Chapter Text
“KILL ME!” and then Newt’s eyes cleared, as if he had gained one last trembling gasp of sanity, and his voice softened. “Please, Tommy, please.”
“Newt…” Thomas whispered, staring up at his friend’s face through blurring eyes. “You know you’ve been a great friend, right? You’ve been the best.”
Newt’s face softened, his hands trembling where they covered Thomas’s beside the trigger. “If only I had been better.” His voice came out cracked and broken. “Just get on with it, Tommy. For once in your bloody stupid life, don’t overthink it.”
“I meant what I said.” Thomas tightened his hand on the gun, steeling himself. “Just know I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Good.”
And he slammed the butt of the gun against Newt’s skull.
A soft cry escaped his lips as he fell forward, collapsing unconscious to the dirty ground.
The gun clattered from Thomas’s numb hands, his mind rattling in painful circles. He could never shoot Newt. Even to save him from a lifetime of horror at the hands of the Flare.
No matter how much Newt begged.
Thanking whoever was listening for the steady rise and fall of his friend’s chest, he hooked his arms around Newt’s shoulders and, lurching, dragged him back to the van.
“He’s coming with us,” he told a bewildered looking Lawrence, “to WICKED headquarters.” He did not trust WICKED farther than he could throw them, but the slim chance that they had not been lying about a cure was the only hope he had.
“You can’t take a Crank to WICKED headquarters!”
“Watch me.” Lawrence opened his mouth to protest, but Thomas’s glare stopped him cold. Maybe it was the cold desperation he knew was written all over his face, or maybe it was the shaky certainty that he would use the gun on Lawrence, just to get his friend to safety.
“For crying out loud, you’re an idiot. You’re all idiots,” he muttered, but he gunned the engine all the same.
The rest of the ride was fairly peaceful. Most of the Cranks were too busy fighting one another to notice the van. He tried not to wonder whether Newt had become that violent during his time on the street.
Back at the Berg, no one dared to question Thomas. They sprang out of the way, wilting under the withering glare he directed at them as he stalked back to his room, Newt in tow.
Of course, that begged the question of where he would put Newt. No one else would hesitate to shoot him if he attacked them. Maybe even shoot both of them.
He eyed his sparse bedroom, the cot he slept on, the meager bedside table. It was not as if he could handcuff someone with the strength of the Flare behind him to the wimpy furniture.
That left only the closet.
With a long suffering sigh, Thomas dragged him into the closet, throwing the few hangars and outfits that still hung there over his shoulder. It took him a few moments to arrange Newt’s limbs so nothing was sticking out of the closet or bent at a weird angle. Swallowing against his dry throat, he did his best not to look at the swollen knot on his friend's temple.
After what felt like hours, he stepped back from the door and turned the lock. Not even bothering to take his shoes off, Thomas collapsed onto his bed and scrunched his eyes shut, waiting for sleep to claim him.
As if.
The images of Newt’s screaming madness was now branded in his mind, right alongside the blood drenched memories of Chuck’s final moments.
Sleep came in fits, if at all.
He was awake, staring at the ceiling with dry eyes when the door swung open the next morning.
“Rise and shine, kid,” Lawrence chanted, clapping with each word as he stepped towards Thomas’s bed. “We’ll be there in a few minutes. We’re ditching your butt at the gate and then getting the hell out of there. No offense.”
“None taken.” Thomas groaned and swung his legs off the couch. “How far will I have to walk to get there?”
“A few miles. Don’t worry, I don’t think you’ll have too many Cranks to deal with— it’s gotten cold out in the wilderness. Might see a few angry moose, though, wolves might try to eat your legs off, nothing much. Speaking of Cranks, where’s yours?” Lawrence scanned the room as if he had expected Thomas to stuff Newt under his bed. “All the guards were on high alert last night. Worried we’d wake up to a berserk Crank chewing our faces off, but,” he gestured to his own face, smiling without humor, "as you can see, all was quiet. Didn’t know Cranks slept.”
Thomas wordlessly pointed towards the closet.
Lawrence shook his head. “You kept him in your closet?!?”
“Where else would I have kept him?”
“You shouldn’t have,” he grabbed Thomas’s shoulder, spinning him around to stare him in the face. “He’s no better than an animal now. He certainly isn’t your friend anymore. What are you going to do if WICKED can’t cure him?” From the tone of his voice, it was clear that it was the only outcome Lawrence expected.
Thomas shook his head, staring at his shoes, but Lawrence did not wait for an answer.
“A coat and a backpack are waiting for you at the cargo door. You’ve got food and water. We want to make sure you have a nice, enjoyable hike— relish the joys of nature and all that.”
