Chapter Text
A glimmer of silver, reflecting the far off sun, which grew ever more distant day by day, caught Thomas' eye. He paused his task of mindlessly flicking through the outside cameras of his small shuttle and squinted at a screen on his dashboard. The silver was gone, so he changed the view to a different camera. Miraculously, the metallic gleam reappeared.
"What is that?" He whispered under his breath. Hesitantly, he tapped his earpiece, "Minho? You there?"
He received no response for a few moments, but heard eventual rustling, followed by a voice, "Who's this?"
"Thomas. E. on ship A2. Who are you? You don't sound like Minho." Thomas leant back in his chair, kicking off the ground so he spun around in a slow circle.
The man on the other end of the line paused, voice getting quieter, "It doesn't matter. What's the issue anyways? Is something wrong over there?"
"No, nothing's wrong." Thomas frowned and stood up, beginning to walk through the shuttle. His boots rung out against the metal floor, filling the space around him with echoing noise and making it harder to think properly. "Can I just talk to Minho, please?"
The hushed murmur of, "Gally just pass it here." bypassed Thomas' mind entirely, and he only focused again when he heard his friend's voice clearly, "Tom? Is everything okay?"
"Dandy." Thomas yawned, making it to his dressing room and revolving the equipment rack he had. Gently, he retrieved his utility belt, complete with guns and a taser, "I think I've just seen an undocumented ship, though, and with Wicked out and about.. I'll go in and take a closer look for good measure."
"Jeez, be careful then." Minho hummed, "No matter the size of the craft, if it's Wicked, they'll probably be outnumbering you twenty to one at least."
Smiling to himself, Thomas made sure that all of the guns were loaded, then turned back to go to his control room, "I know. I will radio back if anything goes wrong, or if I find something of interest. But if you don't hear from me by at least tonight, then maybe send a telegram to Vince."
"Noted."
"Great. Wish me luck." Thomas slumped back down, hands finding his coordinates keypad and steering program instantly.
"Good luck."
"..Is that all I get?"
Minho groaned, "D'ya want me to blow you a kiss too?"
Scoffing, Thomas cut off their connection and focused onto the controls in front of him. Carefully, he tipped the driving baton forwards ever so slightly, feeling his ship jolt forwards. As he progressed closer to this mystery object, he kicked a lever by his foot and lazily stretched his arms up, watching a large, black blind retreat from his front window.
The thing he had seen was definitely a spaceship, he could see it much clearer up ahead now. What shocked him as he got closer, however, was the fact that there were visible prints on the side of the ship that he recognised.
RIGHT ARM, CRAFT A—
The paint was scratched off from there. Curiosity sparked within him, so he tapped at his earpiece, "Minho?"
"…Yeah, yeah, Gally one sec— what is it, Thomas?"
"The ship is one of ours. Do you know any off-grid crafts? The scanners don't recognise it, so it's not coming up on my list of registered vehicles."
There were footsteps, tapping, then Minho sniffed, "Well... let's see. We've got A2-A4, then A6-A10, then A12 and 13 and whatever shucking numbers are above that all online." He paused, taking a breath, "Not A5."
Silence. It radiated painfully between them. Newt, or otherwise known as A5, was still a fresh scar on both Minho and Thomas' tongues. Their friend had been lost to Wicked only a year ago — and despite keeping his memory alive between them, they rarely uttered his name. Neither man felt like they deserved to.
Minho cleared his throat, trying to revive their discussion, "Is it a ghost ship? We did lose one a couple of years ago, according to the records."
"I thought that was A11? Wait, no, A1." Thomas squinted, "Meh, could be. I'll have to investigate."
"A1 was.. taken by Wicked. Could've been A11 that became a drifter, then. I'm just guessing here. You should probably check it out though, as Vince will likely want to scrap it and rebuild if possible."
"How many ships do we even have? A100? A101, even?" Thomas tsked, then when he was met by radio silence from Minho, not amused by his joke, he sighed, "Okay. I'll get to it."
"Good that."
The journey up to the side of the ship was fast, and it took Thomas embarrassingly long to realise that this shuttle was not exactly the same as his own. It was larger, for starters. That confused him, because it really did look like the same model as his own, and maybe it was, but miscoloured patches of metal informed him that there had likely been illegal adjustments made to expand walls further out.
He couldn't tell from where he was if this was exactly the case, but it all functioned relatively the same. He saw an airlock chamber on its left similar to his own so he drifted up to it.
