Chapter Text
8/12/232
How stupid could he be?
Actually.. Thomas doesn't want someone to answer that question. His few months of memories are enough to tell him that the only response anyone would give him is "Very."
He circles the room. Twice. Eight times. Nineteen. Forty three. He never finds a door. Only a glass wall that shows another empty, white room. It's maddening.
Breathing in deeply, he stops staring off into space in the box he is in and adjusts his sitting position in the corner. He looks at the glass wall parallel to him. He went over and put his hands against it half an hour ago — possibly longer, and decided if Wicked were expecting him to do something with it, such as break it, he wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
Additionally, he is dressed in different clothes than he last remembers. Not only have they stripped him of his Wicked guard uniform, but his own outfit too. He is now dressed similar to how Minho was when they found him, except he has A2 printed on his shirt instead of A7. And, both the shirt and trousers are as white as this damn room.
Something creaks.
Because his senses are nearly all fried from the sterile setting he has awoken in, the sound sends a jolt of fear coursing through his body. He flinches and stares over at where the noise came from, only to see a door has been opened behind the wall of glass.
He moves to stand when he sees a guard in full armour and furthermore equipped with a gun walk through, then presses himself back against the wall behind him when the guard is followed by some doctors, all in the same, white scrubs. After this, Thomas wants to never look at the colour white ever again.
The doctors wheel someone in on a chair, and Thomas barely gets a good look at the person before they are thrashing their head from side to side, teeth bared.
Thomas would recognize that blonde hair anywhere.
Feet moving before his brain has adjusted to what he is seeing, Thomas throws himself against the glass, fists hammering against it. "Newt!"
No one reacts.
He cannot hear a thing happening on the other side of the glass, so they likely can't hear him in return, but he still tries.
"Hey, hey— hey! What's happening? Let him go!"
A guards grabs Newt's head firmly in order to stop him from potentially biting someone, and then they use a strap to hold it in place against the back of the chair. A doctor goes on to wipe a cotton pad against Newt's arm. Thomas punches the glass again and again until his knuckles are bloody. What is Wicked's business with Newt? He isn't immune! Can't they just keep him out of more harm's way instead of whatever shit this is?
Or, maybe they are helping him.
Thomas' eyes widen and his movements become more sloppy as he sees a needle inject some blue liquid into Newt's vein. Newt shudders momentarily, then the guard releases his head from the strap. It droops weakly, and Thomas thinks they've sedated him for a moment, but Newt looks back up with terror on his face so human, that Thomas forgets what Wicked have done to him.
Trying to read Newt's panicked lips, Thomas squints and presses himself impossibly closer to the glass. His ears are ringing from the dead silence.
Anything between, "Please, stop.." and, "Get off of me." is uttered by Newt, but the doctors do neither. They remain in a tightly knit semi-circle around him — leaving a gap just big enough for Thomas to watch through — and pull out a timer. Fifty-eight seconds pass. Newt's eyes grow dark again.
It looks like he growls, then starts thrashing again.
Fifty-eight seconds.
Wicked can't even Cure someone for a minute.
Thomas' yell is lost to the walls of this room, echoing around him, as a new doctor approaches Newt with another needle, this too filled with blue. She injects it into him calmly, then backs away to look at her clipboard. Newt closes his eyes, folds forwards sluggishly, then his head springs up to stare at the people encircling him in fear. The timer clicks away. Two minutes this time. His face twitches down into a snarl. He trembles with anger.
This pattern repeats countless times, to the point Thomas starts to lose feeling in his legs from standing for so long. The doctors inject Newt with blue liquid, time it, then start over. Blue liquid, time it, start over. Time it, start over. Start over. Start over.
Thomas can't remember when he started crying, or when Newt started crying, but the tears are hot on his face and he can see how Newt's have streaked down and started to soak his shirt.
"Newt.." Thomas has screamed so much, he thinks he will permanently lose his voice after this, and all he can speak in now is broken whispers.
Yet was that all he needed?
Because Newt looks at him.
It was probably his eyes straying as he tries to catch his breath, but he pauses and his eyes are locked on Thomas. Thomas sees him breathe in shakily and set his face bravely into a neutral expression. He blinks away his tears.
Pressing his palms flat against the glass, Thomas shakes his head and starts feeling around, attempting to find a weak spot or something. There is nothing.
But Newt watches him. He doesn't react to the people around him anymore, even as the timer ticks past twenty minutes now. He watches Thomas, swallowing thickly.
Thomas has left a trail of blood on the glass from his raw hands and tries to wipe it away with his sleeve, because he doesn't want Newt to see this as much as he doesn't want to see Newt bound to a chair and prodded with needles. He can actively feel his heart breaking at the scene he is unable to reach.
Newt mouths something.
"Tommy?"
Choking on a sob, Thomas grits his teeth, pressing his head against the glass to rethink. He can't look away from Newt, but can't look at him either.
