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- Show no weakness. Show no mercy. Hide the parts of you that make you shake at night and thrash in your government subsidized sheets. Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you broken even though that’s all you know how to be anymore. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing you hate the tattoos on your arms as much as everyone else does. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing you hate yourself more than everyone else does. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
- Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. That’s what they all say. Tear into your flesh with the outlines of what frightens you to your very core. Inscribe into your shredded heart the anatomy of what you hate more than anything, or at least what you hate second most, because it would be misinterpreted as narcissism to tattoo your own face on your arms. Look at the self-inflicted scars that culminate over pale skin and convince yourself this is what you wanted all along. This is what you need, after all.
- Pretend you don’t understand the insults he spits at you in a foreign-yet-familiar language your first few days on the job. Silently revel in the perfectly accented vowels and consonants. Stare with unbridled adoration at the way his infuriating tongue curls around menacing words, pouring out of his pristine mouth like toxic acid tainting a white rose, surprising and pure and biting all at once. Close your eyes and bask in how much he absolutely loathes you. Scream back one night when the pressure gets too much and the taste in your mouth turns bitter and don’t forget the look on his face, don’t forget the look on his fucking face for a goddamn second, store that in a vault and stitch the key into your side. Remember this instant because this is the moment you realize what’s going to get you through sleepless nights and fear clawing at your bones until it all ends because, by God, is it ever going to end, but if he hisses that phrase one last time when it’s all over it might just be worth it.
- When they whisper as you pass by or glare when you enter a room do not hesitate. Do not cover your arms with long sleeves on hot, endless days or blush and bite your lip in response to fallen silence. Do not cower behind the colors that stab like knives. Do not grow quiet simply because they expect it. Crash like a wave. Kick ass and take names. Save the world. Show no weakness. Show no mercy. Become a soldier. Become a weapon of mass destruction. Become a machine of the highest caliber. Become graceless and all-consuming. Become the monsters you’ve etched into your skin. Become Doctor Newton Geiszler. Do not let them see the dried tear stains or faint marks on your arms. Do not hide from your name. Wear it like a badge of honor. Doctor Newton Geiszler, Doctor Newton Geiszler, Doctor Newton Fucking Geiszler.
- Give them your knowledge, your insight, your vast intellect. Give them everything you have, open yourself without even meaning to, bleed yourself dry until all they can accuse you of is pure, unadulterated genius. Cry until there’s nothing left, scream until your voice can go no more above a whisper and your throat is so ripped up Hermann acknowledges that it’s a wonder you can still manage to be just as irritating. Make up for your manic insanity with brilliance. Pretend there is no difference between the two. Pretend they coincide and mix together perfectly instead of one being the only thing that keeps you alive and one being the thing that destroys you most inside and out. Pretend you can tell which does which.
- Hide your razors. Stay away from the knives in the industrial kitchen. Do not go back to that life. Do not surrender to the pitfalls of helplessness. Show no weakness. Show no mercy. You are a soldier. You are a weapon. You are a machine. You are Doctor Newton Geiszler. Do not go back to that life.
- Hold your breath when he speaks because you learned long ago that an uninterrupted rampage can get you through the night, can help you sleep soundly when all you want to do is tear at your bare skin and scream so loudly alarms have to be sounded.
- You don’t love him. You don’t love him even though you do, you know you do, you know you do so much it hurts, but you don’t. You love cringe-worthy monster movies and the smell of your father’s old sweaters that litter your room and cups of coffee being handed to you at odd hours of the morning by thin, nimble fingers. You love the world spinning too fast on its axis and work that piles up so high it smothers you and rhythmic tapping of cane against linoleum floors. You don’t love him.
-
It’s not your fault. Please be okay. Please respond. It’s not your fault. Please be okay.
