Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/13887054. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage Category: F/M, M/M, Multi Fandom: The_Maze_Runner_Series_-_James_Dashner, The_Maze_Runner_Series_-_All Media_Types, The_Maze_Runner_(Movies) Relationship: Newt/Original_Male_Character, Newt/OC, Newt/Original_Character, Newt_& Thomas_(Maze_Runner), Newt_&_Sonya_(Maze_Runner), OC_&_Thomas, OC_&_Sonya Character: Newt_(Maze_Runner), Thomas_(Maze_Runner), Original_Characters, Original Male_Character(s), Sonya_|_Elizabeth_"Lizzy"_(Maze_Runner), Minho_(Maze Runner), Gally_(Maze_Runner), Aris_Jones, Teresa_Agnes, Assistant Director_Janson_|_Rat_Man, Harriet_(Maze_Runner), Frypan_(Maze_Runner), Gladers_(Maze_Runner), Brenda_(Maze_Runner), Jorge_(Maze_Runner), Alby_ (Maze_Runner), Chuck_(Maze_Runner), Winston_(Maze_Runner), Vince_(Maze Runner), WICKED_|_WCKD, Edison_"Eddie"_|_Michael_(Maze_Runner_OC) Additional Tags: twinfic, thomas'_original_name_was_stephen!!!, newt's_original_name_was Samuel_idc_what_u_say, Slash, yeah_the_main_ship_is_gAY, Male_OC_- Freeform, Semi-SI, Uhh_so, general_violence, Death, lots_of_canon character_death, some_people_don't_die_that_should_but_i'm_not_telling you_who, Child_Abuse, Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm, Depression, Panic_Attacks, Post-Traumatic_Stress Disorder_-_PTSD, Anxiety_Disorder, Dissociation, Suicide_Attempt, Child Death, they_are_CHILDREN_karen, dying, Angst, Angst_with_a_Happy_Ending, OR_IS_IT, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting_Fluff, Twin_Bond, thomas_and_eddie_are telepathic, this_is_a_mix_of_movie_and_book_verse, a_mash_up, also_my_own take_on_things, Human_Experimentation, Unethical_Experimentation, there is_a_lot_of_terror_and_sadness, but_it's_TMR_what_did_you_expect, Murder, There's_a_bit_of_that, the_Flare_is_movie-verse_version Stats: Published: 2018-03-06 Updated: 2018-03-25 Chapters: 4/? Words: 40809 ****** Eddie ****** by spideywhiteys Summary My second life begins in a world of heat and death with him by my side. It begins again in a maze, where I can only remember a false name and the feeling of being incomplete. ( They told me to protect him with every breath, but I was doing it long before they felt the need to tell me. ) -- It feels like a loss. They’re shaping us into something new, forcing our hand when we don’t respond the way they want. It’s just a name, yes, but it’s the name our parents gave us. It’s all we have left that belongs to us, and now we can’t even keep that. The pain stops, but there’s an ache that I can feel in every muscle of my body and mind. I lay gasping on the floor until the door opens, barely able to move my body as Stevie is dragged back inside. I grunt, raising myself to onto my knees as Stevie is dropped besides me. Like beacons, we seek each other, curling our throbbing bodies together and sighing with relief. Pre-TMR to Post Death Cure. ***** Hello, Again ***** It takes an embarrassingly long time to realize I’ve died and I don’t know where I am. The memories are like fragments, splintered and disjointed like a puzzle with a few of the wrong pieces. Dying seems traumatic enough to do that, I think, though it’s not like I’ve got previous experience. The world comes into focus slowly, black fading to colored masses, and then from there the colors separate into their own shapes. I feel like I’ve both been asleep for a long time and not long enough.   I died.   I think; I remember . The feeling of limbs tingling with numbness and darkness (so final ) creeping across my vision. The feeling of dying is there in stark relief, echoing in my chubby, infantile limbs. But the actual reason for my passing escapes me, as do a lot of details about who I once was. ( I was someone else once, though. That much is certain. )   And yes, I said infantile . ( In case you missed it. )   Because I’m a baby now. A tiny, blubbery mess of uncoordinated limbs with zero control of my basic bodily functions. I don’t know where I am, who I am, or what I am - because when people die they don’t come back, definitely not like this! Right? I’m almost positive. There isn’t much I remember about my first self in terms of personal facts, but general information remains clear. I can remember how to read, use computers, ride a bike; useless facts in comparison to the gaping hole left in my memory, leaving the question of who I am. No name, no gender - sure, I’m aware I’m a dude right now, but was I before?   For so long I was in the dark, floating and unaware of my own existence. Then the veil was lifted and I am left floundering, dropped in a new environment with no explanation.   My freak out lasts all of an hour, as my mind and body seem to settle, feeling coming back to limbs and vision fully clearing.   It’s hot.   As I adjust to the sudden return to the living, it’s the first thing I notice. I’m inside, staring at a dirty white ceiling and surrounded by bars - a crib, my mind supplies - but it’s hot . Almost uncomfortably so. I’m only wearing a diaper, but it’s almost too much. It feels like an oven in the room and when I clumsily turn my dumb baby neck I can see that the single window is boarded shut. Nailed, actually. With boards. The observation is worrying. As is the unkempt appearance of the room. I can tell the walls used to be a shade of blue, but they seem to be in disrepair, and there’s dust everywhere. There’s even piles of sand in the corners and I can hear strange howling from outside. I pray it’s the wind. It feels like a horror movie, the very atmosphere grating on already fraying nerves.   So the noise in my ear scares the ever-loving shit out of me, drawing a strangled cry from heavy lips. Chubby fists flail as I whip around, eyes wide with startled terror - only to settle on a small form.   Another baby.   How did I miss that!?   Tension seeps from my frame, I’m relieved to find that it’s not some monster come to kill me in my vulnerable state. The baby beside me makes a sleepy noise, button nose scrunching as they slowly wake. I’m greeted by a lovely pair of brown eyes, brimming with childish innocence and the disconnect of a mind not fully developed. Cute. I make a noise in return, almost unconsciously, and get a gummy smile and a weird, half-smack on my arm as a response. It smarts a little, but I can’t bring myself to care. Babies are so . . . Cute. There’s that word again. It’s not leaving anytime soon.   “Oh,” a soft murmur from a corner of the room. I freeze, startled once again. The baby beside me reacts as well, obviously thrown by my negative reaction, and cries out.   “Sh, sh,” coos the voice. It’s a woman, and I turn to finally glimpse her as she approaches. Dark hair, dark eyes, stress lines on her face and care in her smile. Mother, I think, because she has the same eyes as the baby beside me.   “Don’t cry, Stephen.” She says to the fussy baby, “There’s nothing to fear.”   I have a name for my baby friend. Stephen. Is Stephen my brother? I think so. Something innate tells me that the boy is mine, a part of my soul. The woman - mother, I remind myself - brushes a careful hand down Stephen’s back to soothe him.   “Please,” she suddenly whispers, a tone of weary desperation in her voice. “Be quiet like Michael, please.”   My name is Michael.   My name is Michael and I almost don’t care because I’m suddenly hit with a wave of terror. There is something unnatural going on, something that doesn’t make sense and I know with horrible, terrible clarity that it’s bad. Mother is scared, the room is decrepit, there are noises I can hear through the walls and boarded window, and it’s too hot.   Where am I? I think, unsure if I truly desire an answer.   ===============================================================================   My name is Michael and my brother’s name is Stephen. We’re twins, and almost a year old. After a week I know that much. My new birthday is still a mystery, as is the world outside. Mother never takes us out, and I’m not sure if I really want to know what’s out there anyway. It’s hot enough inside, I dread to think what the heat is like in the sun. Being breastfed is awful and scarring and I try my best not to think about it, as there are no alternatives unless I want to starve. I’m certain there is nothing like formula in the house. There isn’t much of anything, actually. It’s quite obvious that food is scarce and water is a treasured commodity. The world is different from what I remember, but perhaps there is a reason for that.   There is a lot of time to think about it, with only Stephen and our mother for company. One theory is that I’m a botched reincarnation and it was like a million years in the future. Another was alternate universe, but I’m less sold on that one. It has to be some time in the future. Or rather, ‘future’ in terms of my relative ‘present’. Because I am here now so this is my present. My current time. It’s weird to think about - and honestly I can think about it all I want, but I know I won’t get a solid answer until I’m older and able to see what is outside.   We have a father, Stevie and I. At least, I assume that the man is our father. He appears twice in the week and never for long, with severely tan, sunburnt skin and haunted hazel eyes. I don’t know where my father goes or why he constantly looks so haggard, but the answer seems to lie in the world beyond the walls.   ===============================================================================   “Stevie, no.” I scold, tugging a brittle piece of plastic from my twin’s grabby hands. The fellow two year old pouts, using his impressive toffee eyes in attempt to sway his older brother.   “Mike-mike,” the boy implores, making a grabbing gesture with his hand, “Gimme.”   “I don’t think so.” I respond, still holding out hope that my brother will drop the silly nickname. I know I’m unnaturally articulate for a toddler, and sometimes I get worried glances from our mother and father, but I really don’t care. In the year or so I’ve been here, I’ve gathered that the world outside is a disaster and I need everything I can to get a leg up in the whole survival game if I want to be able to protect my new family. Stephen is my pride and joy, the love of my life and the other half of my soul. I don’t think I was a twin in my last life, because I could never forget a feeling like this. We are so in tune, able to sense each other’s emotions and predict reactions. It’s like we’re tuned in to the same wavelength, separate from everyone else. Locked on the same radio station that only we can hear.   Surprisingly, I don’t hate it, despite having to filter through infant emotions and tantrums not my own. Above all and no matter what, I am completely taken by Stephen. In this world I’m physically older than Stephen by a few minutes. Mentally...well, I’m not sure of the exact number but I’m definitely far older than Stephen and therefore feel much more protective seeing as I have the capacity to do so.   And as I wave the dumb piece of plastic over my head and out of Stevie’s reach, I know without a doubt that I will do anything for this boy. Even brave the outdoors, though the mere thought terrifies me and I still have never seen it.   Sometimes, late at night, horrible sounds will pierce through the shoddy walls of our home. Noises like screams or guttural croaks - or even gunfire. On these nights I make sure to curl extra close to Stevie in our shared crib. We’re outgrowing it steadily but that’ll be a problem for another day.   The plastic is snatched from my hands by our mother, who looks at the two of us with an exasperated smile. She loves us, I can tell. But she still looks too old for her age and too scared. I know now that when she soothes us at night and tells us that everything will be okay...she’s lying. But it helps, if only for a moment.   “No eating the plastic, Stevie.” She scolds, lighthearted and looking happier than I have seen in a few days. Our dad must be coming home today, from his usual supply runs. She always looks happier when he’s around, and I can’t blame her because I know they love each other.   Stevie looks very put out by this reprimand, lip quivering and brown eyes getting impossibly wider. In my chest, I can feel the tug of an oncoming tantrum.   “No.” I bop Stevie on the nose, pat his cheek with the other hand and cuddle up beside the other boy. Stevie looks bewildered for all of five seconds before he’s babbling excitedly into my ear and pinching my arm with deceptively strong baby fingers. Mother looks delighted, as she usually does when I manage to calm Stevie in my own unconventional ways. We haven’t been told why she prefers that we stay quiet, but I know it must be for good reason. Luckily, Stevie isn’t too fussy a baby and I’m always there to settle him when needed.   If our mom worries about the fact that I’m practically half-raising Stevie, she doesn’t let it show.   “Dad home soon?” I ask, keeping my sentence choppy on purpose. Mother offers a smile, tickling Stevie’s tummy. He squeals loudly and one of his flailing arms hits my own. I ignore it, far too accustomed to Stevie’s whipping limbs.   “Yes,” she nods in response to my question, hesitation on her features. She looks at us with an expression I can’t decipher, yet it’s one I’ve seen many times before. “It’s better when he’s here, isn’t it?”   “Yeah.” Of course it is. Despite not being a constant presence, the man is still our father. His presence will always be appreciated.   “Nums?” Stevie speaks up suddenly, finally recovered from his laughing fit. His uncoordinated hands flap in some strange gesture, obviously thinking it’ll help get his meaning across.   “Food.” I correct, and Stevie mimes to the word obediently. There’s no doubt he’ll forget it within seconds. Mother is silent for a moment, lips parted and fingers tapping a nervous beat on the hastily swept floor, her legs folded beneath her.   “Of course he’s bringing food, Stevie!” Her voice is layered with forced enthusiasm, unnoticeable to the youngest twin. “He always does.”   She doesn’t say that what he brings isn’t always enough for the four of them, but I know it to be true anyway.   ===============================================================================   “Away from the windows!” Mother scolds, nervous hands pulling us from the boarded up panes. At four years old we’re just tall enough to grip the sill and peer through the very bottom sliver between the boards if we stand on our tiptoes. Stevie is curious, and his thirst for knowledge grows with every day that passes. I am also quite interested in glimpsing the world outside for once, it certainly isn’t healthy to stay in this house forever. Three years is already unbearable, and it can’t be too bad if our father can traverse the outdoors and make it back every time.   I make a sound of annoyance, mirrored by my twin. All we’d managed to see was bright, blinding light and sand. Our eyes hadn’t had time to adjust so details had been impossible to discern. Stevie huffs, tiny arms crossing and lip jutting out, not happy about being denied a view of the outside.   “I wanna see!” He mutters petulantly and I’m inclined to agree, my head nodding along vehemently with Stevie’s words. We’re getting bigger everyday, able to wander and open doors - our curiosity already causing trouble. She has to tell us eventually. I just need it to be sooner rather than later, before I die from cabin fever. So I take the direct route, wanting an answer despite Mother’s skittish body language.   “Why are you afraid?” I ask, and my eyes (undoubtedly brown, like Stevie’s) bore into hers. “What’s out there? Why can’t we leave?” I sound beyond my years but dammit, I wanna finally know what’s going on in this hell hole!   