Chapter Text
Newt stared at the paper in front of him, nails biting into his palm with how tightly he was clenching his fists. He willed the number to change, begging whatever was in control of the universe to reveal he was hallucinating, but no; that 73% did not change.
I messed up, he thought. I messed up so bloody much.
Newt is a straight A student, all he’s ever scored is above 95. He can’t afford to not be, because for every good grade he gets, the more money he’s given by the company WCKD. And it’s that money that he uses to fund his mother’s health bills, because after his parents divorce, his dad has made it clear he wants them nowhere near them. And, of course, his amazing but over dramatic mother had decided to move out of the UK all together and into the states, where free healthcare isn’t a thing. Sort your bloody system out, America, because now, his mother won’t be getting the money she needs for medicine. And she needs the medicine, otherwise the disease eats away at her mental stability, causing her to lose herself for the smallest reasons, always angry and upset in a way she never used to be before.
The only reason why he’s even getting these funds is because WCKD sees ‘potential’ or whatever, and Newt is always proving them right, except in bloody history. How is that fair? He’s British, of course he’s going to suck at the subject if he was raised learning about completely different events, but WCKD doesn't agree.
It doesn’t help how the devil himself, Thomas Greenie, the most insufferable person Newt has ever met who never fails to insult and argue with him on a daily basis, also doesn’t agree, because as he walks past Newt’s desk and stares at the paper, he lets out an infuriating cackle.
“Seventy-three ? ” Thomas sniggered, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and Newt’s humiliation is the gift he’s been waiting for. “Did the little wanker finally get knocked off his high horse?”
Newt glared up at him, jaw clenched. “Piss off, Tommy,” he spat out. He knows how much Thomas hates that name, which is why he always uses it. But Thomas just walks away, phone in his hand, with a smug smile that Newt wants to punch, even if he’s not usually a violent person.
The bell rang a second later, and Newt shoved his things in his bag and quickly left the classroom. It’s lunch, and he should be meeting with Minho, Alby and Gally at their usual lunch table, but instead he goes to his locker which he leans against, trying to calm his enraging thoughts. His phone buzzed in his pocket, so he took it out, finding it in him to smile once he saw the notification and who it was from.
Tank Engine:
Yo
Newt doesn’t reply right away. He has no idea who Tank Engine his, doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know what he looks like, where he lives, though it’s also somewhere in America. They met through gaming and had just hit off. The one thing Newt knows about him is that he isn’t an old man trying to assault Newt, and even though that’s about it, Tank Engine is still his favourite person. Sorry, Minho.
Tank Engine:
Mf I see you online
Godzilla (Me):
Live without me for a second
Tank Engine:
We both know that’s impossible ;)
Godzilla (Me):
*cough* gay
Tank Engine:
Fuck off u coloniser
jkjk
Youre the kindest brit i know
Godzilla (Me):
Thats a low bar
Tank Engine:
OH that reminds me
Yk that really annoying british dude in like ALL my classes that I always tell you about?
Godzilla (Me):
Yeah you dont ever shut up about him
Tank Engine:
Well he totally flunked his test today !
Jackass looked like he was gonna cry
Godzilla (Me):
Mf I also flunked my test today
Tank Engine:
Oh shit
Mb
Newt rolled his eyes, letting his head fall gently against the cool locker door. Despite what he said, he was also glad that the mysterious brit that Tank Engine despised had this happen. From what Tank Engine said, the dude was condescending, arrogant, and was always insulting Tank Engine and calling him names. Of course, he has no idea who Tank Engine is and whether he deserved it, but he highly doubted it.
It's strange, how someone you’d never met, never even seen, could become so important. But there was something about Tank Engine. He’s easy; funny, kind, in a way that didn’t ask anything from Newt in return. His real friends were always pitying him, and while he loved them to bits, they knew things that made it impossible for them to have a conversation without worrying looks. On the other hand, he and Tank Engine didn’t talk about serious things much. Newt never told him about the WCKD funding, or his mum’s condition, or how he sometimes stared at his own grades like they were the only thing keeping his world from falling apart, or the fact he once broke his leg. And it didn’t matter, because it didn’t need to.
His phone buzzed again.
Tank Engine:
He got in his 70s tho so i guess he didnt do THAT bad
But are you okay?
I think I swept off what you said too quickly
Ik some peoples grades mean a lot to them
You don’t know the bloody half of it, Newt thought. Instead he just types:
Godzilla ( Me):
I’ll survive
His mum might not, but Tank Engine doesn’t need to know that.
Tank Engine:
You better
Who am I gonna beat at mario kart?
Godzilla (Me):
We’ve never even played mario kart together -__-
Tank Engine:
We should
Newt was about to reply, only for him to be interrupted by a call from Alby. He sighed.
