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Grayish meatloaf. Charred potato cubes. Metallic greenbeans and a side of slimy peaches. There is a reason Hermann does not often eat cafeteria food and despite the state of his tray, it has very little to do with how absolutely abhorrent it is.
Chatter fills the room, a decently nice stretch of time between Kaiju attacks leaving everyone in high spirits. The Trainees are playing some card game between bites of what is only considered a meal in the technical sense, J-Techs are hovering around the coffee maker, and some HR worker has pulled set up a radio so that they all might enjoy whatever trendy pop nonsense is currently on repeat. It is all somewhat domestic and that fact is the only one that keeps him from being entirely annoyed by it all.
Hermann has found himself an empty table in the fartherst corner from the busiest of them, only really present because his current work is drving him so mad he cannot bear to be in the same room as his chalkboard. He isn't off-put by the joy, really, he just isn't well among other people. They do not like him and he does not like them and if they do not not like him, he'd rather dislike them in advance, because they will eventually. Humans are predictable and Hermann does nothing but predict these days.
He pushes around his own vegetarian option, sad, squishy cherry tomatoes rolling over a bed of what should be leafy greens. There's browning around the edges, the dressing is goopy and oddly warm, and for some reason, there are mushrooms among his otherwise plain, boring salad. He thinks whoever is on kitchen duty right now should be fired.
Laughter takes his attention for a moment, familiar and boisterous and unafraid. All three descriptors so unfamiliar to himself, yet familiar in the form they take, a short man of wild hair, scratchy chin, and colorful tattoos. Newton is playing with a Jeager Pilot, who's got his head in a lock, scrubbing a knuckle into his skull. Tendo Choi photographs them from afar, both smiling wide enough to show all their teeth. Hermann wonders what it might be like to so easily get along with others. Newton seems to make friends as quickly and heartful as he makes his enemies.
They catch eyes, green to brown, brown to green. Hermann refocuses his attention onto his food, taking a sip from his tumbler of iced tea. It isn't long before the space in front of him is filled, Newton all but throwing himself onto the bench, his tray largely untouched, as he'll likely head back to the lab and stuff himself full of snacks and treats instead. "Oh my God, Hermann, you will not believe the bullshit those guys get up to. I'm not even kidding, like, I knew Rangers were weird, 'cause they're all in each other's heads all the time, but-"
"You don't have to do that."
"Huh?"
Rolling his eyes, Hermann gestures to where he is sitting. Really. The man has six PHDS, Hermann should not have to sacrifice his dignity to spell it out for him, nor does he need any pity from a manchild who can hardly take care of himself as is. He's perfectly fine eating on his own, thank you very much.
Newton scoffs, "dude, since when have you ever known me to do literally anything I don't want to?"
Heat gathers behind his face, clogging his throat, sending an odd, heavy feeling crushing into his chest. He's wrung out, squeezed so throughly from himself, that he almost feels like what's been weasled out is floating away. Suddenly, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, gripping his fork with enough force to break it. Where does Newton ever find the audacity to act so sincere? It is much too intimate, much too inappropriate. He should file a complaint to HR. He will. He will do that as soon as he's back in the lab.
"Never, I suppose," Hermann grumbles, and Newton's off again rambling so ceaslessly and for so long, that Hermann completely forgets to file his complaint until he's readying for bed that night.
Ah, well. It is late and his body hurts. He'll do it in the morning, then.