Replay these words in an uptight British accent through your head when the insomnia hits you. Close your eyes as he bandages your arms and pats your face, telling you to please respond, please respond, please be okay, please respond. Forget how to say I’m sorry in German. Settle for English instead. Let him hold you through the night and convince yourself for the thousandth time that you don’t love him. - Don’t let him see you like that again. Grin the next day. Brush him off when he asks to talk about it later. You don’t need help. You’re fine. It was a relapse. A one-time thing. Won’t happen again. Ignore the worried looks he shoots you from across the room. You’re a soldier. You’re a weapon. You’re a machine. You’ve got it all under control; right up until you don’t.
- Don’t kiss him. Don’t kiss him when he grins at you when he thinks you’re not looking as you tell off another douchebag technician. Don’t kiss him when you both run into the J-Tech control room and successfully save the city of Hong Kong (again). Don’t kiss him at 3AM when he insists on staying up with you so "you don’t end up destroying everything in the lab", whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Don’t kiss him when he watches you take your meds with a careful, relentless gaze. Don’t kiss him when he smirks at you condescendingly as you ramble on about your theories. Definitely don’t kiss him when he screams at you again and again for your endless and inevitable insolence. Do not, repeat, do not kiss him.
- Ignore the nightmares, because the true nightmare is reality, and no one has time for any of that therapy bullshit. Everyone thinks you’re losing. Not you, specifically, but the royal you. We. Everyone thinks that we’re losing. Prepare yourself for war. Prepare yourself to fight. Reject all pessimism; negate all negativity. Use the patterns that wrap around your skin as a bright, red stop sign and the scars that you leave in the air behind you as a warning to anyone who comes near. Paint yourself the color of bravery and pray that no one can see the cracks in your armor. Grit your teeth to hide the way they chatter behind thin lips. Tell him that you’re a rock star, and say it loud enough that it hides the quiver in your voice. Curl your fingers into fists so no one can see the way they shake, or their natural incline to reach for something sharper. Show no weakness. Show no mercy. Shake the impending fear of doom. Tell yourself it’s for the best.
- Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic don’t—
- Lose yourself in a blur of words and emotions and silent shouts for help. Don’t even realize you’re saying you would do that with/for/to me until it’s tumbled out of your mouth like a battle cry. Close your eyes and clench your jaw and don’t bring up his childhood when it’s over. Don’t bring up his father. Don’t bring up the emotional abuse. Don’t bring up your sympathy, your empathy, your understanding. Don’t tell him you love him because you don’t even though you do and also because now he already knows. Don’t bring up what he wants to do to you, what he wants you to do to him, what you’ve already done to his fragile state and you don’t just mean his leg. Don’t bring it up because there isn’t time, because there are more important things at hand, but, God, are there really? Don’t bring it up because the world’s at risk and it’s not going to work and because if you do you might kiss him or love him or both at the same time. Don’t bring it up because there is a time and there is a place and that time and place is when the clock finally stops. Run back to the dome as fast as you can. (Don’t bring it up.) Drag him with you. Literally. (Don’t bring it up.) Race into the control room. (Don’t bring it up.) Pray it’s not too late. (Don’t bring it up.) Say the words before you can think of them into a flimsy microphone and concentrate all your knowledge into not thinking about how much you (don’t) love him. (Don’t bring it up.)
- Remember the pride you felt during screaming matches and never let it end. Remember the way his whole face lights up when he smiles. Remember the way he held you when you couldn’t stand. Remember the ring of blood around his eye, a scar that reminds everyone who meets him of your mark, of both your marks. Remember that some scars are meant to hurt. Remember the mix of terror and adoration and never, ever forget how sweet that particular mix feels when everything’s falling apart including yourself. Remember cold hands on your skin and chaste lips against yours. Remember being a soldier. Remember how he broke the machine and ripped off the armor. Show weakness. Show mercy. Remember Newton Geiszler, BH and AH: Before Hermann and After Hermann. Remember I hate how much I fucking love you, you bloody idiot. Remember I know you do. I do, too. Remember.