Godzilla (Me):
Gtg
Newt didn’t wait for Tank Engine’s reply, accepting the call though he really didn’t want to, knowing that if he didn’t then his friends would freak out.
“Newt,” Alby’s voice crackled through the phone, the background noise of the cafeteria just audible behind him. “Where are you? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Newt replied, and while it was a lie, texting Tank Engine had made it less so. “I just needed air. Long morning.”
There was a pause. “Was it your grade?”
Newt closed his eyes. So everyone knew? “Yeah. How’d you know it?” He hadn’t told his friends the full details on WCKD, but they knew enough to be aware of how bad this is.
“Thomas.” Alby said it like he was debating whether to or not. Newt grit his teeth. Of course. Thomas couldn’t mind anyone's business. Didn't know how much his words had cut Newt, and the consequences of, to anyone else, a decent grade, but him and WCKD; the line between surviving and not. “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Alby continued like Newt wasn’t spiralling in his Thomas-hating-thoughts. “It’s just one test.”
Newt let out a dry laugh. How he envied people whose grades didn’t matter.
“It’s one test that WCKD will be breathing down my neck about.”
To his credit, Alby didn’t push again.
“Minho was gonna prank Thomas in retaliation,” Alby sighed, changing topic. “And he needed a distraction. Gally volunteered.”
Newt huffed out a laugh, grinning in spite of himself. “Brave,” he noted.
“Stupid,” Alby corrected. “He nearly got ketchup all over the janitor again. You’re lucky we love you. Anyway, come find us. Gally said he has a spare cinnamon roll for you and I had to tell Minho that he wasn’t allowed to eat it about a hundred times .”
“Sure,” Newt said, not looking forward to it but knowing it was only fair to his friends who had to deal with his shitty behaviour and him neglecting them in favour of Tank Engine. The line clicked off, and for a moment, Newt just stood there, the laughter from down the hall filtering through the silence like it didn’t belong to him.
He finally pushed himself off the locker and started walking toward the cafeteria, slipping his phone back into his pocket. He didn’t check if Tank Engine had responded. He didn’t want to risk the chance of one person in his life who doesn’t ask too many questions wondering anything.
The cafeteria was alive with noise when Newt walked in—shouts from the table near the vending machines, the scrape of cheap chairs across the tiles, someone’s laugh echoing loudly down the corridor. His feet dragged a little slower than usual, but he forced a neutral expression onto his face, shoulders straight.
Minho spotted him first. “Oi! About time!” He yelled, half-rising out of his chair as he leant across the table.
Gally, next to him, had one hand curled protectively around the cinnamon roll Alby had mentioned, his scowl daring anyone—Minho, likely—to even glance at it. He shoved it toward Newt without a word.
Newt dropped into the seat across from them and accepted it with a small, grateful nod.
“No ketchup on this one,” Gally muttered to his plate, stabbing a fry with unnecessary aggression. “Can’t say the same about Thomas’s hoodie.”
Minho cackled like it was the best thing he'd heard all day. “The look on his face, man—pure murder.”
“Good,” Newt said before he could stop himself.
Alby raised an eyebrow. “Someone’s bitter.”
“I am not bitter,” Newt argued, mouth full of cinnamon roll. “I just think Thomas Greenie is an arrogant, self-absorbed git who thinks he’s god’s gift to the world and can’t go a single bloody day without making my life hell.”
There was a pause. Then:
“So... bitter,” Minho said.
Gally shrugged. “Sounds accurate to me.”
Newt huffed and leaned back in his chair. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, and even though he didn’t check it, he knew who it was. Tank Engine, probably following up with some dumb meme or a flirty joke pretending not to be one. The contrast was so stark—how could Thomas and Tank Engine exist in the same world?
But they did.
And as far as Newt was concerned, they couldn’t be more different.
Where Thomas was loud and in his face, Tank Engine was gentle, sarcastic in a way that didn’t hurt. Thomas mocked him for being “too perfect,” Tank Engine told him he was “doing his best, and that’s enough.” Thomas always had to get the last word. Tank Engine let things go.
Both of them make Newt feel something sharp in his chest. One, he hated, the other, he trusted more than anyone.
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Thomas was wiping the ketchup off his hoodie with annoyance that only escalated when Newt walked into the cafeteria looking as if someone had just shoved him off a cliff, dusted him off, and said “smile”. His blond hair is always a mess, but now it just flopped over his eyes like a hat despite the fluffiness. His bag was slung over one shoulder like it weighed a hundred pounds, and his eyes were fixed straight ahead like he didn’t want to meet anyone’s gaze.
Overdramatic fucker.
Brenda was making conversation; something about her chemistry teacher being in love with the Biology one, and any other day Thomas would be extremely interested, but right now he was barely listening. Minho had half-risen from the table, giving Newt a look of fake annoyance, who had now reached the tab;e and was sitting, too.