As the slow process of the ships automatically linking and merging together took place — courtesy of Right Arm technology, Thomas took his time strolling down to his airlock, tapping his foot on the floor impatiently when he got there. When the light above the doors shone green, he clicked a button on his lightweight suit, making a small air-shield pop up around his head. There was a possibility that the ship he was entering had its oxygen reserve turned off.
He then pressed his palm against the lock and felt a gush of wind rustle his hair through the shield. Stepping backwards, he allowed the double doors to open before daring to enter.
The space between the ships felt eerily cold. Seeing his breath curl up like smoke into the air, Thomas shivered but persisted, walking until he was face to face with another set of doors. These appeared rusted and screeched agonisingly as they cracked open for him. A minute passed before he groaned and forced himself through the growing gap, not eager to waste any more time.
A thorough scan on his part back in the cockpit told him that the ship's engines were frozen in time, having not been used in either a matter of days, or even months. Thomas hoped it wasn't the former, because if this ship wasn't entirely abandoned, this could possibly turn out awkward. It wasn't like he was in the wrong — this ship may be Right Arm property like his own, but it needed to be registered and taken in by the main system.
Pulling a smart screen from his pocket, Thomas held it up in front of him. A red haze coated the corridor he was walking into, then it flickered away. No living things ready to ambush him, and no harmful dosages of radiation. Thomas hummed, sliding the device away again, and he worked his left foot free from the tight crevice he'd snuck through.
Looking side to side, Thomas saw how the hall extended for a few metres both ways, just like his own ship. The only difference was how this one looked like it was rusting on the inside too, and small weed-like substances were growing through cracks in the walls and floor. "Huh." Thomas walked to the wall ahead of him and hesitantly touched one of the green sprouts of leaves.
It wasn't often he got to see nature of any sorts when away from planets. He'd been on patrol for most of his life, so anything outside of the miniature cacti on his dashboard felt foreign. Pulling a small, clear bag from his utility belt, he worked a root and stem free from the greying tiles before sealing it away. It was always good to take samples of these things.
Deciding whether to go left or right was a hard decision, but Thomas knew the layout of this craft, and was aware how it looped around anyways. However, what unsettled him was how the walls seemed bent, like the ship had been stretched to make it bigger. A shiver went down his spine as a memory resurfaced.
A haunting, metallic creature, larger than any living thing he had seen before, which needed large corridors to run through so it didn't get stuck and could move with agility. It roared and screeched and chased him and Minho until their lungs burnt. That had been the first and last time he'd ever visited earth. Newt had warned them not to go, and his small fighter ship — which he had unashamedly stolen from Wicked — had touched down just in time to save them with an air of I told you so.
Thinking about Newt's shocked laugh at the sight of them made Thomas's heart clench. He lifted his hand and pulled at the necklace he was wearing, bestowed to him by Newt only moments before Wicked had made their move on the blonde, dragging him away and…
Thomas didn't want to imagine Newt's face, twisted in agony, as he was struck right between his ribs by some fancy, messed-up weapon Wicked were trialling. Yet here he was.
A year. An entire year and he could still picture it clear as day. He couldn't shut his eyes at night without hearing Newt's cry of pain.
Swallowing, Thomas shook the thoughts away the best he could. He couldn't afford to get distracted now, in case there was something dangerous here. Yes, that was unlikely — as most ghost ships were just sad headstones for drivers who hadn't made it to another day — but he couldn't ever be too careful. Newt's death was a reminder of that, as bitter and guilty Thomas felt about it.
A flashing warning sign on one side of the hall brought him back to the present again. He stared at it as it flickered, then shouldered the harness he was wearing over his suit, starting to walk. "Hello?" he called out, voice ringing through the ship. The only answer was silence, and the occasional fizzing and crackling of live wires on the ceiling.
Thomas held up his tablet again, tapping a few buttons and opening up to a new screen. "Minho?"
The screen came to life and Thomas saw the interior of Minho's cockpit. It was empty, so he sighed, "Minho? I wanna show you this place. It's creepy."
"Fuck—" a muffled voice came through, "—Thomas! I'm a bit busy here." A very dishevelled Minho stumbled into the cockpit less than sixty seconds later, slumping down into the pilot's chair. He glared up at Thomas, "Can a guy get five minutes peace around these parts? I'm busy."
Rolling his eyes at Minho, Thomas adjusted his hold on the tablet, "How the hell can you be busy? We only left a checkpoint yesterday." He paused, "Your shirt is inside out by the way. And back-to-front."
