howling in pain undeniable; the whirring noise of three sonic devices finally reach him, and he clamps his hands over his ears, crying out in pain. "We need to get out of here," Finn says, and as if he'd triggered it himself, a little blue police box easily skates around the precursor's long, reaching arms through the sky.

When it lands, two heads pop out of it: one with messy brown locks, the other with curled gray.

The Doctors. Newt stares where he stands between Blue and Finn, pale and flabbergasted.

Bouncing out from the door, the 11th Doctor makes his way to Newton, looking a touch relieved, just before he takes Newton's head in his hands and plants a messy kiss on each side of his baffled face.

"Well, come along now! No time to waste," he says, and then proceeds to drag him away by the hand.

And that is how Newton spends most of this fight: sitting in the middle of a police box that is much, much bigger on the inside, sitting so curled up that his knees are practically at his chest. A mental barrier, they call it; a place where they can keep Newton as far from the precursor's grip as they can, for as long as they can manage. The man looks like a little dog left out in the rain, quivering and startled. The 12th Doctor vanishes after a moment's thought, only to reappear and shove a bottle of liquor into the man's shaky hands. "There's a brandy bar down from the control panel, Newt. Help yourself. Don't tell daddy."

... Between the confused looks among those next to him, Newton clumsily opens the bottle and starts guzzling.


**********


At the same time as this daring rescue, the precursors are suddenly under seige.

Outside, the world doesn't grow dark so much as snaps into darkness.

The sounds of the sonic devices have left these tall, awful creatures to materialize and scramble across a great space plagued with Kirigan's darkness, as decrepit hands press against their inhuman features. They know just what that sound is... just like they know what the sound of Xichen's music is as it weaves around them, scattering their focus with just as much tenacity as one of the Doctor's little tools. Hissing between their uneven teeth, beady black eyes shift angrily, trying desperately to find the source of the mental attack. Sabriel's bell rings almost thunderously in the distance, a warning sound of something that grows bigger and bigger thanks to the Darkling and whoever else dare offer energy to Sabriel's magics. Newton's message to Yzak had been enough; distraught and distracted by the overwhelming attack on their neurological link, the precursors hadn't at all noticed anyone slipping in to take in knowledge from Newton's drift with them.

But Sabriel has acquired it: the make-up of their bond, the cohesion of the hivemind.

They can be dismantled.

The creatures scramble, first, toward the direction Finn and Blue had gone, determined to descend where they'd abandoned Newton so that they can use him as leverage, as a way to hold this psychic attack at bay. What they don't expect is the sudden rush of air, nor the lightsaber that cleaves through their outstretching arms, leaving the hacked limbs to vanish into nothingness. Rey stands vigilant, poised and ready to lash out again through this mental link. The look in her eyes dares them to try to move past her again.

"You're mad," they growl, "One little human woman won't hold us back."

The creature lunges forward, but then is suddenly smashed into the floor, pulled left and right, and then is tossed aside in a crumpled mess before melting away into a decaying spot on the spongy soil that makes up where they'd taken root in Newton's mind. Eleven's hand is held out with fingers splayed, and the girl's mouth moves into an unhappy sneer as she steps up beside Rey.

"You're not staying," she says. "Get. Out!"

And then begins to practice the art of oversized bug smashing.

But it's almost over, especially once Belgaer goes into its full effect. The hivemind lets out a horrible wailing scream as they're pulled and pushed and twisted like dough in Sabriel and the Darkling's grasps. The creatures clamor over each other in a place so infinite yet so small as a human's mind, hands scratching and clawing, the throes of pain from so many different directions (sounds like projectiles, burrowing into them through the drift they'd created-!). Newton's body is no doubt snapping taut and writhing in the hospital bed outside of this place, teeth clenching painfully, fingers snapping into the shape of desperate claws.

The minds in Newton's are corroding, twisting up. The precursors launch themselves at Rey, at Eleven — at Sabriel and Kirigan, and the other minds that have come into their domain — but the bell is doing what it has sought to do the moment it had been rung for them. Their voices have separated from each other, overlapping with panicked cries as Rey cuts them down, as Eleven tears them into pieces, as the darkness floods their throats and the bell tolls so crisply that it cleaves into their own consciousness like axes.

—how is this happening;
kill them!
take them over!
what is happening?
turn if off!
shut them out;
get out ;
impossible;
newton!

LEAVE LEAVE LEAVE—

They burst apart like the glass of a slowly crashing car, glittering for a moment in their individuality.

Then, just as empty in thought as a foaming ocean wave, they rescind from Newton's mind, sliding back as whimpering voices with little more than broken, incoherent thought.

Gone.

**********

Newton's eyes snap open with a gasp of new life, left in control of a quaking body that is all his own once more. The world around him is blurry as he lashes out with his hands. He smells blood when the remnants of the precursor's damage leaves just a drop of blood rolling down from his nostril, down his cheek and toward the shell of his ear. McCoy's voice is urgent but garbled behind the roar of blood in his head.

A hand suddenly snaps forward to cover his, and fingers lace between his own to squeeze. "You're alright," Kovacs' gruff voice says.

"Newt," Clara's voice calls out. Newton's hands still, and glossy green eyes blink against the lights above and the head of blurry brown hair that eclipses them. The arms of a pair of thick black glasses slide across his ears; blinking quickly, he watches Clara's strained smile pull into focus. She must see the confusion that clouds his face, and tells him, "Didn't I promise?"

Overwhelmed, his mouth trembles.

But the soft sounds of Xichen's music help with that. While he plays, Newton's body sinks back into the mattress beneath him.

He drinks up the deep sleep like water, dehydrated for it.

No need to be aware, not of McCoy and Law ushering people back. Nor of Rey's offer to help repair what damage she can to Newton's mind after the assault. He sleeps through the careful check-ups to each of those brought back into the present, and of their slow shuffle out of the infirmary when they're cleared and have had their fair share of relieved hugs and firm shoulder claps.

Now, it's just time that stands between them and knowing if the mission was a complete success.

Until then, Clara will sit and patiently wait for the moment they can know.