Thomas tried not to stare. He didn’t really succeed.
It wasn’t like he cared or anything. He just wanted to see if Newt still looked as miserable as he did earlier, when he’d been glaring murder at his history test like it had personally offended the entire British Empire. And okay , maybe Thomas felt a little bad now. He hadn’t meant to laugh like that. It just came out. Like instinct. Like his mouth decided for him. Newt just brought it out in him—that knee-jerk reaction. With that fucking, I’m-superior-to-all-of-you attitude and his annoying ass nickname: Tommy. Their arguments never felt like arguments, they were like… a sport. A rhythm. A game only the two of them played. And Thomas hated them, but damn, they’re addictive.
It’s not his fault he latches onto anything that makes him stable. His mother’s an alcoholic, and his step-dad, Janson, barely has time for him, always working on that stupid company WCKD. Thomas has no idea what he even does, but he felt no interest in finding out. Whenever Janson was home, all that would follow is yelling, disappointment, and the occasional hits that his younger step-brother, Chuck, an angel who didn't deserve to be the offspring of that bastard, was thankfully never subjected to.
“Thomas,” Teresa said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “What’s going on in that brain? You spaced out.”
Thomas blinked. “Nothing,” he replied, too defensively for anyone to believe him.
Brenda raised an eyebrow. “You were looking at the table across the room like you were trying to melt it.”
Thomas didn’t respond. Mostly because, yeah, he had been. Just not at the table . The longer he looked, the more obvious it appeared that Newt wasn’t okay. He was smiling—laughing, even, when Minho said something and Gally shoved a tray toward him—but it didn’t look real. Not the way it usually did, anyway. It was tight, forced. Like he was trying not to fall apart.
Not that Thomas cared.
He looked down at his phone to distract himself, pulling it out of his hoodie pocket. He opened his messages with Godzilla on purpose, but his friend was offline, that ‘ gtg’ which was followed by Thomas pretending he was offended being the last thing left.
Godzilla had been his online friend for almost a year now. It was weird how fast it happened; one game, one voice chat, and then suddenly he was someone Thomas couldn’t go a full day without talking to. He didn’t even know the guy’s name. But it didn’t matter, because Godzilla got him. He wasn’t always trying to fix things or make him feel guilty. He didn’t ask about the bruises under Thomas’s sleeves (though he didn’t even know about them) or why he’d sometimes stay online past midnight.
And in return, Thomas never asked Godzilla about the way he always brushed off questions about his family, or why he was never buying stuff on the game stores. Their conversations were always easy, simple and comfortable. Which was more than he could say about basically anything else in his life.
Thomas looked back up. Minho was talking loudly, Gally throwing food at someone from the table next to them while Alby looked like he was restraining the urge to lecture all of them.
And Newt was quiet.
Not his usual snarky, arrogant and condensing self. Just… quiet. Something about it unsettled Thomas more than he liked to admit.
“Hey,” Brenda said suddenly, “I dare you to go over there and ask for a bite of his cinnamon roll.”
Thomas snapped his head toward her. “Who?” He knew who she meant, and she replied by raising an eyebrow, signalling she knew that he knew. “Why?” He asked instead.
“Because you keep staring at Newt like he owes you money,” Frypan piped in, like the damn traitor he was. “It’s getting weird.”
“I’m not staring!” He was. “And I don’t want his cinnamon roll.”
“Coward,” Brenda teased, biting into her apple.
Thomas kicked her under the table.
Despite what Brenda said, Thomas knew he felt nothing but contempt for Newt. He hated him. Wanted nothing from him. Except maybe for him to stop living in his head rent-free. He just wanted to get out of here, away from Newt.
Go home, get the inevitable beatings he spends every hour of everyday doing nothing but dreading over and done with and then game with Godzilla later because it's the only thing that rests his thoughts. feel truly peaceful. <i>That's</i> all he wants.
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Tank Engine:
Do you ever notice how some people look like theyre pretending to be fine but theyre actually not and just doing it for everyone else’s sake?
Newt blinked, re-reading the message multiple times, trying to make sense of it. He was on the bus with Minho (but the shank had fallen asleep and was now drooling on his shoulder) on the way to face his mother and sister with the weight of his failure pressing down on him at the knowledge that his mum’s survival, her stability, was in danger again . He had begun texting Tank Engine for a distraction, and then the other boy had thrown this on him. He hesitated before typing out his reply.
Godzilla (me):
That’s… specific
You alright?
It took a minute before Tank Engine replied, like he was thinking hard or maybe deciding if Newt was worth opening up to.