"..No it's not."
"I can see the label."
"Fuck off." Minho hissed, leaning back in the chair, disgruntled. That wasn't a smart move on his part, however, as his neck came into Thomas' eyeline.
"Damn, is that a hickey?"
Minho slapped a hand on his neck, eyes wide, "Tom!"
A laugh crossed Thomas, "Ha, so I guess you really are busy. Who with? Anyone I know?"
"No." Minho sighed, defeated, "Just get on with it. What is it that you want to show me?"
"Right." Thomas flipped the camera on his device around, and Minho leant closer to his computer to take a better look. Thomas zoomed in on the plants, "Have you ever seen these before?"
"You'll have to ask Zart, not me. He's the professional when it comes to whatever that is."
Humming, Thomas shrugged, realised Minho couldn't see him, then flipped the camera back and shrugged again, "I've got a sample that I can show him later. Aright, that's all."
"Good." Minho was already standing up, eager to go back and finish whatever Thomas had interrupted.
"Am I still allowed to call if I find something—?"
"Call Alby!" Minho shouted as his computer cut off. With an annoyed grunt, Thomas put the tablet away and continued walking.
The hall went on for a few more paces until something attracted Thomas' attention on the floor. More plants? He crouched down, prodding the green stem with his finger. He started to follow it with his eyes, then his legs after a moment of short lived consideration. It stretched around the corner, where it was joined by numerous other leaves and winding vines. Past this point, they expanded to the walls, swallowing them whole.
Thomas was fascinated, and he slowed his pace even further, admiring the selection of green shades, and the occasional blossomed flower or fruit looking thing. The light from his ship was fading the further he strayed from it, and small sparks that burst from the damaged electrical wires every now and then did nothing to help him see the way. Thomas resorted to taking out his torch, shining it up and down, then straight ahead.
Something moved.
Sucking in a breath, Thomas stilled, squinting into the darkness. But he saw nothing more. He blamed it on the faulty wires, making weird crackles like fireworks, distracting him, but he held his flashlight a bit tighter anyways. His footsteps, which had been previously echoing against fading white tiles were now much softer as he stepped over roots, being careful not to damage them or trip himself up.
When he got around to the other side of the ship, only pausing to peer into a couple of rooms — all empty and devoid of life — he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. This place was eerie as hell. He was just thinking about how much he wished there was more light aside from his torch, when he saw a small power-box on the wall, half concealed by the ever growing amount of plants.
Warily, he approached it, scanning it with a beam of light. Electrics wasn't his thing, it had always been Teresa's. Damn her for joining Wicked, he could really use her help at a time like this. But controlling his own ship for some time had given him basic knowledge of this stuff, so he decided to take a crack at it nonetheless, the thought of being able to see properly fuelling his drive.
Opening the rusted box, having to yank at it a couple of times, he huffed at the selection of matted wires inside.
There — Main Ship Overhead Power. He cranked down a lever with a mighty shove, and smiled when the ceiling lights, dimmed partly by the foliage smothering them, started to glow. "Functional electricity." Thomas muttered, reaching for his tablet to take a note—
Something snagged his leg.
Before words such as what the and fuck no could be uttered from his mouth, another thing caught his wrist. Thomas yelped, thrashing against the.. vine? Yet it did nothing. More leaves and other nature-y things were coming at him now, too fast for him to comprehend, until he was bound from head to toe in chains of greenery. One vine was even smart enough to press the button on his oxygen-helmet off, his face no longer protected by a bubble of air.
"Get off!" He opened his mouth to scream, but the vines prohibited it from moving much, so it came out through gritted teeth only. One thing played on his mind. Minho. He needed to tell Minho.
He couldn't move.
Chest rattling from fear, Thomas squeezed his eyes shut — not that it made any difference, as leaves were covering his face to the point of complete darkness — and awaited death. This was some Wicked trap, wasn't it? No one he'd ever crossed or even heard of had the power to manipulate wildlife like this, let alone use it to capture someone. All he could think of were the countless, Wicked laboratory children like himself. Who knows, maybe Wicked were giving out free superpowers for good behaviour now.
"Who are you?" The voice appeared from thin air, hovering closer to Thomas than he'd like. It was faintly familiar, but Thomas wasn't in the mood for niceties and awkward icebreakers.
"Let me go! Get away!" He cursed, in a state of complete panic now, "What is this?"