"Thomas."
A loud voice booms overhead, the first sound Thomas has heard in forever that isn't his own sniffs and cries. He jumps and stares up, but once more, no one on the other side of the glass reacts.
"Choose to help us and we can stop this."
"What? What?" Thomas walks in a small circle, voice raw, trying to spy a speaker, but he can't see anything but white, white, white, and his own droplets of blood.
"We can't have you betraying us again, A2. Or running. What we need is for you to sit quietly and help us."
"Tell me what the fuck you want from me and let him go! Let—"
"With your help, we can Cure Newt. How does that sound?"
The world around Thomas slows down. His heart starts to race when the transparent glass starts fogging up, until he can see Newt no longer.
"We can save his life."
Thomas hiccups and scrambles back towards the glass, only able to catch one last glimpse of Newt before the divider becomes fully white, blending into just another one of the goddamn white walls caging him in, "No—"
"Make your decision wisely, Thomas."
Feeling blood rush up to his ears, Thomas's heart pounds even more wildly in his chest. Janson. That voice has got to belong to Janson. "What the hell do you want, Janson?" Thomas yells, cupping his mouth towards the ceiling.
The speaker emits a chuckle, "Your cooperation."
"Like shit you'll get that!"
"Oh, I don't know about that, A2."
"Yeah? Just wait until you face me again."
"Thomas, Thomas." Janson tuts in disproval, "I thought you were meant to be smart."
"I'm smart enough to know you're full of bullshit." Thomas gets out through grit teeth, but the accusation stings. He should be smart, he really should, but he knows it is his fault why he's in this room. Wicked have always been two steps ahead of him, and yet he didn't see that. A group effort at rescuing Minho is now a blatant death warrant for him and his friends. All because he was reckless and thought he knew better.
"Hm, if that's the case."
"It damn well is."
There is a sudden screech of metallic ringing over the speaker, which makes Thomas groan and cover his ears, but he doesn't hear Janson's voice anymore.
"Is that it? Are you not gonna come in here to have a punch up? Scared?"
Unfortunately, Janson returns. "No. The thing is, I am not able to do that. Doctor Paige's orders. We are going to take special care of you, instead."
Thomas hates how his stomach twists at that. He can handle pain. Punches, shoves, stabs, he's felt it all. But uncertainty? That really gets to him. Maybe Wicked know that. "The fuck does that mean?"
"It means," there is undeniable proudness in Janson's tone, "you sit here and worry about nothing in particular, whilst we work. And we get your friends to help us. Does that sound alright?"
"Help you? Tch, yeah, as if they'd do that."
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not asking for their assistance, A2."
Janson's voice goes away again. And this time — even when Thomas waits in silence — it doesn't come back. Thomas can feel a violent tremor stemming from his fingers to his head take a hold, and he fists his hands.
In this moment of weakness, Thomas fixes his gaze onto the previously transparent wall, only marked out from the bloodstains he has left there. Newt is beyond it. Newt is alive. And whilst this means he has something to fight for, it also means he has something to fall for too. Thomas can feel guilt creeping up on him already, and closes his eyes, taking some deep breaths. He tries to imagine what Newt would be saying to him right now.
"Get a grip." Is the first thing that comes to mind, followed by "Calm it."
He can hear Newt pronouncing the words from memory alone.
What would Newt do right now?
This is a question Thomas has asked himself on more than one occasion, and probably a lot more than needed. He can't help that Newt is his anchor even in the calm of stormy moments, because that is just how things worked out. The reason is even though everything he's forced Newt through, intentionally or not — such as.. basically his entire week in the Glade — has been stressful, yet Newt always has an answer.
Thomas just does. He acts. He is rational when he desperately needs to be, but rationality can only get you so far, such as through the Scorch. What it can't do is get you out of a Maze or a Wicked checkpoint. And still, it always seems like Newt knows exactly what he is doing.
Sitting down, Thomas allows this whirlpool tangent about Newt consume his waking mind. What would Newt do?
Thomas can picture Newt keeping silent, not allowing words to slip in case Wicked pick them up. In his brain, he sees Newt patting himself down — checking for all of his body parts and for any differences that could possibly go unnoticed without focused attention.
He moves his hands down his chest, counts his fingers, claps at his shins, then rubs his forearms roughly. One hand trails up his neck.
Wicked have replaced the chip in his neck. "Seriously?" He whispers, pinching a chunk of skin. There's nothing he can do about it now, though.
Realising the thought of Newt's calmness has soothed him, Thomas finally notices his cheeks are still damp with tears and he wipes them away with the fabric over his shoulder, sniffling into his shirt. The white becomes grey from the salty water, and he huffs, trying to stop his eyes from stinging and his skull from throbbing.
He is tired.
Sinking onto his side sadly, all Thomas has to do is picture Newt's chest rising and falling as he lays on a mattress of golden sand in the Scorch, and he is gone from the world.