Tank Engine:
Idk. Just thinking
Godzilla (me):
You must be thinking hard if youre resorting to full stops
Tank Engine:
Hey not all of us are distinguished gentlemen like you
But yeah
Theres this guy and he's always, like, fine ig
But sometimes it feels fake
Yk?
Newt felt something shift in his chest. Something tight and strange and a little too personal.
Yeah, he does know. It’s all WCKD had taught him.
Godzilla (me):
Maybe he just doesnt want anyone asking questions
Its easier to fake it then explain
And it was. Because the truth wasn’t that you were tired. The truth was that you were being bled dry by a corporation that promised to save your family and instead used your fear to keep you compliant.
He hit send, then immediately regretted it. It was too honest, too much of himself bleeding into the text. Him and Tank Engine never had these conversations, never said too much of their negative feelings other than when it came to people they hated. He knew Tank Engine wouldn’t judge, and whenever he’d share bits about himself, Tank Engine would always listen the way he wanted someone to listen, but it didn’t change the fact that he was wary. Scared, in fact, of losing what makes his friendship with Tank Engine so special.
Tank Engine:
Yeah I get that
I just hate seeing it coz I feel like I should do something
And it’s weird bc I literally hate him and he hates me too
If I tried anything he’d just tell me to piss off
Godzilla (me):
Wait
Are you talking about the british kid?
Tank Engine:
Surprisingly yeah
Huh, looks like there are a lot of miserable, emotionally suppressed British boys walking around America pretending they were fine when they weren’t.
Godzilla (me):
I’m starting to like this kid
He sounds like me
Tank Engine:
TRAITOR
Was that a joke?
Please tell me that was joke
Godzilla (me):
No it wasnt
He’s my cup of tea
He’s actually part of my cult of emotionally repressed British people
Tank Engine:
WAIT is that what they teach you in school?
Godzilla (me):
Yeah
They give us this manuel on the first day of year 1
"How to bottle your emotions and instead make sarcastic remarks about tea."
Tank Engine:
That acc explains so much
No wonder he acts like smiling at anyone other than his friend group will kill him
Minho shifted in his sleep and then stilled again, his face pressing further in the crook of Newt’s neck.
Godzilla (me):
Well good luck with your emotionally stunted British boy
Try throwing biscuits at him
We respond to that
Tank Engine:
I knew tea and biscuits were the key
Godzilla (me):
Ancient tradition
If it doesn’t work just call him dramatic
Tank Engine:
He is dramatic tho
He gets this whole stormy-eyes thing like he’s the MC of a sad war movie
And he’s always annoyed
But when he laughs it’s different
Genuinely I mean
Not the fake ones I was telling you about
I kinda… like it when he laughs like that
Newt nearly choked.
Holy shit. Tank Engine, what the fuck? Feeling that way towards the person you never stop complaining about isn’t normal.
Or is it? Maybe he’s overreacting.
Godzilla (me):
Sounds like someone’s got a crush
Tank Engine:
SHUT UP
I DO NOT
i just think he’s interesting
and maybe i wanna throw a chair at him a little less lately
thats ALL
ALLLLL
Newt snorted quietly, careful not to wake Minho, who now had his mouth wide open and so deeply asleep he might as well be hibernating. The warmth was a comfort, and a betrayal. He didn’t deserve something this light.
(The disease, making his mum lose her mind. Throwing a glass bottle at him that shattered and sliced his skin . “How could you be so selfish?!” Instant apologies that he just sank into.)
Godzilla (me):
Okay okay
Not a crush
Definitely not
Just intense fascination that makes u wanna protect him and maybe punch a wall over his fake smiles
Normal stuff yk
Tank Engine:
EXACTLY
thank you
finally someone gets it
Godzilla (me):
Mf I was being sarcastic
Tank Engine:
Oh
Newt smiled at his screen, shaking his head. It all felt good, for a moment, but that instantly fell away when he looked out the window, realising the bus would be stopping soon. His fingers tightened around his phone.
Godzilla (me):
My bus is stopping
Bye
Tank Engine:
Byeyeyeyeyeyeyyeye
And also thank you!
The warmth lingered, a nice source of comfort, even if it was undeserving.
Godzilla (me):
Yeah np :)
Newt put his phone back in his pocket and gently woke Minho up. They lived close, and would be getting off the same stop.
Minho blinked groggily up at him, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Then he glanced at Newt’s shoulder in which he had been sleeping on just moments before. He raised an eyebrow.
“Did I sleep on your shoulder?” He asked, and Newt nodded. “Dude, that’s kinda gay.”
“I reserve my collarbones just for you, and that’s how you thank me?” Newt asked as the bus came to a halt and they stepped off it. Minho let out an unimpressed huff.
“You were probably just texting that old man friend of yours,” he waved off. “If I’m going to be honest, it’s weird.”
“You’re saying you don’t have any online friends?”