The voice came again, and Thomas couldn't place where it was actually situated, as if it was floating around him, coming from one and every angle at the same time, "I'm asking the questions here. Who are you?"
Thomas knew he wasn't winning this battle, as the vines were gradually tightening around him. He wheezed, "I'm from the Right Arm. I mean no trouble!" When the voice didn't follow up, he whimpered, chest constricting, "Thomas. E. A2."
All at once, the plants cascaded away from him, crawling back onto the floor, walls and roof. Thomas fell to his knees, gasping for air. He forced himself up, though, and saw how he was somehow alone. How? The voice had been just there—
He went for his headphone, needing Minho's voice, but it was gone. "Hey, give it back!" Thomas yelled, scrambling on his hands and knees as he pulled at the plants, searching for his earpiece.
"Answer what I ask first, then we'll see."
The voice. The damn voice! Thomas growled, fingers brushing against one of the guns strapped across his harness, "Oh yeah? Hit me."
When the lights all shut off again, Thomas flinched. Had he gone mad? Was he talking to a ghost? He needed to get out of here, and fast, because he had no way of calling up reinforcements until back on his ship. However, it didn't appear likely that whoever was tormenting him would allow him to get far. When one singular light flashed further into the ship, Thomas adjusted his harness and stared at it.
Being impulsive had always been in his nature, but it had never gotten him anywhere good. He stood and considered his options. He could run away. That wasn't out of the question. He was good at running.
"I can see your brain ticking." The voice chuckled and Thomas weirdly felt his heart jolt against his ribcage. When a vine nudged his back, shoving him forwards towards the light, he swatted it away and started walking. This was so stupid.
"How come you can see me?" Thomas decided to clip back, tired of this mystery person already, "Why can't I see you? Come and face me like a man."
The voice laughed again, and once more, Thomas' pulse skipped out of beat, "I see everything on this ship. And, you're hardly a man. How old are ya? You look too young to be flying your own craft."
"Personal information, sorry. I've been warned not to talk to strangers." Thomas stepped through a doorway, made more narrow by the plants crawing around the frame. He was then instantly blown away by the room. He stepped back out, then in again, then out, then in, then—
"What are you doing?"
"Why is this place bigger on the inside?"
"Get your arse in here already."
Thomas did.
He was definitely naïve, he knew that, but this voice seriously sounded quite pleasant. He couldn't find a drop of malice in it even though he tried. Paired with the fact it struck the strings in heart and played a melody with them… If this went to shit, he was just glad Minho wasn't there to see the ridiculous, growing smile on his face. But he couldn't help what he felt! It was almost like this voice reminded him of…
The owner of the voice was stood in the centre of the room. He hadn't been a second ago. Thomas' jaw fell and he remained in place, barely a metre from the doorway.
His own voice escaped him, coming out softer than anything he'd ever spoken before.
"Newt..?"
The boy had his arms crossed over his chest, and he raised an eyebrow, "Who the hell is Newt?"
Thomas couldn't have moved if he wanted to. His body was distant to him, the world around him blurring. He saw his stupid blonde hair, his stupid brown eyes, his stupid frown, his stupid scar on his arm from that accident back in Wicked's compound when they were children—
"Newt." Thomas repeated, the name lingering for longer than it should've.
Not Newt scoffed, "Look, mate, I—"
"Don't do this to me, no," Thomas shook his head, stepping forwards, "you're dead. What is this? Where is Ava Paige? Janson? Teresa? Are they watching me right now? Waiting for a reaction?"
"I don't know what you're on about." Looking offended, the boy kissed his teeth, "Yes, I'm with Wicked, but only 'cause they saved me from a black hole." He gestured to his craft. Thomas followed Newt's hand, heart racing when he saw how the ship had been warped differently to his own. Their ships were strong, the best of the best, but even they could be damaged by those beasts. Still, Thomas wasn't having any of it.
"Bullshit!" He walked even closer, a sense of urgency overcoming him.
"The fuck do you mean?"
Stopping as close to the boy as he dared, Thomas studied his face. It was him. It had to be. "You're Newt. I. A5. You're my—" his voice cut out at friend, because truthfully, Thomas didn't know if that was ever the case, as he'd always imagined them as something more. "Wicked kidnapped you. They stabbed— I watched them stab you with a shucking spear, or whatever it was! You know me!"
No recognition crossed the boy, and Thomas' face fell.
"It's me. It's Thomas."
Tommy.