Stevie is, for once, silent. His posture mimics my own and not for the first time I find myself glad that we operate like two halves of the same machine. With the two of us holding steady and demanding answers, it’s not long before Mother’s mask crumbles and her shoulders sag. I almost feel bad, realizing in that moment that what she tells us could be atrocious . There had to be a reason , after all, for why she wanted to keep us in the dark. Perhaps it was to protect our innocence? If the world was a shithole I’d probably wanna keep my kids in the dark and thinkin’ about rainbows and sunshine too. But, try as I might - I’m not really a child. Mentally, at least. I hate being coddled and find myself preferring to give care rather than receive it. Being an older sibling suits me perfectly, and I like to make myself as self-sufficient as possible despite being physically four years old.   “Okay,” she breathes, watching me with what looks to be regret and defeat, “Okay...you always were a precocious child, Michael. I knew this was coming, I just—” a pause, her breath hitching. Now I’m feeling uncomfortable. I wonder if she’s about to cry. I’m not good with tears, and seeing your parental figure break into tears was always unsettling. Luckily she pulls herself together and drops down onto the shoddy couch shoved against the wall - opposite the window. Stevie matches my steps and we walk over to her, pulling our little bodies onto the patchy cushions and settling beside her.   “We can’t go outside because it’s dangerous,” she begins, hands in her lap and eyes glued to the boarded window. “Years ago, the sun burned the earth and left it a wasteland.”   I blink wildly, completely stunned. Of course, the possibility of solar flares destroying the earth wasn’t unheard of, in fact it was sort of expected. But not for millions or billions of years! Just how far into the future am I? The thought of the world outside being a desert wasteland is scary and hard to believe. Borderlands. I bet the world is like Borderlands and there’s mutant Skags and cannibals. The video game comes to mind as I try to reconcile the idea of a lush, green world with a burnt, sandy one.   “There’s something else. We call it the Flare.”   That sounds even less good.   “It’s a disease,” she continues, brushing her shaking fingers through Stevie’s hair as he looks at her with faint confusion. He doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation, but knows that for whatever reason, outside the walls of our home is dangerous. “There’s no cure. Those who catch it - they don’t recover. It’s a very, very bad sickness, okay boys? So please, until you’re old enough - don’t go outside.”   I can’t help but think that our father must be very brave to wander into a world like that to find ways to provide for us. And I’m gripped by the terrifying realization that I can’t defend my family from an incurable disease. It’s a battle that I can’t fight.   ===============================================================================   Six months, three weeks and two days later, our father comes home from one of his trips and is silent. There’s a pensive look on his face as he smiles at Stevie and I, before beckoning mother into the other room. Stevie waves briefly before returning to his book, enthralled in the weathered pages of Alice in Wonderland. I’m quite proud of my little brother’s progress. Stevie is exceptionally smart for a normal almost-five year old. He’s even trying to forgo his childish way of speaking to sound more like me, which is adorable and leaves my chest feeling light.   A low, wounded noise echoes from where our parents had gone, and the both of us freeze at the sound. Stevie meets my eyes, our matching gazes reflecting worry between us. Simultaneously, we rise from our seats at the crooked kitchen table and meet in the middle. We reach out and hold hands, grounding each other with familiar grips. Stevie takes the first step and I follow, trepidation growing as we approach the opening to the living room.   Mother is wrapped around father, her back to us and her face buried in his shoulder. Father is stony faced, gaze downcast and jaw clenched. His arms are around her as well, and on his wrist where his sleeve is riding up are pulsing black lines under his skin.   Father has the Flare.   ===============================================================================   We turn five, but there isn’t much celebration. Stevie is mildly oblivious, despite knowing that there is something wrong with his father. It’s hard to hide, especially since the man no longer goes out as often, and mother now leaves the house instead on occasion. I am terrified. Despite having never seen an infected person before, I know what illness looks like and those disgusting, growing black lines are hard to hide when they begin to spread. Our father doesn’t really touch us anymore. I wonder if it’s spread through contact. Or maybe even bodily fluids.   We probably all have it already. I think, one terrible, fearful night. There’s more howling outside the walls today, tapering during the day only to rise in an awful cacophony when night falls. Those sounds scare me more than I’ll ever admit. Because they aren’t just meaningless sounds I can pretend are the wind. It’s people making those wretched screams, people who’ve been infected. The gunshots I’ve heard over time are what happens to the lucky ones. I think I want to be shot if it ever comes down to it. There could be nothing worse than losing your mind to the Flare.   “Psst, Mikey.” a whisper in my ear, my brother’s hand poking into my stomach. I tilt my head towards my twin, tearing my gaze from the boarded window in our room. Only faint moonlight shines through it now.   “Yeah, Stevie?” I whisper back, catching Stevie’s prodding hand in mine and holding it tight. Stevie lets me, used to our easy and comforting touches. We’re five years old and we’ve never seen another person outside of our family. We have no one but each other, and no pressure of society to dictate how little boys should act. So we grow softly, like gently budding flowers, rather than brashly like weeds. We don’t rough-house, instead we like to read and draw and tell silly stories. ( Or rather, I tell Stevie a bunch of stories I remember from my past life, and my younger twin listens eagerly ).   “Is daddy gonna die?”   I jolt, sure my ears are tricking me. But Stevie just looks at me with wide, neutral eyes, like he already knows the answer to his question. “Why would you ask that?”   “B’cause. He’s getting sicker ‘n sicker. And you know what mommy said about…” Stevie trails off, frowning and squinting.   “The Flare.” I breathe, body tingling. I hate talking about it, hating thinking about it and it’s stupid inevitability.   “Yeah. That.” he pauses, like he doesn’t want to ask but he has to . Because Stevie is so, so desperately curious about everything. “Does daddy have the Flare?”   There’s no beating around the bush here with someone like my little brother. He’s too bright for his own good and a right nag when he wants to be. “....yes.”   “Is daddy gonna die?” he asks the dreaded question, one that’s been on my mind for a while now. Mother had told us that there was no cure, not that it killed you. All I really knew was that it did something awful and turned you into a thing rather than a person. A disease of the mind, she’d explained, though the symptoms are pretty physical as well.   “I don’t know, Stevie. I really don’t know.” I sigh, desperate hope in my chest. I can only dream, but deep inside I know that what’s happening to our father will not have a happy ending. “I hope not.”   “Me too.” Stevie breathes, his frame tense beside my own. There’s something else wrong, I can feel it. I don’t even have to be his twin to know, with the amount of anxious energy he’s giving off. “Mikey…”   “Yes, Stevie?” I answer, both resigned and curious. Stevie tucks himself closer to my side, and we fit together like puzzle pieces. ( We are, after all, two pieces of a whole. )   “Are you going to die?”   Ah, the tragic inevitability of death. We all discover it at some point in our childhood, and at that moment generally become fearful at the prospect of it and the idea of living on a time limit. I can only answer honestly, hoping to end this conversation as swiftly as possible. I don’t want to think about death. Not now. “One day, Stevie, because no one lives forever.”   “Yeah.” he hums, because he’s not dumb, “But not anytime soon, right?”   “Right.” I agree, though I’ve no way to know for certain if I’m telling the truth. No one does. Life is unpredictable. The whole world could be hit by another solar flare tomorrow and we could all die. We just don’t know. Yet I whisper promises and reassurances to Stevie because it’s all I can do. After all, we might not die tomorrow.   ===============================================================================   I’m in the kitchen when the front door explodes open with incredible force, a short scream flying from my throat in surprise. Immediately, I duck behind a counter as my mother screams and screeches and the sound of heavy boots thunder across our dusty, dirty floors.   “Stop! Stop! Leave him alone!” I hear my mother shout, her frantic cries pulling me back into an upright position. But it’s not until I hear my little brother that I leave my hiding spot.   “Mommy! Mikey!” he screams, and I fly out of the kitchen as fast as my little legs can carry me, armed only with a blunt pencil. There is a group of people in our living room and foyer, Stevie is in one man’s grasp and our mother is being held back by a few others. They look like soldier, dressed in black uniforms with high-tech guns and helmets. There’s a patch on their shoulders that reads ‘WICKED’. I don’t think about it too long, brandishing my pencil in a distinctly threatening manner despite it probably not being seen as such.   “What are you doing!” I screech, “Put my brother down!”   They ignore me, of course.   “There’s two of them,” one of them points out the obvious, “ Twins. ” He sounds oddly happy and astonished by that fact.   “Well, grab him and let’s go. We still have a few more houses to hit.” Another says, to mine and my mother’s dismay.   “Please, no! Don’t take them!” She begs, and her body trembles like the hands on her arms are all that’s keeping her on her feet.   “They need to be tested,” Masked man #3 says, in an attempt to soothe the situation. “If they’re immunes then they could be vital in finding a cure.” Then he shrugs one shoulder. “If they’re not then you’ll get them back.”   Stevie shakes in the man’s hold, eyes searching out mine. We stay silent, peering at each other as one of the men approached me and picks me up. There is nothing we can do against these people, not when they’ve got armor and guns. Our mother sobs again, finally sinking to her knees.   The man holding Stevie speaks, “You know who made that, right?” He nods to the single light bulb hanging dangerously from the ceiling. Even though we don’t give him a response he continues, “We should call these two Thomas and Edison.”   “I have a name,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at the guy from over my own captor’s shoulder. “It’s Michael! And his name is Stephen! You can’t just rename us like dogs!”   “Relax, kid.” The asshole holding me says unconvincingly. It doesn’t help my mood or shake the worry I feel after the jerk’s comment.   The group takes us out of the house, and I catch my first glimpse of the world outside. It’s scorching, and my skin already feels like it’s baking in the sunlight. I hunch and shield my eyes, unable to make out much but dilapidated buildings and sand , so much sand. It hits me, as they drag Stevie and I to an aircraft of some sort, that I might never see my mother or father again, and never know what the outside of our house looks like. It’s far too bright and too late to look back and see it.   ===============================================================================   We’re put on a plane. Or at least, some kind of plane - helicopter hybrid. In all honesty it looks like some kind of machine you’d see in a space movie. A man calls it a Berg. It’s a stupid name, I think, bitterly and without much reason. There are two other kids on board with us, a girl and a boy. The girl looks to be older than us by a few years, the boy is probably closer in age to us. Stevie can’t seem to choose what to stare at, he’s never seen so many people in his entire life. That fact makes me cringe, and I place a hand atop his. He turns his hand to interlace our fingers, gripping my hand for stability that we both desperately need. The kid around our age is crying. Great, heaving sobs that wrack his tiny frame as he mewls pathetically for his mother. The display makes me uncomfortable and I feel awful about it, deep inside, but I turn away. I have Stevie to take care of, who peers at the other two kids with thinly veiled curiosity before his wide brown eyes map the shiny, metallic interior of the Berg.   Maybe we won’t be immune. I muse, my own gaze examining the pristine layout of the ship. It’s a wild contrast from the dirty, desolate home Stevie and I were born in. Then again, if we’re immune . . . the Flare won’t kill us.   And that was a fate that terrified me. I didn’t even know that much about the disease, but the very concept of dying by illness or whatever was not how I’d like to go. Prolonged pain and suffering from an incurable disease? I’d rather take the bullet and kill myself, end it on my own terms. But if we were immune, Stevie and I, then that was one less thing I needed to protect him from.   The downside to us being immune, of course, was that our parents were most definitely not . Father would die soon, he maybe had months remaining. Mother likely wouldn’t be far behind, because if the soldiers thought she was immune they would have taken her too ( I assume ) and therefore . . . the only logical conclusion is that she wasn’t. I wasn’t old enough to take care of Stevie on my own, with no knowledge of the outside world or how it worked or where to get food and water. We’d die. I had no allusions to that. I didn’t know where these soldiers were taking us, or what they planned on doing to us if we were immune, but I know without a doubt that they’d most certainly need us alive. Being immune was our best chance of survival, not just from the Flare, but from starvation and exposure as well. Being brought back home meant death, no matter how furiously I’d try to prevent it. This world was not kind, and it did not grant miracles to little boys. Not now.   “I don’t like this.” Stevie says quietly, our shoulders pressed together. His breath tickles my ear, eyes shifting to the two kids across from us like he’s nervous they’ll hear.   “I don’t either.” I whisper back. And I don’t. I really, really don’t.   “I want to go home.” he murmurs, brow drawing low.   “Can’t.” I grip his hand tighter. “We can’t do anything against them and . . . if we’re immune - mom and dad aren’t.”   Stevie sags against my side, his dark hair brushing my cheek. I’ll say it a thousand times, but he’s absolutely brilliant for a five year old. I’m certain he’s some kind of genius, because he understands right away what I mean.   “We need to be immune.” he breathes, and we glance at each other, our identical eyes blazing. We really are too alike, I think.   “Yes.” I barely hear myself say it. “Yes, we do.”   The Berg takes off and we ride in silence the whole time, hands clasped together. The craft doesn’t make as much noise as I’d expected, which unfortunately means that the sobs coming from the boy across from us are still loud and clear. The girl offers her shoulder for him to cuddle into, though her face looks miserable and tight. She’s also probably annoyed at this kid’s blubbering. But I can’t really blame him. He’s what? Somewhere around five and was just ripped from his family? Any normal kid that young would cry their heart out. Stevie and I are lucky enough to have each other.   My brother seems to grasp that as well, his head leaning on my shoulder and our bodies pressed tightly together side by side. If we’re both here, we can make it. We have to.   