“Of course I do! I mean, who can resist my ravishing profile picture?” Newt rolled his eyes. “But I don’t text them 24/7.”
“I do not text him 24/7,” Newt replied as they walked, his steps slow as he purposefully lagged behind, trying to delay going home and telling his already stressed mother about what happened.
“You do. And honestly, man, it isn’t healthy. You don’t even know his name.”
“His username’s ‘Tank Engine’, so he’s either called ‘Thomas’ or he really likes Thomas the Tank Engine,” Newt said, though he’d prefer it to be the second option. Tank Engine had too many differences with Thomas Greenie for them to share the same name. Newt would rip his hair out if they did, despite how common the said name is. On the other hand, if Tank Engine were to reveal that the depressed British boy was called ‘Newt’, then Newt might have to accept that emotionally suppressed British people maybe weren’t as common as he thought.
They approached Newt’s house, and Minho left him at his doorstep. Newt briefly closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat as he rummaged for the key in his pocket. He opened it slowly and stepped inside, closing it as quietly as he could, as if that might soften the weight in his chest. The house was small, cold practically everywhere, and the overhead light in the entry flickered for a second before humming into life, just barely. His mum insisted that the dimness helped her migraines. He’d barely taken off his shoes when a blur of energy crashed into his waist.
“Newt!” Lizzy wrapped her arms around him, grinning up at him with two missing teeth. “Mum let me paint! Look!”
Newt found he didn’t have to force the smile that spread across his face. “That’s amazing, Lizzy You didn’t paint on the walls again, right?”
She blinked innocently up at him. “No.” Newt didn’t believe it for a second.
“Uh-huh.” He crouched down to her height to lightly flick her on the forehead. “I’ll check.”
Lizzy giggled, unbothered, and darted off down the hallway. Her laughter faded into the background as Newt stepped into the living room where his mum was curled up on the couch, like always. Her eyes were tired, but they tracked him as he walked in.
“You’re home later than usual,” she said gently, voice hoarse. “Minho keep you up again?”
Newt gave a tight smile. “Nah, the bus was slow.”
“Mhm.” She didn’t ask anything else. She never did—she never had the energy to.
Newt felt selfish for missing the mum he used to have. The one who’d take him and Lizzy out for hour long but fun walks and would always keep them entertained. Their father hadn’t been the best, but his mum had made up for every second he wasn’t there, laughing despite the loud arguments that left him and Lizzy crying as she pulled them into hugs while telling them it was all okay. She used to be so radiant, so full of life, and all it took was an illness to take that all away.
Newt remembered when she first got sick. When she had no medicine to help her, and she’d get so violent, snapping at him—never Lizzy, thank God—for every little thing and then proceeding to have a breakdown over the guilt. He himself, the healthy one, had been unable to take it, watching his mother deteriorate and lose her mind like that, combined with the way his father used to treat him and the unfamiliarity of the US. So he’d completely disregarded his family and tried to bloody jump off the roof of his house. Alby had been in the area, luckily, and called an ambulance, and while at that time they had been friends, they only became so close after that. They never told Minho and Gally what happened, but the two had guessed, treating him for the first year with the fragility of a newborn baby.
Ever since then, Newt has vowed to never put himself above his family ever again, because if he had died that night, then his mother would have never been able to get the treatment for her sickness and Lizzy would have wound up in the hellhole that is foster care because his once beautiful and wonderful mother was too unstable to look after an 8 year old by herself.
With a heavy sigh, he dropped his bag onto the armchair and sat down beside her, elbow on his knee.
“Mum, I… I need you to know something,” he whispered out. Attention instantly found its way to her. She shifted slightly, eyes narrowing in concern.
“What is it?”
Newt looked at her, at the lines deepening around her eyes, the frailty of her wrists under the sleeves of her jumper. His throat tightened. “I got a 73 on my history test.”
A beat of silence passed between them.
“Oh,” she said softly, her fingers tightening a little around the mug. “Love, that’s… that’s not the end of the world.” Her voice was so weak that Newt found nothing believable about it.
“It is to WCKD,” Newt muttered, standing up and pacing a few steps. “They’ll… they’ll cut the stipend. They’ll punish us for it. Again. Because of me. ”
She set the mug down and slowly stood, walking over to him with deliberate, measured steps and placing hands over his shoulders that felt they would break if he moved even the smallest bit. “Newt. Breathe,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.
He tried. But it didn’t stop the sick, churning guilt from overflowing inside his stomach. He closed his eyes to avoid looking into her eyes.
“I’ll call Janson tonight,” he said quietly.
His mum paled, and Newt hated how instinctively she recoiled at the name. He knows that she hates WCKD and what he had gotten himself into, but it was the only thing that covered the full cost of the expensive treatments and medications. “You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly. “We’ll manage. Just—”
“Mum,” he interrupted, tone firmer. “You’re rationing your meds. You think I don’t notice, but I do . And Lizzy’s outgrown half her clothes. We’re not managing without their money. I need to talk to him.”