“Thanks.” Thomas’s voice sounded hollow, even to himself.
And then came a scrabbling, like nails on a wood. A rat?
Both Thomas and Lawrence stiffened as they realized at once what it was.
“Hello? Where am I?” Newt’s muffled voice sounded panicked, disoriented. “Anybody?” The closet door rattled as a weight struck it from the other side.
“Anybody?!” The word rose an octave, high with fear, and the door shook again. “Someone get me out! Alby!?”
Thomas sucked in a breath.
"Friend of yours?"
"Not anymore."
“Do something,” Lawrence hissed.
Thomas stepped over to the door and laid a hand on it, wishing he could somehow do more. “It’s me, Newt. You’re safe.”
A tense pause.
“Tommy?”
“Yeah, Newt. It’s me. I brought you here, and you’re safe, we just can’t let you out yet.”
“Why not?” The sharpness in his tone held none of Newt’s usual warmth.
“Newt, you’re sick. I couldn’t kill you, but—”
“You should have.”
“Newt—”
“Now let me out!”
Thomas leapt back as an awful banging came from the other side of the door. Wood rattled against hinges, but held.
“LET ME OUT!”
“I can’t!” He exchanged a desperate look with Lawrence, who looked like he was considering fleeing the room altogether.
“LEMME OUT, TOMMY! THIS AIN’T SHUCKIN’ FUNNY!”
“How are you going to get him to WICKED HQ like that?”
He bit his lip, racking his brains for a solution. Any solution. “Do you have any sedative?” he asked Lawrence, an idea suddenly forming, “I hit him over the head the first time, but I don’t think being constantly concussed is good for him.”
The man let out an audible groan, before clapping Thomas on the shoulder. “Well, since I can’t stop you from messing with Cranks, I might as well help you. I’ll be right back."
“Thank you!” Thomas had to raise his voice over the new onslaught of yelling.
“BLOODY SLINTHEAD! LET ME OUT!”
It was all Thomas could do to sink down onto his cot and cradle his aching head in his hands, trying to block out the screaming, both inside his head and out. The knot in his throat was rising, threatening to choke him, his reddened eyes burning and muscles aching—
“Look alive, kid, I’ve got your sedative.” Lawrence jogged back into the room, a small syringe cradled in his hands. His expression was deadly serious as he looked down at Thomas. “I’m only going to ask you this once.”
“What?”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I’ve already told you. Newt’s with me.”
“No, not that,” Lawrence sighed, “I wanted to ask you if you were sure about the plan. I mean, everything I know about WICKED is rotten. They kidnap, torture, murder— do just about anything to get what they want. Seems crazy to let you waltz in there all by yourself.”
Thomas knotted his hands into his shirt. “I’ll be fine. Just make sure you come back for me and Newt.”
“You’re either the bravest kid I’ve ever met or just plain crazy.” He shook his head. “Or both. Anyway, go get yourself a shower and fresh clothes. There must be some in the lockers. Did you—”
Whatever he was about to say was drowned out as Newt shouted louder. “COWARD! THAT’S WHAT YOU ARE, A BLOODY COWARD!”
“Newt, I’m right here, you don’t need to scream—”
“WHAT IS IT WITH YOU, ANYWAY? I TELL YOU TO STAY IN THE GLADE, AND YOU RUN INTO THE MAZE! I TELL YOU TO KILL ME AND YOU LOCK ME IN A BUGGIN CLOSET! Some friend you are.” The last words were spat with enough venom to kill.
Lawrence grimaced. “Nice friend you got there, kid. I’ll help you with knocking him out.”
“Uh… thanks?” How was he supposed to respond to that?
“I open the door, you grab him. Then I shoot him up with sedative. Deal?”
Thomas nodded.
“Count of three. One... Two... Three!” Lawrence flung open the door, sending a very angry Newt tumbling to the floor.
Thomas sprang upon him, trying to pin down his flailing limbs. It was like trying to get a cat into a carrier. Not that Thomas had ever owned a cat.
Newt writhed in his grip, cold eyes wild.
A chill touched his spine at the sight. What if Lawrence was right? What if this was all Newt would ever be again?
Knuckles to his jaw jerked him immediately out of his reverie, his head snapping back as Newt took advantage of his momentary hesitation.
“What are you doing, Thomas!? Grab him!”
His ears ringing, Thomas leapt upon Newt’s legs, pinning them to the floor. Stretching, he could just barely get his arm, but his other one?
“I got it.” Lawrence brought his knee down on his Newt's wrist. “Just keep hold of the right one as best you can!”