The Berg lands, and one of the soldier’s approaches us from the front of the craft.   “Get up.” he demands, and ushers us through the opening entryway and off the Berg. Sand whips around us and the sun is low in the sky, painting everything orange and red. The four of us kids stick close together, despite not having said a word to each other on the ride. We’re all here for the same reason, so a sense of trust is easy enough to establish. At least, we hold more trust in each other than we do these men with their helmets and guns.   We’re led to a building, surrounded on all sides by soldiers who peer around in the fading light with tense wariness.   They’re watching for Cranks. It makes sense, I rationalize, and am inexplicably relieved when huge mechanical doors open and we’re shuffled inside without incident. I’m not ready to see what the Flare does, not ready to see what our parents will become. And I trust these men as far as I can throw them with the duty of protecting Stevie.   There are lots of people in here, more than Stevie and I can properly comprehend. Sure, I knew what it was like to be surrounded by people ( my old life granted me that ), but it’d been five years of only three other faces. And one of those faces was identical to my own. Seeing so many people with different features and shades of skin and hair and eyes made me stop and stare. Stevie was the same, his mouth open as he gazed around in childish astonishment. A woman in a lab coat approached us, looking harried yet surprisingly gentle.   “Hello,” she greets, her hair is bright red and pulled out of her face in a severe ponytail. She scans the four of us with tired blue eyes, resting especially long on my brother and I. I shift under her stare, Stevie turning from his observations to glance at me, then at the woman.   “Hello.” we respond at the same time, the other two children mullish and silent. The doctor lady looks a little stunned, yet oddly pleased. I wonder if it’s because we responded, or if it’s because we’re twins. That excitement the soldier back at the house had about us being twins wasn’t forgotten. Scientists loved studying twins, that was a given fact. There were hundreds and thousands of studies and papers and experiments involving them in my universe, and it was likely the same here.   “Wonderful,” she laughs a little, and it sounds more like a breath than anything. “Come with me! We’re just gonna get you cleaned up and then run some tests, okay?”   Like we have a choice, I scowl, but don’t say anything. Our little rag-tag group follows her, trudging through the crazy, high-tech building that looks like something out of a Marvel comic. I’m getting serious Tony Stark vibes from this place. Architecture-wise, of course. I doubt Tony Stark would experiment on children. I’m pretty sure all superheroes are vehemently against that, actually.   What does that make these people?   ===============================================================================   I shower, because what else can I do but listen to what they tell me to do? I make sure Stevie is in the cubicle next to me and finish as quickly as possible. I don’t like being so naked and vulnerable in an unknown place with unknown people. We are children, yes. But to some that doesn’t mean anything and I will take no chances. They’ve taken our old clothes though, which I have mixed feelings about. They weren’t the best quality and they weren’t in the best state, but they were mine.   It feels weird. The new clothes are nondescript and mute gray, with the word WICKED stamped across the back of the shirt. They’re more comfortable than my old clothes, but I don’t like how everything we own in connection to our lives is being taken from us. I highly doubt that if we prove to be immune we’ll be seeing our clothing again.   Stuck here, wearing gray. For the rest of my life. I muse, God, I hope not.   “Hurry up, Stevie.”   “I will! But the water - the water , Mikey!” he exclaims, voice echoing in the stall. He peers at me from beneath the water with bright, amazed eyes. “It’s hot!”   “Yeah, it is.” That’s a commodity we didn’t have before. In fact, the idea of a hot shower back home is an abhorrent one, with how hot the air was. The cool water was a reprieve from the sweltering heat. But in here the air is cool and conditioned, so the hot water feels new and heavenly. “Still, hurry up.”   I shift, eyes flickering to where the other boy is finishing his own shower, the girl having been led to a different bathroom. He looks impossibly small and thin. It makes me want to . . . I dunno, make him something to eat. Pursing my lips, I turn back to Stevie as I hear the shower squeak off. He wraps a fluffy towel around himself, expression clearly marveling at the texture of it. All our towels had been threadbare and sometimes felt more like sandpaper than fabric.   “This is so - ” he halts, unable to find the right word. His expression changes rapidly before settling on something neutral. “I don’t know if I like it.”   “Yeah, you and me both.” I grunt, reaching forward to properly towel off his hair despite his squirming. He finally bats my hands away when his hair is practically dry and poofed in all directions. I hum in satisfaction, tossing the towel off to the side where I’d dropped my own.   He dresses quickly, slipping on the plain white shoes we were all given just as the door opens. The three of us tense, Stevie straightening from his feet and grasping my hand tightly. We keep a grip on each other as we’re led down a series of hallways and end up in a room that looks like a makeshift hospital. There’s curtains hanging around from the ceiling that can be drawn to section off little areas with thin beds. Everything looks extremely sterile and orderly and I’m not surprised that they made us shower and clean the dust and sand from our bodies.   Next comes the hard part.   “No.” I grind out, glaring scathingly at the Doctor who wants to separate Stevie and I. He’s an older, balding man with light hair and brown eyes. I don’t trust him.   “We go together,” Stevie begins, expression mimicking my own.   “Or not at all.” I finish, gripping his hand a little tighter. The Doctor glances between us for a moment.   “Fine, fine, that’s okay.” he acquiesces, “You can both sit up on that bed over there.” He gestures to one of the hospital-looking cots, the curtain half drawn around it.   With one last suspicious glare at the man, Stevie and I step forward and march in sync to the area. Like hell I was gonna let them separate the two of us, especially in an unknown place. For all I know, they were just waiting to get us alone and I’d never see Stevie again!   I pat the sheets of the hospital bed, hoisting myself up with minimal difficulty. Stevie grunts, pushing himself up as well and settling besides me. He takes my hand again once we’re both seated and we remain on edge as the Doctor approaches. Stevie has never seen a Doctor in his life, and I haven’t in a long, long time. Something told me this wouldn’t be a typical doctor’s visit.   He started with the basics, taking our temperature and blood pressure, listening to our hearts and lungs. Then came time for the needles. Stevie recoiled beside me and I wasn’t far behind, both of us eyeing the syringe with identical looks of distrust.   “I’m going to need to draw some blood from both of you, one at a time.” the Doctor ( I should probably learn his name, but I’m stubbornly resolute in the opinion that I don’t care ) says, eyes pinched and contrasting with the smile on his face. I really don’t trust him.   “What for?” Stevie asks, his chin on my shoulder and big brown eyes narrowed at the man.   “Routine,” the man begins, jaw clenching, “mostly to check your immunity status, but also for other diseases and your nutrient levels.”   Stevie purses his lips, obviously not convinced. He makes no move to stick his arm out, which means I’ll have to make the first leap. I’d never been fond of needles in my old life, in fact the idea of someone sliding foreign objects into my skin was absolutely nauseating, but I had to get it over with. They weren’t going to let us leave without doing this, of that I had no doubt. They were too desperate for a cure to let possible candidates slip away simply because of a little needle phobia.   “Ok, fine.” I huff, rolling up the sleeve on my left arm. I try not to think about what’s about to happen and grip Stevie’s hand tightly. He doesn’t look happy about my decision but seems to have come to the same conclusion as me.   It’s not pleasant. My breaths shake and sweat breaks out on my brow. My skin feels too cold yet too hot, split into two layers, one over the other. Stevie presses into my side and glares for all he’s worth at the Doctor, who’s switching vials as the first one fills. He takes four vials total, leaving me light headed and tingling. My sigh of relief is audible once the needle is out of my skin. I lean my weight on Stevie, providing support as he repeats my actions and winces as a brand new needle enters the tender flesh of his inner elbow.     ===============================================================================   We’re immune. The Doctors are delighted. One some scale, so am I. Our chances of survival have increased, we cannot die from the Flare. It makes me feel a little lighter with the stress of that possible demise removed from the equation.   Now we just have to worry about the murderous Cranks, sun radiation, dehydration, starvation and a plethora of other dangerous causes of death. I don’t mean to be so pessimistic, but the world has made it terribly hard to be positive, especially since we were children and had little control over what became of us.   We’re allowed to sleep, Stevie and I put in a room with bunk beds that we ignored, cramming into the bottom bunk together. I felt comforted by the weight of him beside me, listening to his soft breaths and imagining his heartbeat in my ear. It took me a long time to fall asleep, though Stevie drifted off after a while, obviously tired from all the excitement during the day. I was too keyed up, terrified and grief-stricken. I keep thinking about how we never really got to say goodbye to our parents. My last memory of my mother will be of her sobbing and restrained by soldiers. And our father hadn’t even been there. Had he come home later in the evening, only to find the door busted and our mother in tears? The two of us nowhere to be found? He would be dead soon, or a Crank. He had weeks at most.   I mourned him already, and hated WICKED for taking us from him when he had so little time left. I never wanted to see the man fall to the Flare and deteriorate over time. But if he was going to die, I wanted to spend every second we could with him, to burn the memory of him alive into my mind. They took that from us.   I don’t think I slept, it felt like I blinked and then we were being ushered from the bed. They took us through hallways and strange, industrial areas and tunnels lined with pipes. There was a loud, siren-like sound and a mechanical door whirred open with many clicks and thuds. The sun spilled into the room, far too bright and hot. I shielded my eyes, hissing. Stevie made a similar sound of distaste, his hand once again held tight in my own.   A soldier pushed us forward, leading us into the Scorch. In the early light of day that sun seemed far worse, the evening rays nothing compared to the way my visible skin burned now. I felt a tremendous amount of relief when we stepped up into a train, the interior dark and cool. It was a little stuffy, but definitely air conditioned to prevent a likeness to an oven. The train compartment was lengthy and filled with two rows of double seats, separated in the middle by a walkway. Almost every seat was occupied by a child, the youngest I could see was perhaps four, and the oldest looked to be almost thirteen. A majority seemed to be between five and eight.   The weight of curious stares made me flush, steps faltering. Stevie took the lead, matching the other children’s looks with his own curious gaze. I stayed just behind him, ducking out of view on occasion and keeping our hands clasped together as he led us to an open set of double seats. He let me in first, so I could be by the window and away from most of the stares. We’d never talked about being social with others, or how we thought we’d act, but Stevie seemed to know instinctively that I was shy. Something I’d never been before around him, yet he accepted it with ease. I really did love this twin bond of ours.   A few kids chatted, but for the most part the train ride was silent, everyone feeling a general sense of unease and despair. Stevie slumped against my side and dozed, lulled by the rumble of the train. I rested my head against his, eyelids drooping. I was exhausted from worrying all night, but I couldn’t let myself fall asleep willingly, not when we were in such an unfamiliar place filled with people. They were other children, sure, but I didn’t know any of them. I simply dozed, drifting in and out of full consciousness, the rumble of moving machinery and quiet voices in my ear.   It took hours, though the time passed relatively quickly as Stevie and I dozed on intervals. Stevie didn’t talk to anyone else despite the tug of curiosity I felt in my gut that didn’t belong to me. Instead we kept our heads together and whispered back and forth about a few random topics. He asked for a story so I quietly told him a few stories about Spider-Man. We hadn’t had any comic books back at our house, only a few battered novels. Paper items were few and far between. It made me sad to think about how much the sun flares destroyed, not just people but also history. Artwork and statues and stories, all burned away to ash. Things we couldn’t get back, that lay in museums or undiscovered, gone. The world was a giant sand dune and humanity lost everything but the drive to survive.   A painting, the memory was a faint one, George Washington. Massive, him in the corner and a spread of battle on the rest of the canvas. I remembered walking through a museum and being starstruck at the sight of the huge painting, spanning floor to ceiling and wall to wall. I couldn’t recall the title anymore. The sheer size had impressed me. The very thought that someone had painted every inch of it boggles my mind. I suppose that too has burned under the sun. Humanity. Always fighting.   “I don’t get it,” Stevie mutters, eyes half open, “Why’d he forgive Harry?”   “Because he loved him. He was his best friend.” I answer. “Harry did awful things, yeah, but Peter thought he deserved another chance. He couldn’t give up on his friend . . . on his family.”   “Oh.” my brother hums, understanding. “I guess I see it now. I’d forgive you if you were Harry.”   “Does that make you Spider-Man?” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. He laughs quietly, shaking his head.   “Nah, if I got to choose, I’d wanna be Iron Man!” he admits, “You’re Spider- Man.”   Of course, I’m delighted by the comparison, but also worried. My head is filled with knowledge of comic books ( Spider-Man extensively ) and Peter Parker has a lot of darkness and pain and rage. But he is also kind, and for the life of me I hope that that is the part of me that Stevie sees.   “Thanks.” I say, still bashful at the comparison because no matter what, Spider-Man is my favorite. “I think you’d make a great Iron-Man, Stevie. You’re super smart.”   He grins a little, “Yeah, yeah. He’s smart, but I like that he’s funny too, and that he tries to be good even when he messes up. He’s sad but he keeps going.”   “Yeah,” I muse, “He does, doesn’t he?”   “Captain America is pretty cool too.” Stevie acquiesces, shifting against my side. He yawns, and the movement draws me into my own yawn. “He’s my other favorite, and we have the same name even if it’s spelled differently.”   “Steve is wicked cool.” I’d be offended on behalf of Captain America if my little brother didn’t love him. Then again, I adore almost every superhero under the sun.   “But Spidey is still your favorite,” he points out, “And you really like that Daredevil guy. You always get smiley when you tell his stories.”   I flush, grumbling a bit while Stevie laughs. “Well, he’s just, cool. Ya know? Like - ” I wave my hand in a weird motion, “Just. Awesome.”   “Well said.” Stevie says dryly.   “I don’t know where you’re getting this attitude from, young man!” I gasp, placing my free hand over my chest like I’ve been scorned. My little brother has learned well under my deadpan humor and blunt words.   “Shut up!” he laughs, elbowing me. “I learned it all from you, you’re a bad influence.”   “The worst.” I agree, nodding along. The sound of the train muffles our voices, so I’m not worried about the other children being able to hear what we’re talking about. I’m glad, because I don’t want to draw attention to the two of us. I’m too tired and anxious to deal with a bunch of children who aren’t Stevie. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m just an introvert by nature, and the idea of socializing is daunting.   It’s dark out when we finally arrive. The faint sunlight that had filtered through the slitted windows replaced by darkness, the only light now coming from flickering bulbs on the train ceiling. We’re ushered off the train and into what passes as a station, and then from there we’re kept in a tight group and pushed through a series of hallways. We’re exhausted, all of us. I can see it in the way every child rubs their eyes and drags their feet.   Even Stevie, who napped on and off for a few hours, is faltering. It’s only my tight grip on his hand that stops him from falling into the crowd of kids.   It starts when we arrive in a room with desks and seats and are told to sit down. I lead Stevie over to a desk near the back and shove another against it, plopping down in my own seat. I get a look from one of the weird Doctor people but I could care less, I prefer being as close as possible to my brother. I also kinda hate all the adults here, so I’m taking comfort where I can get it.   One by one kids are called forth and taken away. My frown becomes more pronounced as time passes, fear taking hold. What if they separate us? I can’t fight them off, not really. The body of a malnourished five year old can only do so much. But to my relief, when the time comes they gesture for the both of us.   We’re put in a room, with another bunk bed and food on a table in the center. The scent of cooked meat hits my nose and my stomach growls with a vengeance - I’ve been so stressed I didn’t even realize that we haven’t eaten all day! Stevie surges forward and stuffs a roll into his mouth, eyes going wide. More than half the food in front of us we’ve never seen before ( at least, Stevie hadn’t ). He looks more amazed the more he eats, relishing in the taste of well-made, warm food. I sit down a little more gingerly, eating slowly.   “Don’t eat too fast, you’ll get a stomach ache.” I abdomish, leveling Stevie with an unimpressed stare.   He swallows, taking a sip of whatever’s in the cup in front of him before responding, “I know, I know. ‘M just so hungry !”   “Still,” I huff, eyeing the food before us with distrust. They need us alive, so it’d be stupid of them to poison us. But I wouldn’t put drugging past them. Whatever. There isn’t much I could do in a situation like this, and in all honesty I need my strength if I want to protect Stevie. Eating maybe- drugged food will have to do.   “I don’t like it either.” he suddenly says, fork clinking against his empty plate.   I glance up at him, sliding an apple slice into my mouth. I haven’t tasted fruit in years. He looks solemn, an odd expression to see on a child’s face. We hold each other’s eyes for a while, before his eyelids droop a bit and a yawn breaks free.   “Bed time.” I say, pushing my empty plate away from me and standing up. Stevie copies my actions, his chair scraping on the floor as he pushes away from the table. We clasp hands again on our way to the bunk bed and press together on the bottom mattress like last time.   I’m so exhausted, it takes me moments to sink into a deep sleep.   ===============================================================================   We’re taken for testing the next morning, after breakfast. The food left for us the previous night was gone when we awoke, replaced with fresh foods. I’d missed the taste of oatmeal and sausage, and Stevie took to it with gusto.   A soldier, gun strapped to his thigh, opens our door and leads us to a room with two desks and chairs. There’s a pad on each desk, as well as writing utensils and paper.   A test. An honest-to-god test. This might actually be hell. Dread fills my stomach at the sight of the digital questionnaire on the pad. I thought I was done with school! There was only one, single good thing about the situation I’d found myself in and that was that I didn’t have to go to school because there were no schools. But now, I had a feeling that was going to change and that was not a happy thought.   Ugh.   It was easy, too. Geared for someone more my physical age. I finished quickly, and surprisingly enough so did Stevie. We glanced at each other, feelings of confusion and eagerness spiraling between us.   ( We passed whatever test they’d made with flying colors. It wasn’t a good thing. )   ===============================================================================   “Your name is Thomas.”   A man with wire-frame glasses and dark hair had come into our room, a clipboard in hand and a dead look in his eye. That was the first thing he said, gaze on my brother. Then he turned to me.   “Your name is Edison.”   “Uh,” Stevie scrunched his brow, confusion obvious. “My name is Stephen and that’s my brother, Michael. I think you have the wrong people.”   “I don’t. We’re giving you new designations.” he says, like he’s talking about the weather, like this madness makes any sense whatsoever.   “No.” I glare, setting my jaw. “Absolutely not.”   ( We last a day. )   The next morning a man with an eerie smile comes in and asks us what our names are.   “Stephen.” my brother answers, determination in his tiny frame.   “Michael.” I answer as well, with the same stubborn tone.   “I only need one of you.” he muses, after a pause. His slimy gaze slides from Stevie to me and back again. Something cold slides down my spine. I don’t like the look in his eye.   “Take me then.” I blurt out, but I know I’ve made a mistake the second his disgusting countenance hones in on my desperation. He lashes out and takes Stevie’s arm in an iron-grip, dragging my brother from the bed.   “Let me go!” he shrieks, writhing in the man’s hold.   “Stop it!” I scream, launching myself at him, fingers digging into a meaty arm. I kick and bite and scratch, until the man is roaring and smacks me upside the head so hard I drop to the floor. I can hear Stevie scream my name, but I’m too disoriented to respond. By the time I heave myself off the floor and the room ceases its spinning, I’m the only one in the room.   “No, no,” I whimper, feeling the terror between us like poison. I’m off the floor and slamming against the door in seconds, bashing my fists against solid metal. “NO! LET ME OUT!”   No one comes.   “STEPHEN!” I scream, punching at the door until I’m crying from both terror and pain. I slide down against the door and heave, hands shaking before me, bruised and battered. “Stevie….”   There’s a shiver between us, a struggling, surging feeling that has my brow furrowing. I’ve never felt this before, it almost feels like Stevie is trying to close our connection. That terrifies me, because that means they’re doing something he doesn’t want me to feel. He’s not good at it, having never done it before. We’ve never needed to hide anything from each other, I don’t even know if we truly can shut our strange emotional bond off.   “Stevie…?” I whisper into the silence, probing at the connection. I’m not prepared for the lance of pain that spikes through me. I cry out, jerking where I sit. “What the - ”   It doesn’t stop. The pain burns through me with a vengeance, ripping our bond open and forcing us to share the agony. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! I’ve never felt pain like this before, it’s like everything is on fire, like my skin is being flayed open and bones plucked out.   WHAT ARE THEY DOING?  My wrathful outburst echoes deeply through our connection.   MICHAEL! There’s a sob of my name, and it sounds like Stevie. It should be impossible, it is impossible. But my name is in my head, and so are Stevie’s cries. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.   Don’t, I project back, ferocious in my rage, it’s them. IT’S THEM!   They’re going to keep doing it. He says ( thinks? ), they won’t stop until I accept the name Thomas.   It’s just a name, I respond quickly, barely feeling the floor beneath my body as I writhe in pain, it doesn’t matter, not really. You’re still you. Please, I can’t protect you.   It feels like a loss. They’re shaping us into something new, forcing our hand when we don’t respond the way they want. It’s just a name, yes, but it’s the name our parents gave us. It’s all we have left that belongs to us, and now we can’t even keep that.   The pain stops, but there’s an ache that I can feel in every muscle of my body and mind. I lay gasping on the floor until the door opens, barely able to move my body as Stevie is dragged back inside. I grunt, raising myself to onto my knees as Stevie is dropped besides me. Like beacons, we seek each other, curling our throbbing bodies together and sighing with relief.   “What’s your name?” the bastard hasn’t left, instead he lingers above us, voice serpentine.   “Thomas.” Stevie says, his voice a mere croak.   I turn my venomous gaze to the asshole leering down at us, defiance still heavy in my bones. My voice isn’t much better, and it hurts to force the name from my throat. “ Eddie. ”   They may have forced it upon me, but I would make it my own. ***** Something WICKED This Way Comes ***** Chapter Notes slight gore warning near the middle of the chapter! “Good job, Thomas,” Dr. Paige praises, her voice light and silken. “You correctly answered all the questions.” It’s hard to keep track of time here, as they don’t give us a calendar and all we can trust is their word. We’ve been here for two months, and they haven’t hurt us again. Instead, they’ve set us up with various teachers and doctors to learn. Ste-Thomas is still suspicious of WICKED’s motives, but he is young and memories are more fleeting at his age. He’s starting to enjoy it here, learning new things and being praised the better he does. It worries me. They’ve taken into account his eager and curious personality, and I can see the subtle attempts at manipulating him over to their side. It’s a different story with me. Nothing they could ever do or say will ever get me on their side. The truth of the matter is that they kidnap children from their families, wipe their old lives away, and then repurpose them for experiments. All of this is done without consent from (in most cases) the parents / guardians or kids themselves. I don’t want to be here and I certainly don’t want Stev-Thomas here with them. But they’re not going to let us go. They’re so desperate for a cure they’ve abandoned their basic morals and I can’t trust or forgive them, especially after what they did to St-Thomas. Torturing kids? Nothing can excuse that. They know I don’t trust them. In fact, I’m almost certain the doctors and staff are aware of my intense hatred. They should have thought twice about hurting Stevi-Thomas if they wanted my trust. Because I will never forget and never forgive. Ava glances over me, offering a kind smile. I know she’s an important figure in WICKED, but I can’t get a read on her. The desire she has to save humanity is genuine, but the extent she’s willing to go to and the methods she’s using make me recoil. It’s one of those greater good scenarios where it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys - because it would be nice to have a cure. It would be amazing actually, to be able to save our parents and the remainder of the human race from the Flare. But was it worth sacrificing unwilling participants, who were no more than children? I really didn’t think so. That doesn’t stop them from trying to change my point of view. The teachers teach us math, english, history and sciences, but they also tell us about the Flare. Over and over, they tell horror stories about what the world has become and how families are being ripped apart by the disease. It’s spun to appeal to the childish desire for our own families - make us sympathetic to the plight we could very well face. I didn’t know how well it was working on the other children, Thomas and I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone below thirty since we first arrived. “Eddie, your work is impeccable as usual.” she comments, passing by my desk. She’s one of the few who calls me ‘Eddie’, and therefore, one of the few I actually respond to ( despite my distrust of her ). The other adults will learn eventually, because I can be stubborn when I want to be and this is far too important to me to let go. I nod rather than respond verbally. Thomas is the more extroverted between the two of us, so it’s nothing unusual. We may be identical, but we’re surprisingly easy to tell apart if you observe our mannerisms. What’s next? Thomas asks, voice in my head. He twirls his pencil in his fingers and makes no expression to give away that he’s speaking to me telepathically. We decided it would be best to keep it from WICKED, seeing as we didn’t trust what they could potentially do with the information. I had no doubt that they would find out eventually. They frequently check up on us in labs and perform countless tests every week. The amount of brain scans we’ve been through already is startling. More Flare talk, probably. I respond, slumping in my seat. This is the worst part of the day. /// Six months later and we’ve advanced beyond their expectations. Our education picks up, entering levels that I recall being geared towards teenagers rather than six year olds. We’ve been here for eight whole months and our birthday came and went on August 8th. It was nearing October now, and we’ve still only seen adults. I spend countless nights wondering what they’ve done with the other children, but I’m hesitant to ask the Doctors about it. Thomas is not. “What about the others? Are we gonna see them soon?” he badgers Dr. Morris, the guy who does all our check-ups. “It’s been a long time, ya know. Is everyone separate? Are me and Eddie special?” That’s another thing, these days, the names flow off our tongues easier. It was hard at first, but Thomas is young and adapts easily. I, as expected, am not as comfortable. Even now I feel bitter about it, sometimes even calling Thomas ‘Stephen’ when it’s the two of us. I don’t want him to forget his real name. ( One day we’ll get outta here and he can be himself again without fear. ) “The other children are fine.” Dr. Morris says, sounding exasperated. He’s used to Thomas’ chattering and curiosity, and he’s definitely nicer about handling it than some of the other adults. “I don’t know when you can see them.” He doesn’t answer all the questions and his responses are a bit dodgy, but I’ve lived five years with just Thomas. I’m not particularly bothered about being the only children here. I do hope the other kids aren’t being separated though, because children need social interaction to flourish and Thomas and I are lucky enough to have each other for that. And even if he doesn’t answer it, I know it to be true. Thomas and I are special. I don’t know what the means quite yet, but I’m not exactly excited to find out. Despite the fact that I hate basically everyone