They stared in each other’s eyes for a long moment before his mum finally nodded reluctantly and sat back down, looking years older than she had a second ago with the ever paleness of her appearance. Newt watched her for a moment, then grabbed his bag and went upstairs, shutting his bedroom door and sitting on the edge of his bed as he pulled out his laptop. The WCKD interface was cold and impersonal, just like every interaction with them. His access was limited, just enough to contact his supervisor.
It barely rang twice before Janson’s face filled the screen.
“Newton,” he said, voice impatient. “I assume this isn’t a courtesy call.”
“I got a seventy-three on the history test,” Newt said, straight to the point despite the fear gnawing its way up inside his stomach. “I just thought I should tell you before the results are submitted to your system.”
Janson leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. “That’s… disappointing.”
Newt’s hands curled into fists in his lap. Like he gives a shit about how ‘disappointing’ he is. He just wants his mum to be healthy again.
“I know. I’ll study harder. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re aware of the consequences if it does?” Janson asked, a chilling, dangerous note making its way into his tone.
“I am.” His voice didn’t waver despite the way his thoughts and anger were spiralling.
Janson studied him for a moment, the smallest of smirks curving on his lips, spreading across his rat face. “The stipend will be reduced for now.”
Newt shouldn’t have been surprised. It had been expected. But that didn’t stop his stomach from dropping. “But—”
“You failed to meet the minimum, Newton,” Janson interrupted, voice cold and cutting. “The reduction is standard. Perhaps it’ll motivate you to keep your grades high next time.”
“It was one test,” Newt grit out, throat burning.
“And WCKD does not invest in failure.”
Newt clamped his jaw shut, forcing himself to say nothing. The call ended. Just like that.
No concern. No humanity. Just pressure. Performance or punishment.
Newt just stared at the screen, sitting there for a while, the room dim around him, light from the monitor washing his face in cold blue. Slowly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
His fingers hovered over Tank Engine’s chat. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t turn into a rant and then a call where he cried over the phone, so he didn't type a message. Instead, he sent a meme. Something dumb about Americans not knowing geography. A second later, Tank Engine replied.
Tank Engine:
Why are you like this?
Newt smiled. Not because he was okay. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to throw his phone at the wall, curl up in his bed and scream bloody murder, but because there was at least one person unaware of how messed up everything in his life is.
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Thomas rubbed the skin of his arm, feeling the faint sting. Janson had been angry, for whatever reason, last night, and though Thomas hadn’t even done anything, he was still the one punished. It hadn’t been bad; Janson had just hit him a couple of times and angrily muttered something about ‘ stupid, unreliable teenagers’, It hadn’t even left bruises. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
He’d texted Godzilla earlier, because sometimes that helped. It did help, even though it was just:
Tank Engine (me):
Daddy issues go brr
Godzilla:
What
Now, though, he was trapped in a painfully boring physics lesson where he wasn’t allowed to go on his phone rendering his dignity barely intact. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he had to be sat next to the one and only Newton Sangster. Fuck, even Isaac Newton was preferable to him. At least that guy had the decency to be dead.
Godzilla’s text replayed itself in his mind:
( Sounds like someone’s got a crush )
He grit his teeth. He did not have a crush on Newt. Even if the boy was undeniably attractive despite his zombie, dead look. He did not.
Except Newt was looking a little different today. His hair, all the right shades of blond, was messier, like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times, but in a way that only enhanced his appearance. His usual, weary expression was even more intense—like he was carrying a weight no one else could see. It makes Thomas feel irrational anger, because Newt can apparently have that depressed appearance and still look good. Really good. The kind of good that made Thomas’s chest tighten and his tongue go dry without him even realizing it.
No crush, Thomas told himself firmly. Don’t be stupid.
And yet he couldn’t stop himself from leaning sideways into the other boy’s space, breaking the silence.
“So, Newt,” Thomas began, low enough that the teacher couldn’t hear, flashing a grin that was too wide and maybe a little too forced. “You’re looking like you’ve been carrying the world on your shoulders. Want help unloading it?”
Newt blinked at him, evidently confused. “Uh,” he said, voice uncertain in a way that made pride flicker in Thomas’s chest. “What?”
Thomas propped his chin in one hand, shooting a smirk at Newt as he kept his eyes on the blond. He likes it like this; here he’s the one in control. He’s the one making others squirm. Here, he’s not begging his step-dad to stop beating him. Here he’s not having to look after his mom after her fifth drink. Here, he’s just your annoying, average teenager who is having a gay panic.