He wanted to say Tommy.
But it was pointless.
"..Look, Thomas, just tell me what you're doing on my ship, and I'll let you go, okay?"
The paint on the side of the craft— how could Thomas forget? "This is Newt's ship!" he laughed like he was insane, "Right Arm, Craft A— the scratched off letter is five! You've got to believe me, Newt."
"Don't call me that." The boy spat, "I'm sorry for your loss and whatever, but that's not my name."
"Then what is your name?"
The boy took a short while to think. He thought. And thought. And—
"Doesn't matter. What are you doing here?"
"You don't know." Thomas whispered, "Wicked must've taken your memories again…"
"Again? Why.. what? You're mad." The boy was starting to sound unsure, Thomas knew it, because he knew Newt. His mannerisms, how he acted whenever Minho suggested a shit plan, the same face he pulled when him and Thomas got distracted and flew off their patrol map and didn't notice until they were above a random, uninhabited planet, etcetera. The boy's face was the exact same.
"I can get you help, I'll find Mary and get you back to normal again—"
The boy's face flashed with anger, "No way! I can't trust you. I don't even know who you are! Just answer the damn question? Are you a pirate?"
"Newt.."
"Tell me your business with my ship, Tommy, then…" and as if something had unravelled in the blonde's mind, his words faded out. They stared at each other with wide eyes. Newt exhaled, suddenly looking scared, "You shouldn't be here. You need to leave."
Thomas noticed the shift in Newt's demeanour and clung to it like an anchor in a storm. "No, not again, I won't leave you here."
"You were right! Wicked watch everything! Go."
"I'm not leaving without you."
"You fuckass hero, T—" Newt managed to stop himself this time, biting his tongue, "They'll find you, and kill you, or swipe your memory—"
"What's going on with you? Talk to me! Why— how are you alive! Newt.." Thomas' eyes became glassy, "I don't want to live without you anymore. Come back."
Taking a shaky breath, Newt fisted his hands, "I may have known you once," Thomas didn't notice the plants creeping up behind him, "but that is no longer the case."
Thomas' earpiece was suddenly in his hand, and a thick vine was wound around his stomach. He called Newt's name in shock as he was dragged backwards, back towards the doorway, back towards the hallway, back towards his ship. Working one of his arms free, hands shaking, he did something stupid.
He yanked off the necklace he was wearing, breaking the cord and flinging it forwards. Newt's eyes fell onto it as landed and rolled to his feet, but he didn't move. All Thomas could do was uselessly struggle and try to ignore the rising pain inside of him.
"Thomas, for fuck's sake, what did I tell you?" Minho grumbled through the headphone, voice hoarse and raspier than normal. Thomas didn't part his lips to respond, just stared out of the driver's window with blank eyes, pushing his steering joystick further and further forwards. The speed he was reaching was ridiculous. He didn't care. Minho spoke again, quieter, "Thomas? Are you there? Crap, has something happened—?"
"I found him."
"..You… you what?"
Reaching one thousand, nine hundred miles per hour, Thomas drove in a straight line for what felt like eternity, hoping something would just get in the way so he could crash.
"Found who?"
Thomas wondered how many miles more he could speed through before something inevitably went wrong. Where was the ever present, annoying as hell space debris that he usually had to divert himself around?
"Thomas. Who did you find."
This wasn't a question anymore, it was an order. Thomas' eyes were glassy. Was his face wet? The skin around his neck felt bare and cold, the necklace he'd worn for months on end gone, just like that.
His voice came out cold, and it didn't sound anything like his own. "Newt."
Minho's heavy breathing stopped, then there was rustling, "Send me your location."
"I've flown away, don't get your hopes up—"
"Send me your location." Minho repeated, voice dark and clipped with fury, "We're coming to find you, and then you can tell us everything." He corrected himself, "You will tell us everything."
Even though Thomas was on the brink of a final breaking point, he slowed his ship down a notch, then another, then completely. A ping got sent through to Minho, and Thomas folded his torso over his dashboard, face buried in his arms as tears finally escaped him. "We're?" He whispered with a sad laugh, attempting to provide himself with any distraction he could.
Cussing, then muttering something under his breath, Minho forced himself to reply, "I'm not alone in here, you know that. Dickhead."
Thomas didn't have the energy to snicker. There was too much buzzing inside of his skull. How was Newt.. alive? Was that Newt?
Why did Newt now have some fucked up mutant powers?
He doubted he would get any answers for a very long time.