here, I’ve gotten used to the routine of school and doctor visits. I’m not sure how appreciated change would be, especially if it’s their type of change. “Maybe next time, Thomas.” I murmur, trying to soothe the temper I feel rising within him. He’s still a kid and therefore prone to emotional outbursts. Never at me though, which is odd, seeing as we’re together all the time. I know spending 100% of your time with someone isn’t exactly healthy, and arguments should be expected - but we’d never done so. We truly were two sides of the same coin. “You said that last time,” he grumbles, but lets it drop. Dr. Morris remains quiet. I know that Thomas will ask again and again, every time we come. The need to know is overwhelming in his mind. /// Time passes quickly, repetitive routine making the days blend together. We grow before WICKED’s eyes and under their careful manipulations. Our 8th birthday passed three months ago, and the both of us have grown a few inches. In total, it’s been three whole years since we were taken. Thomas is still their favorite, and he’s grown used to the faces and the doctors and the words of the people here. He trusts them; far more than I do. “You’re going to meet someone today.” Dr. Paige says, breaking the quiet of the classroom. Thomas and I look up from our work, glancing at each other before directing identical questioning looks towards her. “She’s been staying in the room besides you for some time now,” she continues, “Her name is Teresa.” I’m startled by the idea that someone has been living in the room next to ours for perhaps years without us knowing. Neither Thomas or I had seen any sign of another child the entire time we’d been here. To find out we’d been so close to another all this time? Definitely a little off-putting. We don’t meet Teresa until later, when we’ve returned to our rooms. She’s led in some minutes after we get back, a soldier shutting the door behind her. She’s about our age, a little taller than the two of us, with inky black hair and bright blue eyes. She looks like a doll. I think dryly, glancing at Thomas. He returns my look with a shrug, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Are they feeding her? His eyebrows draw together, gaze passing over her thin form before turning back to me. She shifts, hands at her sides awkwardly and observing the two of us cautiously. Our silent communication has not gone unnoticed, and she looks a little out of her depth. Why wouldn’t they be? I shoot back, WICKED certainly had enough food. Maybe she’s just naturally thin. “I’m Thomas.” he says out loud instead of answering me. He takes a step forward and holds out his hand. No one can say he didn’t learn any manners. I wonder if Teresa is her real name, or if she’s like Thomas and I. Stripped of our former identities. “Teresa.” she replies, as though we hadn’t already known. Her pale hand reaches out to shake Thomas’ quickly. Her bright gaze turns to me next, occasionally flicking back to Thomas. I suppose we are an interesting sight. As far as we know, the two of us are the only pair of twins in the facility. “Eddie.” I grunt, shifting on my feet. Thomas shoots me a look. Reluctantly, I hold out my hand as well. She shakes it and we drop each other’s hands quickly. “How long have you been here?” Thomas gets right into it, curiosity taking over his wariness at the situation. He gestures at the chairs at the table and she sits, Thomas and I moving back to perch side by side on the bottom bunk. “Over four years.” she answers. “Wow, really!?” he looks astounded, brown eyes wide. “We’ve only been here for three. How old are you?” “I’m eight…” her lips quirk up a little, Thomas’ enthusiasm is contagious. “What about you?” “We’re eight too!” Thomas claps his hands together, looking delighted by that fact. He turns to me, bright smile on his face. “Isn’t that cool, Eddie? Now we know someone our age!” “Yeah, I guess.” I shrug, avoiding all eye contact. I have no idea how to react to an unknown factor like this. Social skills have never been my strong point. “Don’t mind him, he doesn’t like talking that much.” my brother explains airly, waving his hand through the air in a ‘no-matter’ gesture. “Or people in general.” “He seems to get along with you well, though.” Teresa notes, obviously feeling more comfortable now in the face of Thomas’ friendliness. He shrugs and, like it explains everything, says, “I’m different.” It does kinda explain everything. /// From then on we see Teresa almost every day, she even joins us in our lessons. It seems the three of us are on the same page education wise. I try not to think about what that means, because we’re WICKED’s favorites for a reason. Teresa tells us that she’s met some of the other kids, but she talks the most about two named Aris and Rachel. Aside from us it’s those two that she spends time with. It’s not long after she told us about Aris and Rachel that we actually meet them. At this point I’m almost certain that none of their names are their given ones. Aris is really thin and narrow, all bone and limbs and probably around seven years old. His skin is darker than ours - a pretty olive tone, and his hair is brown. His eyes, like Teresa’s, are blue. Rachel ( who looks around ten ) has deep, chocolate brown skin and tightly curled hair. She eyes us up and down with open curiosity and wariness. I return the sentiment, and she purses her lips but looks accepting. I feel like the two of us have come to some silent understanding. We’re a lot more stoic while the three others converse eagerly. Aris seems like a good kid, definitely a little shy at the beginning, but so was Teresa. “Have you met the others yet?” the boy asks, blue eyes gleaming. “There’s two groups being held here.” “Two?” Thomas questions, eyebrows furrowing. “What’s that mean?” Rachel answers, “They’ve separated the girls and the boys.” Why would they do that? I wonder, narrowing my eyes. Thomas flicks his eyes to me, mentally agreeing that the fact is a curious one. “No,” he starts, though it seems a bit redundant now, “We haven’t met anyone else. Teresa was the first person our age we’d seen in over three years.” “You’ll probably meet Group A soon, it’s the boys group.” Teresa muses, knocking her shoulder with Thomas’. They’ve formed an easy friendship that I’m reluctant to approve of. But I don’t wanna come off as jealous or controlling due to my desire to protect him from the world, so I say nothing and hope for the best. “Bet you’ll like that, Tom!” Thomas beams, looking excited already. “Oh man, I can’t wait! It - It’d be so cool to actually meet new people, ya know? I mean, aside from you guys.” “Yeah,” I huff, “Wonderful.” “Careful now, Ed, don’t get too excited.” Teresa rolls her eyes, used to my attitude after spending weeks with the two of us. My brother mock punches my arm, laughter in his eyes. “Relax, Eddie!” he puffs out his chest, “I’ll protect you from the big mean boys.” The others laugh, even Rachel. I pout a little, shoving Thomas gently in mock offence. “Shut up! If anyone’s gonna need protectin’, it’s you. You’ll get into a fight in the first five minutes with the mouth on you.” “I will not!” he protests, shoving a finger in my direction. “If anyone’s gonna get into a fight it’s definitely gonna be you!” The other three makes various sounds of amusement, looking between the two of us. Teresa is shaking her head and rolling her eyes again. Rachel just scoffs. “Him?” Aris blinks, a disbelieving grin on his face, “No way.” I wonder if I should be offended. “Eddie, like…” Teresa ponders, finger tapping her chin, “Would just avoid everyone. Can’t get into a fight if you don’t talk to anyone to begin with.” /// We’re introduced to Group A a week later. At first no one notices us, and I assume it’s because they’re all busy running around and talking and wailing on each other like little boys do. They’re also probably used to getting new arrivals as more children are ‘collected’ over time. Thomas looks amazed at the mess of boys before us, he’s never really rough-housed or played so violently before. The two of us were much more prone to reading and drawing together than we were to tumble about on the floor in a mock fight. We stand there awkwardly, hands clasped together for support. I may be the shy one, but a situation like this brings out even Thomas’ social anxiety. “Hey!” A voice calls, drawing our attention. We turn in sync and the kids approaching starts and goes wide-eyed. He’s asian, with short black hair and a beaming grin that reasserts itself after a moment. “Wow, you’re identical!” That statement draws the gazes of a few other boys, and soon we’re the focus of half the room. Seeing twins is a novelty, and I guess being new in their eyes is more interesting than whatever they were doing before. “They call me Minho.” he introduces himself, rocking on his heels while eyeing us. I can’t help but note the way he says that, which just makes me positive it’s not his real name. Thomas beams right back at the friendly boy, squeezing my hand a little. “I’m Thomas and this is Eddie!” I turn my gaze from Minho and scan the room. The other boys begin to introduce themselves one by one, eager for a glimpse at our matching faces. I feel a bit like a zoo animal, and step back a little to place Thomas in front of me. In cases like this, I’m not afraid to use him as a shield. “Alright, quit bloody crowdin’ the newbies!” An accented voice cuts through the din, and a majority of the boys grumble and roll their eyes before moving away. The boy who approaches is about our height, with sandy hair and deep brown eyes. He eyes Thomas and I with a piercing, heavy gaze before turning to Minho. “You’re a right menace, you know that?” Minho smiles, all cheek and false innocence, “Hey man, I’m telling you - it was Ben.” Obviously referring to an incident that Thomas and I had no knowledge of. All of these boys have clearly known each other for awhile now, each one acting with a level of comfort and ease only gained over time. I grit my teeth and squint my eyes, suspicious thoughts filling my head. Why the hell had WICKED separated us from them? For what purpose? And why let us mingle now? I couldn’t help but think that things were going to change soon, and that terrified me. “Whatever,” the british boy dismisses, turning back to us. “I’m Newt.” “Thomas - ” my brother says, stumbling over his words in his excitement, “ - your voice is really cool!” Newt grins a little and it brightens up his face. We’re all children here, but he looks far older than his features. It’s all in his eyes and the way he carries his little body. The smile makes him actually look his age, which can’t be much older than us. I agree with Thomas mentally, Newt’s accent is cool. It’s the first non-american one we’ve heard so far, and english accents have always sounded lovely to me. “Thanks.” the boy says, voice soft. His gaze moves from Thomas’ exuberant form to my subdued one. I blink as our eyes meet, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks at the attention. Thomas gives my hand a supportive squeeze. I duck my head a little before stepping out from behind Thomas, eyes skittering from Newt’s eyes to the floor and back again. “I’m Eddie.” I say quietly, proud I didn’t stutter under Newt’s scrutiny. His answering grin is warm, head nodding in greeting. “Good to meet ya then, Eddie,” a smirk, his dark eyes moving to my brother, “Tommy.” A giggle escapes before I can cover it up, my lips pursing tightly to hide my grin as I observe Thomas’ scrunched face. He’s trying to decide if he likes the name or not. Teresa calling him ‘Tom’ he can handle, but ‘Tommy’ seems a bit kiddish and Thomas is at that stage where he wants to be taken seriously. Newt squints at me a little, seeming oddly proud that he’d gotten such a reaction out of me. Thomas shoots me a mock betrayed look. “That’s cute,” I say. “I like it.” The look of betrayal remains, and I laugh again. /// “I’m surprised,” Thomas comments, drawing the attention of our little group consisting of the two of us, Newt, Minho and a few other boys. We’re all sat around one of the tables spread about the room. “Eddie doesn’t like new people. He’s really shy.” I look up from where I’m slumped against him, feeling uncomfortable with the fact that everyone’s attention is on me. It’s not that I don’t like new people, it’s just that it’s hard to know if I can trust anyone in this place. And I’m afflicted with painful social anxiety. Simple things like greetings and introductions are just so . . . awkward for me. “I’ve noticed you do most of the talkin’.” Minho says, tone unaccusing. I like him. “Yeah, well.” Thomas shrugs. “I always know what he’s thinking anyway.” I huff out a breath of laughter, they don’t know the half of it. “But he actually introduced himself to Newt, which was - it was pretty big. At least I think it was.” My brother glances down at me, looking a little proud. I almost feel like the younger brother in this situation, with Thomas looking out for me. Newt … is quieter. I think to him, Kinder. Easier to talk to. Unthreatening, you mean. Thomas gives me an amused look. You always shy away from big personalities. Just at first! I complain - after all, I like Minho well enough. He’s right though, Newt has a pretty severe case of baby face despite being a little older than us, and his voice is soft and kind. I’m not worried about being subject to overwhelming attention while around him, I’ve learned that much in the few hours we’ve been here. “Whoa.” Minho breaks our staring contest. “You guys like, actually do that twin thing, huh?” “What twin thing?” Thomas questions, blinking in bewilderment. “You know the, uh - what’s it called . . . twin speak? Twin talk?” Minho shrugs and waves his hand in a ‘so-so’ motion. “Something like that. But what I mean is that you guys like, have super twin powers of communication. I heard that was a thing,” he pauses, “Somewhere. I dunno. I’ve never actually met any twins before. I think it was in a book.” “Oh, yeah.” Thomas nods. I glance at him sharply. “We’re like, two halves, ya know? I don’t go anywhere without Eddie.” I relax a little. I’d actually been worried that Thomas would let something about our telepathy slip. It’s not that I didn’t trust Minho and the other boys ( I mean, I didn’t really trust them yet ) but I couldn’t be sure who was listening in on us. There were cameras everywhere, I was sure of it. “All we had was each other, and our parents, for a long time.” I butt in, shrinking a little when everyone turns to the sound of my quiet voice. “I dunno how to live without . . . Tommy.” I punctuate the nickname with a smirk, feeling Thomas’ sigh through our bond. “Is that gonna be a thing now?” he complains, nudging my side. “Oh, totally.” I nod, catching Newt’s eye and smiling widely. The blonde boy returns it, his own smile far more mischievous than mine. “It suits ya,” he adds, nodding at Thomas. My brother wrinkles his nose like he’s smelt something sour. “Nicknames suit Eddie, he’s - he’s the cute one.” “You’re completely correct, I am the cute one. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a nickname.” I laugh, poking his side. “After all, I’ve been told we look quite similar, so you must be pretty decent yourself.” Minho’s laugh is loud and draws eyes, but I can’t bring myself to care. The atmosphere is far more comfortable now, and most of them only glance at his jubilant form before turning back to their things. “Is Eddie short for Edward?” Newt asks, his question directed at me ( I know because he’s looking at me, when I’m so used to Thomas directing all conversation while I fade into the background ). Thomas and Minho are bickering lightheartedly back and forth, leaving Newt and I to our own conversation. “No.” I almost stop there, but decide it doesn’t matter, as I’ll never respond to anything but Eddie no matter who knows what my official ‘name’ is. “Edison.” “Thomas...Edison.” he draws out our names, tone dry and a single eyebrow rising in disbelief. “Yeah, they’re not very original, huh?” I’m still bitter and it probably shows in my tone and on my face. “I guess it makes sense, seeing as we’re twins. Thought it’d be funny, I’m sure. You’re, uh, Isaac Newton, right?” Newt’s mouth quirks a little, fingers tapping on the table almost silently. “Yeah. It’s kind of a theme, I guess.” I scoot a little closer to Newt, leaning my head across the table, suddenly desperate to know if he felt the same way I did about our names being taken. “Does it bother you?” He’s silent for a moment, studying his hands. Then his chocolate gaze moves to meet my eyes, something indescribable there. “Yes.” I act on my impulse, speaking a little more childishly and dropping down to a whisper, “Can you keep a secret?” Newt leans forward as well, pushing our faces closer together. “I’ll never breathe a word.” “My name was Michael, and I hate that they took it from me.” It spills out, like tearing a thorn from my skin, the wound suddenly exposed to air. Over three years and I’m still bitter and angry and weary and it’s not leaving anytime soon. Our situation is unjust and I will stick by that opinion until my dying day. “Samuel.” Newt blurts out, our eyes still locked, anxious nerves vibrating between us. It’s obvious that mention of our lives before WICKED is rarely spoke aloud, perhaps out of fear. His accent is thicker as it hits the air between us, a combination of keeping his voice quiet and the stress of the situation. “I used to be Samuel, and I have a sister named Lizzy. They took her too, but they don’t let us see each other.” “What!?” I hiss between us, suddenly feeling a million times more furious at WICKED than I was just seconds ago. “How could they do that! I can’t imagine - ” I couldn’t imagine being taken away from Thomas. Newt had been here for at least two years. That was two years without his sister, his family. And she was so close. How can WICKED do that!? It sickens me. Something makes Thomas and I special enough not to separate, and I doubt it’s just because we’re the same gender. “Yeah, it bloody sucks.” he hushes me, eyes holding no maliciousness despite the difference in our situations. “But Minho and I, we found ways to sneak around. I visit her sometimes, only to watch. There’s cameras in their rooms so I can’t - can’t say hello to her without worryin’ that they’ll see it.” “That’s so - ” I cut off, lips trembling as my anger at the injustice of it all hits me. I’ve never dealt with emotions well, whenever I get overwhelmed I start crying ( which I hate ). The very last thing I wanna do is break down here because I got angry enough to start blubbering. I couldn’t deal with the attention and potential humiliation. Thomas’ hand suddenly finds my own, his presence leaning into my side and his mind brushing my own. He is a comfort that I embrace wholey, sinking against him. “What’re you talking about?” he asks, concerned as I use one of my hands to scrub angrily at my eyes. No tears fell, but my eyes feel a little wet, lashes clumped together. I glance at Newt, questioning him silently. It’s not my place to tell Thomas information about Newt unless I get permission. “I was tellin’ Eddie about my sister.” Newt answers easily, no judgement in his gaze at my emotional reaction. “She’s here with WICKED but they won’t let us see each other.” “Oh,” Thomas breathes, gazing at me. We look at each other for a while, both grateful and enraged. The idea of being separated from a sibling is almost unnatural. I told you we can’t trust them. I’ve never been snippy at Thomas before, but this just takes the cake. The fact that WICKED thought it was okay to split families apart even more than they already had….! ...I know, Thomas sighs mentally, I just thought that maybe...maybe what they’re doing is right, ya know? Finding a cure for the Flare - and they haven’t…. Haven’t what? If thoughts could possibly sound deadpan, mine certainly did in that moment. Hurt us? Don’t you remember our second day here, what they did to us? To you? They aren’t our friends, Stevie. They’ll do whatever it takes to control us while putting up a front of kindness. But a cure, Mikey.Thomas marvels. It’s a dream, a desire we both share. It’s not like I don’t want to find a cure, but the way they were going about it was all sorts of wrong. Is it worth it? I shoot back, not budging on my stance. Is it worth harming a whole generation of children who can survive the Flare...without their consent? Very few of these kids asked for this, Stevie. If we were given a choice to volunteer then maybe I’d feel better about it, but we weren’t. They broke into our home and stole us away, they harmed us when we refused to cooperate and they treat us like experiments rather than children. Thomas sighs audibly, and Newt scrutinizes us with interest. We’d been silent for a few minutes, shooting looks and making minute expressions at each other. “Huh.” He looks like he’s discovered something interesting. “Minho was right.” “I always am,” the boy in mention cuts in, arms splayed across the table. “But what exactly am I right about?” Newt snorts, “The ‘twin-talk’ you bloody tool.” “Oh, that. Yeah, it’s cool isn’t it?” Minho nods sagely. “I wish I had a twin.” /// We don’t see Group A for a long time after that. I can’t help but wonder if our visitation was just a trial run of some sort, to see if we could get along with a large group of ‘subjects’ our age. It sounds silly, but I actually miss them despite only spending a total of five hours with them. I found the boys better company than Teresa, if anything. Thomas has taken to her like a fish out of water and they seem almost inseparable. I’m not jealous, per se, but I’m certainly not happy about it. Teresa operates with a startling amount of drive, she’s completely convinced that everything they’re doing is for the greater good. A cure is all that matters, even if we have to die for it. I feel like something in her past is what made her this way, because she’s so desperate for it that it’s scary. Rachel is a little more on my level. She doesn’t like the idea of sacrificing others, no matter the purpose. We get along the best. Aris is middle ground, he seems resigned to our purpose here, like his will to resist has been broken in him already. He doesn’t offer an opinion, just does what they tell him to do. I think it’s partially out of fear of what they will do to him if he refuses. I haven’t seen Newt in well over a year, but I still think about him and his sister, Lizzie. To me, it’s just another reason to hate this place. I’d been trusted with his original name and I could only do my best by remembering it. Samuel. It suited him. But then again, so did Newt, in a way. I’m sure I’d recognize him, and Minho, if I saw them again, but their faces have all but faded from my mind. Thomas and I are turning ten soon. We’ve been here for almost five whole years now, and lately the doctors have been more restless than usual. Something is about to change, I can almost taste it in the air. “Eddie, we’d like you to come with us.” A woman stops by our classroom, silencing the quiet chatter between Thomas and our three companions. Their gazes flit to me, Thomas tense and anxious, the others merely curious. I stand. What other choice do I have? I’d rather them take me than Thomas. Mikey… Thomas’ voice rings in my head, his big brown eyes piercing into my back as I walk away from the table. Don’t worry, Stevie. It’ll be fine. I’m lying and he knows it, but it’s all I can offer as comfort. They take me to a small, concrete and steel room with a single table in the center and a big mirror on one of the walls. Double-sided, I think, like in police stations. The room is lit with a sharp blueish light, making it feel cold and small. I sit down on the offered chair, elbows propped up on the shiny metal table. Is this an interrogation? Or a torture session? I feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin with nerves, and Thomas’ potent anxiety is doing nothing to help my own. And they leave me to sit there for at least fifteen minutes, only heightening my stress. Finally, the door opens again, and this time a man steps through. He’s clad in a black, military esque suit, a gun strapped to his thigh and another in his hand. It makes a loud clunk when he sets it down before me and my ears ring. He drops down heavily into the seat opposite me. “Lesson one,” he begins, voice gruff and matching his sharp, worn features. “Firearms.” What for? I think but don’t verbalize, too terrified to make a sound. I feel weak, letting my fear get the best of me. But I’ve never touched a gun before and the implications behind my need to be trained with one make me break into a cold sweat. For all I knew, it could be merely for my own protection. The Scorch was a dangerous place after all; teeming with cranks and scavengers willing to kill to survive. But then why weren’t the others being trained as well? There was no need to separate us if we were to be learning the same things. What is WICKED up to? And why train me, if I was to be the only one? They knew that I was the least trusting of the group, and had no allusions to my dislike of the entire system. Weren’t they scared I’d use their own weapons against them to escape? But, with chilling clarity, I realized they have Thomas. Through him they could make me do whatever they wanted, because I would do anything for him and they knew it. They were counting on it. I picked up the gun. /// That first day I didn’t fire the gun, only learned how it worked. I was shown how to disassemble and assemble it, load it and even how to clean it properly. They were obviously taking my ‘training’ very seriously. In the beginning, I tried to hide it from Thomas, because I myself was confused and scared and I didn’t want to include him in my wash of negative emotions. But we’re far too close for secrets, and I’ve never kept one from him before so it wasn’t long before I cracked. He’s pretty persistent, especially when he can nag both verbally and mentally. They didn’t tell me to keep it from Thomas anyway, so in the end I don’t feel bad about telling him. He’s worried, of course, because he realizes that they’re pushing us to do separate things for the very first time and that is new. Being apart is unknown territory for us and we don’t particularly like it. There’s almost a hum, or a sense of completeness when we’re together. Being apart leaves us with a sense of loss, like we’re missing a piece of ourselves. It’s hard to put into terms - indescribable, really. I didn’t fire the gun for three whole lessons, not until they were confident I could load it properly. The gun was heavy, it strained my hands to keep it up. Weapons like this were not meant for children, yet here I was. On the fourth lesson, they handed me a disassembled gun and shoved me into a wide, open room. My only instructions were to assemble, load and shoot. I set to work doing the first part, glancing up occasionally at the white, white room. It was so bright in here it almost hurt to look at. The walls and ceiling and floor all the same glowing shade of nothing. A door at the other end of the room slid open suddenly. I jerked, surprised at the motion as I hadn’t even seen creases in the wall for a door. Are the targets coming through there? I thought, bewildered. I’d been expecting those cardboard cut-out shapes you see at shooting ranges. That’s not what I got. A low, moaning sound echoed from within the darkness of the new open space. It made my blood turn to ice. I recognized that sound. I’d fallen asleep with it in my ears for five years, shrunk away from windows when the groaning turned to screaming. A Crank. My mouth went dry as shuffling and the rattling of chains hit my ears. When the creature came into the lit room, my stomach dropped to my feet. Yellow, blackened skin clung to their skeletal frame. What remained of tattered clothing hung from their limbs, faded and singed. Deep, pulsing lines of black trailed all over visible skin and deep, viscous liquid dripped from shredded lips. I’ve never been more terrified in my life. The Crank turned its oozing, decaying head in my direction. I didn’t know how they operated - whether they sensed people by sight or smell or whatever - but it knew I was in the room. I looked into its veiny, bloodshot gaze and couldn’t see anything. Just dark, spidery pools of heat. There was rage within, so potent it made me step back in utter shock. That thing wasn’t human anymore. A guttural, clicking growl tore from its mouth, working its way into a scream. The Crank lunged for me with skinny, sore-covered arms flailing. I screamed, recoiling even further and fumbling with the gun in my hands. I didn’t want to shoot it, despite the horror coursing through me. My hands shook as the chains on its waist pulled taught, grasping hands just inches from my form pressed against the wall. My chest heaved as blackened foam spilled and sprayed from the Crank’s roaring mouth. Disgust and terror warred with each other, viscous and numb in my head. MICHAEL! I jolted, tearing my gaze from the Crank’s gnashing teeth and too-close hands. The chains rattled and groaned under the brutal force of its lunging and straining. Thomas’ voice was filled with more worry and fear than I’d ever heard before, even more than that day we were forced to change names. My emotions must have been leaking through our bond. In a way I wasn’t surprised, the force of my emotions startled even me. Mikey, please! I needed to be strong. The world out there was filled with Cranks. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing my brother because of my own fear. I settled my shoulders, jaw clenching as I raised my gun with trembling hands. It was still too heavy. Thomas screamed in my mind, no doubt causing a scene on his end and drawing more attention to our bond. But none of that mattered now. They already knew I’d do anything for Thomas, even this. This body of mine is only ten years old. My mind may be older but pulling the trigger on someone, on anything, is always scarring no matter your age. I pull the trigger. The recoil sends me back into the wall, my arm exploding with pain for a split- second at the force of it, pins and needles trailing up and down it. The bullet tears through the Crank’s skull, shattering its head and sending chunks of flesh and bone and decayed grey matter everywhere. Thick black blood splatters across my clothes and skin. I can feel it on my head and on my cheeks, and the urge to vomit overtakes me. It reeks like death and rot and gunpowder and I lose whatever food sat in my stomach at the mere glimpse of the carnage. The vomit makes my eyes water and my throat burn, and I lay there dry heaving as I’m overloaded with disgust. There’s blackness beneath my hands and dripping down my forehead and staining my skin. Sobs tear from my chest, and I cry for the first time in a long time. /// I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I barely recall being led from the room by a man - though whether it was my firearms teacher or not I couldn’t tell you. Everything was blurry, like I was trapped underwater and looking up at the surface. I felt utterly numb, only knowing I was alive and breathing because in the place of my lost feelings, Thomas’ flooded my body. They weren’t pleasant emotions - terror and worry and rage - but they were something. They left me in the bathroom, a clean change of clothes on the bench. I didn’t even remember getting back to the room Thomas and I shared. For a long moment, I stared uncomprehendingly at the walls around me, glancing from my clothes to the towel hanging up to the shower stall - knowing what I had to do but finding the mere act of going through the motions impossible. I wanted the gore and blood off of me as soon as possible, but I couldn’t stop my body from shaking with the remnants of adrenaline and unadulterated terror. “Eddie!” That voice wasn’t in my head. I turned towards the open bathroom door, expression blank and eyes hazy. Thomas stood there, his own countenance a mixture of relief and utter despair. He looked like an angel, clad in light gray and skin clean and clear, hands untainted. We were mirror images, but this time it was more like a painting depicting heaven and hell. Two sides of the same coin, yet completely different. He stepped towards me quickly, and if it were anyone else I might’ve jerked away due to the now ingrained memory of the Crank moving so doggedly towards me. I wanted to tell him to leave, to close the door behind him and let me do this myself; he was too pure to touch my tarnished form. I didn’t want to see that blackened blood on his hands as he wiped it from my own. I let him pull me into the shower instead, and he cleans me so carefully and thoroughly that my skin is red from scrubbing. It’s like he can’t take the sight of the gore on my flesh and in my hair, and I feel quietly similarly. I don’t want it there, and if our situations were reversed I’d be trying my best to scrub it off of him too. He finishes washing my hair and turns the shower off before grabbing the towel left out on the hanger. I can feel the concern and deep, familial love soaring through our connection and it makes the world a little less shaky. It’s not until we reach the bed, fully dried and dressed, that I break down and cry once again. This time my sobs are quieter than they were after I’d fired the gun, more mournful than violent, ugly sounds. Thomas held me close and ran his hand through my hair until I fell into an uneasy sleep, only speaking with soft, kind tones despite the layer of rage I could feel boiling under it all. I dream of black eyes and clicking teeth. /// I don’t sleep well for the entire week after the incident. Thomas looks no better, the both us sporting deep bags under our eyes like bruises. I tell him to take the top bunk for once and try and get some uninterrupted sleep but he ignores me. I don’t tell him that I’m grateful for his presence every time I wake from a nightmare, but I think he knows it anyway and that’s why he stays with me. We don’t go to our regular classroom today. Instead we’re led through the halls until we stop outside a door to a wing that feels vaguely familiar. When it slides open I suddenly realize where we are. With Group A again. It’s been two whole years since we’ve seen the other boys, we’re ten now instead of eight, a little taller and a lot more guarded. The room is just as I’d remembered it, wide open like a common area with tables and chairs all around. Boys chase each other and play wrestle, some sat at the tables or on the floor talking or scribbling on paper. There’s a hallway at the other end that I assume leads to their bunks. Everything is exactly the same, except not. “Holy crap!” Thomas and I turn to the voice, the door sliding shut behind us and leaving us in the room with the Group A boys. It’s Minho, and as I thought I would, I recognized him immediately despite having lost memory of many of his features. “It’s you guys again!” He exclaims, jogging up to us and skidding to a stop. “Man, it’s been like, forever! I didn’t think we were ever gonna see you dorks back here!” “We weren't expecting it either,” Thomas replies, voice a little faint. He tries to offer Minho a smile in return but it looks more like a grimace. I remain stoic at his side, exhausted beyond measure. These games WICKED is playing with us no longer make sense. I can’t wrap my head around it anymore. Minho notices, squinting as he observes our sickly appearances. “You guys look like shit.” “Thanks.” Thomas says dryly, his hand slipping into my own. My head nods a bit, sleep pulling at my eyes. “No, really…” Minho frowns, eyes shifting to glance around us before leaning in. “Are you guys okay?” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, gentle concern for two boys he’d known for a handful of hours two years ago. It warms my heart to see that he still finds it in himself to care about us. ( We’re all in this together, after all. ) “No.” It’s me who responds, drawing Minho’s attention and making Thomas blink in surprise. “But we’re getting there, I think.” He doesn’t ask if it was WICKED, because that much is obvious. What else could it be? Instead he offers a smile and nod, something gentle in the motion. He doesn’t look at us like we’re glass under threat of shattering, which I appreciate more than he knows. “Well, are you up for seeing the others?” He asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards a table. I recognize a mop a messy, honey-blonde hair; Newt and a few other boys are seated there. “We have some new kids too, but you don’t have to say ‘hi’ if you don’t want to.” I like him. I repeat my original thoughts on Minho. Two years and he’s still like this, still kind and unbroken by WICKED. I could see myself trusting him one day, and I’m surprised at how desperately I truly want to. Thomas meets my eyes, eyebrow raised in silent question. I can tell he wants to make the most of his time here, considering these kids his friends despite the little time we spent with them. “Yeah, sure.” my brother shrugs, because even I want this distraction. The company isn’t so bad either, a lot better than the usual group we’re saddled with. Minho beams and smacks a hand on Thomas’ shoulder before leading the way over. My twin keeps pace with the chipper boy and I trail a little behind them, my hand still intertwined with Thomas’. When we reach the table we slip quietly into two of the open seats, Minho going around to sit on the opposite side next to Newt. “Look who it is!” Minho waves a hand at us, smug. “The wonder twins have returned!” There’s a bit of a commotion as many of the boys speak at once, asking about where we’ve been. Alby, a boy with dark skin and closely cropped hair, snaps out a “Shut it!” And the other boys quiet down with some grumbling. “We thought we’d seen the last of you two after the months started passing,” it’s Newt who speaks up, his accent just as English as I’d remembered it. I hope it never fades, like some accents tend to do when you’re young and away from your country of origin. “Can’t get rid of us that easy,” Thomas jokes, looking lighter already. He still looks tired, purple smudges under his eyes and skin a few shades paler than usual. I’m worse off, with bloodshot eyes and faint scratches on my arms and face. I’d done it to myself in my sleep, waking from nightmares where black vines crawled under my skin only to find that I’d tried to dig them out of my body while unconscious. “Eddie.” Newt nods in greeting, his deep brown eyes tracing the cuts on my flesh. When our eyes meet I can see the subtle line of tension in his jaw. The boy really is too kind for his own good, worrying about others so much. It’s the price of being a big brother, I suppose. “Newt.” I actually manage to give him a grin, weak as it is. Tired as I am, I feel incredibly content despite our circumstances. I feel safe with these boys who haven’t learned how to hide their thoughts and emotions just yet, who don’t hurt us or keep secrets. They are innocent and trying their best to make the most of what they have. I wish, desperately, that Thomas and I will be allowed to stay with them. Thomas relaxes further by my side as the hours pass, falling into an easy camaraderie with the other boys. Soon he’s joking around and knocking shoulders, getting dragged into games and running around. He looks happy. He looks like the kid he’s meant to be and I ache for our lost childhood, his more specifically. Newt is more reserved, laughing from his new position next to me as Thomas, Minho and Ben trip over each other. Zart joins in after a while and after him come some other boys. I don’t know all their names and I don’t think I have the mental capacity to try to learn them in this moment. But I’m content, sitting here beside the blonde boy and feeling the combined force of Thomas and I’s happiness in my chest. “Have you seen Lizzie recently?” I whisper, not looking at Newt as I talk. I feel awkward asking and wonder if I’m overstepping my boundaries. I’d like to think it’s a topic we can speak about, seeing as he’d let me in on it, but in truth I didn’t know Newt that well at all. He’s quiet for a moment, showing no outward reaction. I almost think he’d chosen to ignore me when he finally opens his mouth, “...yeah. Checked in on her a few days ago.” his lips thin and quirk up in a humorless smile. “They call her ‘Sonya’ now.” “Sonya.” I test the name on my tongue, pursing my lips. “It’s a pretty name, but…” Newt nods beside me, understanding - agreeing. It’s a nice enough name, but it’s not really hers. I look down at my hands, fiddling around with my fingers. “...can you...tell me about her?” I ask shyly, once again wondering if I’m going too far. Relief courses through me when instead of a reprimand I get a brilliant grin. There’s a soft look in Newt’s eye that I know is specifically reserved for his sister. “She’s two years younger than me, so she’s...bloody hell, eight years old now.” He slumps back against his chair, eyes distant as he reminisces. “She used to be a tiny little thing - not that she isn’t still small, mind you, but she’s a lot taller now. Growing like a weed, she is.” A grin comes to my face, unbidden. Newt sounds so much happier, talking about his sister. I wonder if they have parents waiting for them. I wonder how they ended up here. My mouth stays shut. Those are questions better left unasked. “I can’t hear her voice through the windows very well so I — ” he swallows, something bittersweet in his expression, “ — I don’t know how much of her accent she’s retained. She’s so young so I worry….It’s something that doesn’t really matter, honestly, but I feel like it’s just another part of us that WICKED is trying to take.” “Yeah.” I agree quietly, understanding the desire to hold on to pieces of yourself from before. “But listening to you, I don’t think that accent is going anywhere. You’re old enough that it should stick, probably.” It’s still as thick and melodious as before, I’m pleased to note. Newt’s soft drawl is nothing if not soothing. “Plus, it’d be a damn shame if it did fade — I think you sound lovely! I’d listen to you talk for hours if I could.” Newt makes a grunting, cut-off noise that draws my attention. I raise my amber eyes to his, only to see that he’s avoiding eye contact, a bashful look on his reddening face. Is he...embarrassed? “Are you blushing?” My mouth drops into what’s probably an unattractive gape, humor burning deep within me. “Shut up, you twat!” He moans, hand knocking against my shoulder and shoving lightly. The red stands out stark against his pale skin. He covers half his face with one hand, leveling a glare with no real heat behind it in my direction. “You’re not good at taking compliments, are you?” I muse, still not even bothering to hide my amusement. “Relax, it’s adorable.” Newt groans again, but he’s chuckling a little too, hand dropping from his face and looking more at ease. “When Tommy said you got more open the longer you hung around, half of us didn’t bloody believe him. But I guess it really was true, if you’re teasing me now.” “I like...getting to know people first. I’m more comfortable the longer I spend around them.” Shrugging my shoulders I turn back to where my brother is laughing his ass off at Ben and Minho wrestling on the floor. “You make it easier, I think.” You didn’t see me laughing and teasing with anyone else after all! Well, maybe aside from Minho. But he was impossible not to like. Usually it took awhile for me to warm up to a person. I barely said a word to Teresa for weeks, speaking as little as possible. The same happened with Aris and Rachel. I don’t know why it took me so long — I suppose that was just how it had always been. I was still pretty quiet even now, never as boisterous or attention-grabbing as Thomas. “Why?” Newt looks genuinely curious. Bad with compliments, I recall. “You’re...easy to be around. We don’t have to talk to feel comfortable, and being silent isn’t awkward. I dunno.” I shrug, I can’t explain it myself. We just click, two muted personalities meshing together. We have more in common than we both realize. “You’re easy to like.” Newt hums. He has that bashful look on his face again, but his cheeks don’t burn as red as before. It’s obvious from the way he bites his lip and turns his eyes away that he doesn’t know how to respond. I understand what he’s feeling almost painfully. My first instinct when someone compliments me is to try and counter it with some sort of proof that it’s false. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He finally finds his voice, glancing over at me with a sly expression. “Once you get past the prickly bits.” “Hey!” I let out a startled laugh, “I’m not prickly!” Newt pinches his thumb and forefinger together, “You’re a little prickly. Like a hedgehog.” “Oh, well — ” I grin, “ — I’m alright with being a hedgehog. They’re cute.” “I know.” He says, deadpan, “That’s how I tell you and Thomas apart. You’re the cute one.” I burst out laughing, clasping my hands over my mouth to stifle the noise. The words are an echo of what I said jokingly during our first meeting, and it warms me a little to know he remembers it. Newt watches me with a look I can’t describe, breaking out into chuckles of his own until we’re giggling like loons. “Jeez, what’s so funny?” Thomas interrupts, eyebrows drawn and glancing between the two of us in a bewildered manner. Newt looks from him to me once before bursting into a new wave of laughter. Thomas looks like a kicked puppy, mulish and feeling left out. I can feel the conflicting emotions within him. “I’m allowed to laugh, Tommy.” I tease. “I know that! I just...you’ve never laughed like that with anyone else.” Except me. He pouts a little, before the look softens. He’s happy I’m making friends, really. But when it comes down to it I’ve always given him 100% of my attention and he’s not used to suddenly sharing it. I’ve never minded the idea of him making friends, so perhaps it’s a little hypocritical from his end — but we’re different in the way that I’ve never needed friends the way Thomas has. I’m not replacing you with Newt, Stevie. You’d be stupid to think so.I roll my eyes. Thomas was my brother, no one would ever be as important as him. But Newt could be a friend, and with the way things were I might really need one. No, I know. It’s fine. He’s quick to reassure, hand reaching out to clap Newt’s shoulder. “I’m trusting you with him,” he says solemnly, looking very serious despite the light teasing in his tone. Newt looks both confused and amused, an exasperated smile on his face. He nods in mock seriousness to humor Thomas, “I’ll be sure to protect him with my life.” Thomas softens a little, knowing that they’re only joking but appreciating the words all the same. “Thanks, Newt.” “Ugh, I’m the big brother here, Tommy.” I butt in, smacking his arm gently. “Quit being a mother hen and go back to your friends.” “Yeah, Yeah,” he shoves back, happiness returning to his face as he backs away and waves a finger at us in no-nonsense manner. “No funny business!” “Shove it, Tommy!” I lash a leg out at him and he bounces away laughing, shoving his way back into the group of boys. Newt knocks my shoulder gently with his and I turn to face him. “What was that about?” He asks, more curious than anything. It was obvious something had transpired between my twin and I that he hadn’t been privy to. “He was...jealous. I think that’s the best way to describe it. Sorta.” I bite my lip, glancing over at my twin, who is now playing some form of tag and dodging Minho’s quick hands. “Like I’ve said, we really only had each other for a while. Thomas has always taken priority over everyone else for me and I’ve not tried to hide that. I think seeing that my attention is