“Mhm, you’re right,” he hummed, feigning contemplation. “This is a physics class. So that didn’t really fit, did it, Mr. Discoverer-of-gravity?”
Newt said nothing, so Thomas cleared his throat, getting ready for the onslaught of cringe he was going to unleash on both himself and the other.
“Are you a black hole?” Thomas asked, “Because you’re attracting all my attention and I can’t escape.”
Silence.
Newt stared at him. Thomas stared back.
As the silence stretched longer, Thomas felt the need to do something, so he waggled his eyebrows.
Newt let out a loud groan, burying his face in his hands. “Seriously, Tommy?” he asked flatly. And fuck it. That name— that goddamn name caused an instant flip. Thomas’s anger surged, and he was suddenly remembering why he despises Newt so much in the first place. But he swallowed it, forcing a deep breath. Don’t let the anger make you lose control. You aren’t your sorry excuse for a step-father. You’re so much more than him.
Drawing in a subtle breath, Thomas leant closer in retaliation, finding pleasure as he watched the way Newt shifted uncomfortably. His voice dropped into a mock whisper. “You look tired,” he said, somewhat truthfully. “Probably because you’ve been running through my mind all physics class.”
Newt’s face was one of utter disgust as he pushed Thomas away from him, instantly recoiling as their skin touched. Thomas laughed, louder than he intended. The teacher’s voice cut through the classroom, sharp and annoyed.
“Greenie, Sangster—be quiet. This is a physics class, save your conversations for later.”
The class snickered like the annoying assholes they all were. Thomas caught Fry and Brenda exchanging amused looks. He resisted the urge to playfully flip them off as both he and Newt muttered a completely ungenuine “Sorry, sir.” The moment their teacher’s back turned, Thomas was continuing.
“If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.”
You’d think Thomas had grown another head with the way Newt was looking at him. Thomas winked at him, which only served to baffle the boy more. For once, he wasn’t snapping back with his usual, irritating sarcasm, and Thomas felt satisfaction. Newt can’t make him feel like the abused boy he is this time, because as dreadful as his flirting is, he had won this round.
Except, no. He hadn’t. Because Newt did bite back.
“You’re not a child, Tommy . Stop with your weird-arse games.”
Thomas flinched , Janson’s voice cutting into his mind. Newt had turned back to his notes, scrawling something onto the page like nothing had just happened, like Thomas hadn’t just cringed his soul into another dimension trying to get a reaction out of him. Like he himself hadn’t just said the exact type of words his shitty excuse for a step-father would. It shouldn’t have hurt, Newt and Janson aren't similar in any ways towards each other, probably didn’t even know about each other’s existence. And even though it shouldn’t have affected him, it still did.
They hadn’t even felt like Newt’s own words. Not with the way he’d said them. It had been Janson’s voice. Cold and unimpressed. Dismissive. Tired of dealing with him.
(“You’re no longer a child, Thomas. Stop with these pointless games.”)
Thomas picked at the edge of the worksheet in front of him, his fingers twitching with the urge to rip it in half just to feel something. Something that wasn’t the heat burning behind his eyes or the ache in his chest. It had been a joke. A dumb, ridiculous joke. And Newt just had to say that: to say the words that mirrored the man who’d leave him black and blue more times in his lifetime than he’d like to count.
Thomas sucked in a shaky breath through his nose, calming himself the way he always had to every time Janson raised his hand: Don't flinch. Don’t break. Don't give him the satisfaction.
He leaned away from Newt slightly, slouching back into his chair with a lazy stretch, sliding his mask back into place. “Wow,” he muttered. “You must be a mirror.”
Newt didn’t even glance up. “Why?”
Thomas smiled—cocky on the surface, but bitter underneath. “Because I can see myself being rejected in you.”
That made Newt look up, his eyebrow arching. A short beat of silence stretched between them before: “You’re a walking cry for help,” Newt said with the smallest hint of astonishment in his voice.
Thomas grinned despite himself. “Aw, you noticed.”
Because, despite the way he said it completely unseriously and Newt rightfully took it as nothing more than an annoying joke, he wants Newt to notice. He wants Newt to notice him the same way he noticed Newt.
He didn’t see the way Newt’s lingered on him a moment longer, brows furrowed before he practically forced himself to look away.
៚៚៚៚៚៚៚៚៚៚៚៚
Godzilla (me):
I just had the strangest interaction ever
Tank Engine:
Hit me
Godzilla (me):
I was just minding my own business in class and then that annoying guy I'm always telling you about starts chatting me up
Tank Engine:
WAIT LMAO WHAT
Cant blame him tbh
Youre probably hot af
Godzilla (me):
I look dead on my feet
Tank Engine:
Oh right
Emotionally drained British boyTM
Godzilla (me):
Touché
Newt shouldn’t have been smiling so much like a bloody idiot. He wouldn’t have for any other reason, as his body still ached from the last WCKD assessment, and his head hadn’t stopped pounding, but it was Tank Engine —so he was excused.
