"Don't you think Connie was acting a bit off today?"
Newton sat on the edge of the workbench, his gaze fixed on the pile of kaiju tissue samples. His mind, however, was elsewhere. He turned to Hermann, who was scribbling formulas on the blackboard.
Connie's behavior had been genuinely strange.
"So what?" Hermann didn't look back, focused entirely on correcting his equations—an attempt to deduce the cause of yesterday's double attack. "People have mood swings. It happens."
He wasn't concerned about Connie Albert's mood. What mattered were the numbers on the blackboard.
"Which is exactly why I keep saying numbers are more reliable than people."
Newton rolled his eyes.
Hermann's emotional intelligence was frighteningly low.
"I shouldn't have bothered talking to you." He sighed, scanning the lab for another human being to speak to.
Two seconds later, he sighed again. Only one living person in the room, and that person was Hermann. What a tragedy.
His gaze fell on a jar holding a kaiju's secondary brain. The green preservative liquid reflected his disheveled face.
I can't seriously talk to the kaiju, can I?
How desperate would a person have to be to consider conversing with a monster?
No. This was Hermann's fault. If the man weren't so infuriating, Newton wouldn't even entertain the idea.
"God, I really am losing it," Newton muttered, staring at the secondary brain. He laughed self-deprecatingly. "I'm actually considering talking to a kaiju just to pass the time."
Hearing this, Hermann paused, setting down his chalk. He turned around, pointing the chalk directly at Newton.
"Then you really are losing it."
"Talk to a kaiju? That's impossible."
"What's in front of you is just a pile of rotting meat. Are you planning to have a chat with kaiju cells?"
Verbal sparring had become routine for the two of them. Being crammed into one lab only amplified the friction between their incompatible personalities.
"Just because you can't imagine something doesn't mean it's impossible," Newton shot back.
Then something clicked.
"Wait—Connie's a living example of exactly that." Having found his counterpoint, his voice gained momentum. "Have you forgotten? All that knowledge he has about kaiju came from inside a kaiju's brain."
"He said he achieved neural handshake with a kaiju brain, just like two Jaeger pilots do."
"Maybe I could do the same thing. Handshake with a kaiju brain."
Newton's eyes lit up. He thought this was a perfectly viable plan to gain a deeper understanding of the kaiju.
His words triggered a reaction in Hermann.
"That's impossible."
Hermann hobbled over with his cane, limping toward Newton. "When Connie first mentioned this, I doubted its veracity."
"Tell me—how big is a human brain?" He looked Newton in the eye.
"Uh..." Newton was momentarily startled by the intensity, but answered quickly, "About fourteen centimeters in diameter."
He gestured with his hands. Smaller than a soccer ball.
"Now look at this." Hermann raised his cane and tapped the large glass jar containing the secondary brain.
The brain floating inside still retained some activity. It possessed characteristics of both a brain and a heart, with several thick blood vessels writhing below it.
Kaiju, these massive creatures, are controlled by a primary and secondary brain. This was just one secondary brain.
"This secondary brain is bigger than half an adult human!" Hermann shouted. "Incompatible Jaeger pilots suffer accidents. Now connect your brain to that—what happens?"
He mimed an explosion.
"Boom!"
"Your brain matter would splatter inside your skull like fireworks!"
In Hermann's view, connecting a human brain to a kaiju brain was pure fantasy—a death wish. No sane person would attempt it.
"Then how do you explain Connie?" Newton wasn't backing down.
"The first time we met him, he told us information we'd never released publicly. He knows more about kaiju than I do, and I work with them every day."
The only way to explain Connie Albert's knowledge was that he had achieved a neural handshake. He had even volunteered that information himself.
"That's exactly what I can't figure out," Hermann admitted, lowering his cane. He frowned, thinking. "He doesn't show any signs of aftereffects."
"Logically, if he really had handshaked with a kaiju, there's no way he'd be walking around like nothing happened."
"I'm more inclined to believe he never handshaked at all. That information came from some other source—one we know nothing about."
Newton just laughed.
"How is that possible?"
"If he had a channel for obtaining kaiju intel, why wouldn't he just tell us?"
"In this shitty apocalyptic era, we're all in the same boat, fighting for survival. Why would anyone hold back?"
"Who knows..." Hermann wanted to argue that perhaps they weren't all on the same side, but reality forced him to swallow the words. If the kaiju won, none of them would survive.
Hermann's suspicion wasn't without reason. Connie Albert was simply too mysterious.
Even though every record of the man's life was verifiable, it still didn't explain how he knew so much about kaiju and the Precursors.
"I'll prove you wrong." Newton grinned, seeing Hermann had no immediate response. "If he did the handshake, the equipment has to be somewhere."
"Once I find it, I'll prove you completely wrong."
This was the fuel of genius: the desire to prove another wrong.
"I'm going right now!"
Like a kid who had found a way to embarrass his friend, Newton couldn't wait to act.
He ripped off his gloves, tossed them onto the workbench, and sprinted for the lab door.
"Something that doesn't even exist—I'd like to see you try to find it," Hermann called after his retreating back, then turned and limped toward the blackboard to continue revising his formulas.
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