“Let me go, Tommy!” Newt cried out, flailing against Thomas’s grip, “Very funny, bringin’ me back here! Couldn’t save your so called friend from goin’ cannibalistic? I ought’a kill you! I hate yo-”
Then his eyes rolled back into his head as the needle pierced his neck.
Thomas collapsed to the floor beside him, relief washing over his body.
“I ain’t even gonna ask,” Lawrence said, “The Crank’ll sleep awhile. You go take a shower." He smirked, shaking his head, "You look almost as bad as he does.”
---
Thomas fought back a wave of nausea as the Berg pitched.
They were landing, and all that kept Thomas from plummeting to the ground prematurely was his white knuckled hands on the Berg’s metal railing. His balance was worse than usual because Lawrence had strapped Newt’s body to him like a backpack, and his friend’s head flopped lifelessly over his shoulder, sending him just enough off kilter that he did not trust himself to stand on his own.
The Berg pitched again, and Thomas willed the enormous metal contraption to land faster. Lawrence had warned him that he now had less than four hours to get Newt to WICKED before the sedative wore off, and the trek would take even longer now that he was carrying his friend’s catatonic body. Weeks of wandering the streets had made Newt thin— too thin— and his jutting bones jabbed against Thomas’s back with every shake of the Berg.
He silently thanked Minho for the training as a Runner. It was currently the only thing keeping Thomas from collapsing backwards onto Newt.
“Good luck, kid,” Lawrence piped up, appearing next to him at the railing. “I’d tell you to be careful, but you’re not an idiot, so I won’t. Good luck with the Crank.”
Thomas gave him a tight smile, hoping for one in return, but Lawrence’s expression did not budge an inch. He suppressed an eyeroll. “Right then, so I’ll get the device planted as soon as I can, then I’ll comm you. And I’m sure everything will go down with no problems, right?”
Lawrence snorted. “I’ll have little lizards flying out of my nostrils if we have no problems,” his voice softened, “Now get,” He leaned forward to hand Thomas a thick coat. “Once you’re out there, go that way." He pointed towards the edge of the forest, where the snow dusted trees plunged the world into darkness.
Not trusting himself to say goodbye, Thomas slipped the coat around himself and Newt.
And he jumped.
---
Thomas’s feet were numb as he trudged down the snowy hill. He was still within his four hour window, so he did not have to worry about Newt waking up quite yet, but his dead weight had made it hard to walk, and he was pretty certain that his friend had drooled on his shoulder.
A scuttling sound met his ears, like the footsteps of an insect, and he froze. A beetle blade sat on a nearby tree, watching him with its little red camera eyes. No doubt sending footage to WICKED security.
He waved at it, trying not to think about the fact that he was less than ten minutes away to subjecting himself to the whims of whoever was watching.
The path up to the WICKED complex was covered in watery patches of half melted, dirty snow, and the scattering of wilted weeds that had dared to poke their heads up through the ice. There were no footprints in the wet mud but Thomas’s own.
Why had no one come out to greet him yet? Surely, WICKED knew he was here by now.
But as he reached the glass doors, there was no sign that the compound was even inhabited.
Thomas took a long, slow breath, feeling ice forming in his gut. Was he really going to go back? This was the very place he had broken out of, so long ago. Did his return mean that Chuck’s death was in vain? The phantom image of the boy’s face flashed up in front of his eyes. Another friend he had failed.
Well, he would not fail Newt. Not if there was anything he could do.
Gritting his teeth, he knocked on the cold smooth plane of one door.
Almost immediately, the sound of clicking locks echoed through the air, the frosted door sliding back to reveal Janson.
Rat Man.
He gave a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, extending his hand for a handshake. “Welcome back, Thomas,” he said, the artificial kindness in his voice chilling Thomas to the marrow. “No one believed me, but I’ve been saying all along that you’d return. I’m glad you made the right choice." Then his beady eyes focused on the unconscious boy draped across Thomas’s back, and his expression soured. “Who’s that?”
“I’m surprised you don’t remember Newt.” Thomas folded his arms, trying not to snarl the words. “Then again, why would you? You only thought of him as a control subject, after all.” The last time Janson had seen Newt, he had been reading his name off the list of those that were not immune to The Flare.
“Ah, yes. Subject A5. Named after Isaac Newton. I do remember him. Still holding on, I see? Not past the Gone?”
“Let’s just get on with it,” Thomas muttered. He would play this part to Janson and the rest of WICKED, but he did not have to like it.
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Janson stepped back and bowed slightly, rubbing his hands together in a way that reminded Thomas of how rats washed their whiskers, “After you, Thomas.”
Shifting Newt more securely on his back, he walked past his former enemy and into the lair of WICKED.