He ignored the way his friends were watching him.
“Is he talking to his online boyfriend again?” Gally asked Alby, who was sitting next to Newt. Newt had purposefully sat there, because Alby was the only one tactful enough to not read his messages. “Train tracks or something?”
“Tank Engine,” Minho replied tiredly, resting his head on his palm like he was already exhausted by the upcoming drama. “Shank’s obsessed with him.”
“I’m not obsessed,” Newt retorted, throwing a pen at the Korean. Minho rolled his eyes, pouting childishly as he dodged it effortlessly. Alby frowned.
“He’s right, thought, Newt,” he said, causing Newt to quieten. Alby only ever agreed with Minho if things meant business . “You should at least know something about him other than his supposed age. Name, for instance?”
Newt shrugged, gripping his phone tighter unconsciously, not realising that he was feeling slightly protective. Alby sighed.
“Fine, Then just ask what he looks like. Basic stuff.”
Newt hesitated. He didn’t want to ask. Not because he wasn’t curious—he was , desperately—but because Tank Engine had always been this… faceless constant. Someone safe, outside the walls of WCKD. Outside the white rooms, and the clinical smiles, and the constant expectations, if not that: pity.
Still, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to picture a face. Maybe it would help. Anchor him.
Godzilla (me):
My friends want to know what you look like
He got an instant reply.
Tank Engine:
I was just mentioning how hot you must be
you first
“He says ‘you first’,” Newt narrated.
“What do you think?” Gally asked, looking at Minho.
“I don’t know,” Minho replied. “I mean, what if he’s a perverted old man and he’s going to use this information to source his fantasies until he eventually kidnaps our Newtie?”
Newt throws another pen at him.
Godzilla (me):
Im a blonde haired, brown eyed twink
Moving on
Tank Engine:
YOURE GAY????
Wait why am I even surprised?
Well thanks for adding to my fantasies !
I’m brown haired and brown eyed
Some people call them amber ;)
Godzilla (me):
Wow…
I was picturing grey hair and a cane
I dont know how to process this new information
Tank Engine:
Damn that hurts
Dont know why
Godzilla (me):
Youre just incredibly special
Tank Engine:
DAMN OK
Newt holds up his phone so his friends can read the messages. He’s a bit confused at Minho and Gally’s blinks which then turned into smirks, and the way Alby shakes his head, but he gets another notification from Tank Engine so he quickly moved his attention away, bringing his phone back to privacy right in front of his face.
Tank Engine:
Do you want to meet up one day?
Newt’s eyes widened. His chest went oddly tight.
Tank Engine:
My friends are with me rn
They asked me to ask you
Newt stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, unmoving. The words blurred a little. It wasn’t the request that hurt—it was the reason behind it. Because his friends asked. Not because he wanted to. Not because Newt mattered enough on his own.
He shouldn’t feel the flicker of disappointment. What was WCKD always telling him? That he’s useless outside his grades. They’re the only thing that matters; the only reason he’s useful. Why his mother hadn’t sent him to a mental hospital yet.
Tank Engine knows nothing about it. He’s Newt's get-away, his reminder that he’s not fully broken, despite what WCKD and Janson are doing to him. That he can befriend people who don’t know him as the ‘suicidal kid they had to protect’. The thought of changing that—of turning this anonymous, sacred thing into something real—terrified him, as did the fact that Tank Engine seemed to be more important to him than he was to Tank Engine.
Godzilla (me):
I dont even know what state you live in
Tank Engine:
New York
You?
Godzilla (me):
New bloody York
Newt feels relieved at this fact. He doubts he’d have been able to afford any means of travel to a whole different state. In the UK, everything is so small and easy to get around. And, in the UK, he actually had money, once upon a time. As utterly horrible as the weather and people were, Newt misses those little perks.
Tank Engine:
Coincidence? I think not
My address is [random address bc I’m not risking anything]
Godzilla (me):
Wait we actually live not too far from each other
Mine is [random address bc I’m not risking anything]
Tank Engine:
Wait thats like 20 blocks away!
Thats acc crazy
What if we walked past each other or smth?
Godzilla (me):
Watch me be your emotionally drained british crush
Tank Engine:
NOT CRUSH
And nuh uh
Youre too good for him
Newt hated how warm his chest felt. Hated that this stranger—this annoying, charming stranger—could make the hollowness that watching his mother slowly dying causes go away. Could make him forget about WCKD and the way they basically owned him. That he wanted to believe the words. You’re too good for him.
He blinked hard, pretending the sting in his eyes was just from staring at the screen too long.
If only Tank Engine knew how truly fucked up he really was.