on someone else was just a bit — disconcerting.” “Ah,” Newt hums, “Well, it seems I got his blessing in the end, yeah?” “Ha!” I chortle, “You’d think he was giving me away for marriage, the dork. He’s always been protective, but I’m the same way. We look out for each other—I’m sure you feel something similar with Lizzie, even if you can’t see her often. I think it’s just a sibling thing, ya know? Especially in a place like this.” Newt wrinkles his nose, “We’re too young to be married.” “Is that all you got outta that?” Honestly, the minds of ten year olds baffle me. /// We weren’t taken back to our dorm that night. The lights dim and bedtime is signaled, the boys trudging down the hallway to their bunks. Thomas and I pause, wondering exactly what we’re supposed to do. The door to the other wing hasn’t opened again, and no one has come for us. It looks like we’re spending the night with Group A. I wonder if this is some kind of reward for us — for what I did. My training has been successful in their eyes, they’ve told me so. I learn at an accelerated rate compared to the normal ten year old, which is likely the reason I’m the one being trained. I’ve always acted more mature for my age, perhaps they think they can trust me with weapons more than Thomas. But rewards from WICKED don’t last. How long will we be allowed to remain here? I don’t want to wait another two years to see Newt and the others again. “Hey man, you can bunk with us. There aren’t any extra beds, because they always just add them as we get new kids, but we can make do.” Minho offers Thomas, before looking over at me. “You too, if you want. I’m sure you’d rather be together.” “You know us so well already,” I tease, and Minho cracks a smile. “What can I say, I’m a genius when it comes to people!” he exclaims smugly, making his way to the dorm rooms with the crowd of Group A boys. Thomas and I follow behind him, our hands finding each other’s and intertwining. “Yeah,” I murmur, not unkindly, “you’re a real extrovert.” Some days I wish I could be more like Minho, or even Thomas. While not as loud and confident as Minho, Thomas was definitely still more talkative and willful than I was. Minho leads us to his dorm, it’s a little bigger than ours because it’s fitting four boys instead of two. Tonight it’s a little clustered with the six of us. Alby and a kid I hadn’t met named Nick have one of the bunks claimed, Alby already under the covers of the bottom bunk. The other bunk is Minho and Newt’s, the former already moving up the ladder to the top. Newt squints at Minho for a second before sighing and turning to the two of us. “I’ll crash with Minho tonight, you two can take my bunk.” He finally says, moving to make his way up the ladder after Minho. Then, obviously addressing the Korean boy, “And I’ll hear no complaining from you! Shove over!” I glance at Thomas before settling awkwardly on Newt’s bed. My twin follows suit, pulling up the covers and letting me slide under before him. We curl up together, on our sides with our faces turned towards each other. Our hands stay connected, Thomas showing his unwavering silent support. He knows I’m worried about having a nightmare. Having them in the privacy of our room was one thing, but in the presence of four other boys? I doubt they’d be mean about it but the idea made me burn with shame. Stop it, Thomas scolds, tightening his hold on my hands. There’s nothing to worry about. And if something happens and one of them is dumb enough to say somethin’ mean then I’ll punch ‘em. My hero. My response is dry, but wavers with hidden worries. I just don’t want them to see me at my worst — I don’t want to be looked at like I’m something strange or broken. I stay awake long after Thomas has fallen asleep. ***** More Than You Could Ever Imagine ***** Chapter Notes I'm sorry if there's a lot of breaks / the story seems to skip around a lot! Most of the time the spend at WICKED is repetitive routine so I skip through the years and focus on important bits. Plus, nothing TRULY happens until we get to the Maze! See the end of the chapter for more notes Michael!   Thomas’ voice in my head jolts me into awareness. I search through the dark with bleary eyes, frantic and startled. My chest heaves and my limbs jerk with the remnants of phantom motion. There’s still screaming in my head, fading the more awake I get, paired with the image of black gore. Thomas clutches my shaking form to him, arms wound tightly around me in desperate comfort.   Did I wake anyone? I exhale harshly, trying to even my breaths.   I don’t know, Thomas shakes his head minutely, a movement I feel more than see. You didn’t make much noise, just kinda flailed a bit. I’m not sure if any of them are light sleepers though...it wasn’t soundless, even if it wasn’t bad.   Well if they did wake, at least they’re being nice about it. I grumble. There’s no sound aside from our breathing. I think Nick is faintly snoring, but I can’t be sure it’s him. Either way, none of the boys make it known that they witnessed my episode, so I relax. They could all be awake, but as long is I could pretend none of them were I could face them in the morning.   Sighing, I sit up, pulling myself from Thomas’ grasp. “Bathroom.” I mumble to him, slipping out of the bed and padding across the floor. The boys’ bathroom was bigger than the one in Thomas and I’s room, resembling a communal shower. There were two bathroom stalls, two shower stalls and two sinks. I made sure to close the door behind me a bit before turning on the light, squinting against the brightness.   At the sink, I peer into the mirror at my reflection. Sweat had plastered my hair to my head and my shirt to my chest. The skin around my eyes was red and puffy due to lack of sleep, the purplish bags underneath looking even more pronounced than usual. There weren’t any new scratches, Thomas had taken care of that by forcing me to clip my fingernails as short as I could without making them bleed.   I felt gross and sticky, a chill settling over me as the sweat began drying. Desperately, I wanted to shower and change clothes, but Thomas and I currently had nothing but what we came with when we were shoved in here. I still hadn’t figured out why we’d been left here for the night. I doubt we’ll be allowed to stay here for long, WICKED wants us for something specific and I had my training to do. They’d given me a break, but they couldn’t be finished with me. The end game couldn’t possibly have been just to get me to shoot a Crank, how pointless would that be? Thinking about the possibilities made me sick and anxious — WICKED’s plans went over my head.   Mikey… Thomas begins, before his voice cuts off. I glance away from the sink and towards the door, which swings open slowly. To my surprise, it’s not Thomas. He was probably trying to warn me but —   “Hey, Tommy said you might need these,” Newt whispers, holding some folded clothes out to me. “They’re mine, but since you don’t have your own I’ll let you borrow ‘em for now.” He smiles, shy and nervous. His sandy hair sticks up in every direction, a sleep-flush on his cheeks. It makes me want to do something dumb like aw verbally, like one would at pictures of kittens or puppies.   The surprise at his entrance must show on my face — or maybe some kind of negative emotion, because that smile slowly fades and he begins to look more anxious. Quickly, I take the offered clothes, not wanting to seem rude or make him more uncomfortable than he probably already is.   “Thanks,” I stutter, a flush settling over my cheeks. “I’m sorry, did I — did I wake you?”   Newt shrugs, “Not really. I was already awake….Minho kicks in his sleep. There’s no way I’d be getting a good night's rest while sharing a bed with that menace.”   “Still,” I shrug, offering a tired smile, “Thomas and I are the reason you have to share with Minho in the first place.”   “Yeah, but we’d rather have you guys here.” He dips his head, gazing from the floor to me then back down. “You’re pretty cool, for a hedgehog.”   “You’re pretty cool too,” I muse, no longer feeling oppressed by memories of the nightmare. “For a lizard.”   “Like I haven’t heard that before!” Newt rolls his eyes, hands dropping to his hips. “Whatever. Hurry up and take your shower, I’m going back to bed.”   “Good luck with Minho!” I half-whisper at his back as he turns to leave. I receive an unamused glare in return before Newt closes the door behind him.   I feel lighter now. It’s easier to breathe. I guess having friends is a good thing. I’ve always been so focused on Thomas that I never stopped to think about myself. Thomas loves and supports me unconditionally, but maybe I needed someone like Newt to remind me to step back every once in a while and just breathe.   Within five minutes I was out of the shower, making it quick because I was starting to feel tired again. Newt’s clothes fit me almost perfectly, and they were almost identical to what I’d been wearing before. Not a lot of variance here. Everything was in shades of gray or just plain white, taking the ‘sterile’ theme to a whole new level. They were clean though, which was a great improvement to what I’d previously been wearing. I switched the lights off as I exited the bathroom, stumbling a bit in the dark as my eyes strained to adjust to the light change.   With luck, I managed to make it all the way back to where Thomas was laying, his breaths even. I blinked for a moment, searching our connection and confirming that he was, in fact, asleep. Good. He needed a proper rest. Carefully, I slipped in beside him, every movement slow in effort not to wake him. When I was finally settled, I turned to face his sleeping form, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. I let it lull me back to sleep.   ===============================================================================   Thomas and I wake at the same time, blinking our identical eyes open and peering around. There’s laughter coming from somewhere next to us, and when we look over we see the four other boys already awake and watching us.   “That’s almost creepy!” Nick says, shaking his head.   “I think it’s cool!” Minho counters, before stepping closer to us and tugging at the covers. “Time to get up, greenbeans!”   Thomas groans and drops his hands over his face, curling his body in on itself when the blankets are pulled from his body by the eager Korean boy. I sit up, stretching and yawning. Despite the fact that I hate mornings with a passion, waking up has always been easy for me. Shoving Thomas over, he grumbles before shuffling out of bed, allowing me to get off as well.   If the boys notice that my clothes are different they don’t comment on it. In fact, they’re all perfectly civil and natural, which reassures me. Newt offers me a grin and I return it, rubbing sleep from my eyes. It’s a strange feeling, to have someone I can consider a friend after so many years of just Thomas. Teresa, Aris and Rachel didn’t really count, I didn’t trust them because they were like Thomas and I — special. ( To be honest, I wasn’t really fond of Teresa that much, and I wouldn’t be torn up if I never saw Aris or Rachel again. Thomas would miss the three of them because they were his friends, not mine. )   “I hope you lugs are hungry,” Alby makes his way to the door, glancing back at us. “Breakfast was put out a few minutes ago.”   Nick follows him out, tossing a “Hurry up!” over his shoulder. Minho tugs at Thomas’ elbow, dragging my twin away and out of the room.   “C’mon, Tomboy — we gotta get a table before the rest of those jerks wake up!” He exclaims, and his voice fades as they walk further away, complaining about a time that Zart had taken the last of the sausages one morning, before Minho had woken. Newt and I exchanged glances before moving after them more sedately.   “Are you?” Newt asks, breaking our comfortable silence, “hungry, I mean.”   “Not really.” I shrug. Eating in the morning had been difficult lately, especially with the poor sleep I’ve been getting. Most mornings I wake up queasy, head pounding and stomach recoiling at the idea of food. It usually settles after a few hours, but I’ve been dealing with a faint headache for a while now. Long term exhaustion will do that to you. I’ll probably be hungry around lunch time. Eating two meals a day isn’t great, but it was still enough food and I hadn’t passed out yet.   Newt nods and we fall back into silence. I wonder if I’m supposed to continue the conversation, perhaps I missed a cue? Was I supposed to ask if he was hungry in return? My poor conversation skills were kicking me in the ass; the one time I was actually concerned with maintaining a relationship in this world and every social skill I knew flew out of my mind.   “Um,” I stutter out, twiddling my fingers nervously as we enter the main common room. The blonde boy turns to me, raising a brow. “How a-are you?” I wince the second the words leave my mouth. God, that’s not what I meant to say! Actually, I don’t even know what I wanted to say to begin with — something cool, maybe.   To my relief, Newt humors me, his lips quirked in a placating smile. “Doing pretty alrigh’, actually. You?”   “Uh, I’m — I’m doing good.” My cheeks flush scarlet, I feel like I’ve added something awkward to the air between us. Though it’s likely just me feeling it, because Newt still looks open and content, striding forward to take a seat at the table Minho and Thomas had claimed. The two were deep in conversation about possibly pranking some of the other boys. I dropped into the seat besides Newt, Thomas glancing up and smiling at me before turning back to his friend. He looked so in his element here. Maybe I’d never really noticed it before, but Thomas really was a people person. He thrived on friends and attention and being a part of something. I myself could spend days and weeks at a time by myself quite easily, and I shied away from attention with vehemence. All you needed to do to tell us apart was to wait and see who opened their mouth first. ( Hint: it would most certainly be Thomas. )   Newt leveled me with a searching look, chocolate eyes narrowed — but in a curious manner rather than an aggressive one. I squared my shoulders under his gaze, wondering what exactly he was looking for. The sounds of other boys yelling and eating echoed in my ears as I met his eyes with my own. We stared at each other for a bit, the longest I’ve met someone’s eyes aside from Thomas’. The Brit looked like he wanted to say something, lips parting every few seconds like he couldn’t figure out exactly what words to use.   “Okay.” He finally said, sounding like he didn’t believe me at all. I suppose, looking at myself, I wouldn’t believe that I was ‘doing good’ either. But I was grateful that he was letting it go for now, turning instead to the food on the table and piling various items on his plate. I watched him for a moment before turning and staring down at the empty plate before me. As I thought, I still wasn’t hungry.   ===============================================================================   No one from WICKED came for us that day, although I was still skeptical about the length of our stay. No new beds were added, but a few new pairs of clothing had been placed on Newt’s bed when we returned to the room some time after breakfast. Thomas showered and changed with glee, having been in the same clothes for a day and a half. I still felt fine in Newt’s clothes, though I resolved to change before bed. I felt bad taking his things.   We spent six more days with them. Thomas and the others became hopeful that the situation was permanent. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so inclined to agree. Thomas couldn’t help but be aware of my disbelief, yet he refused to allow my doubt to taint his view. I didn’t bring it up verbally and neither did he. The last thing I wanted to do was make him sad by being negative, he didn’t deserve it. ( He deserved to stay here, happy and surrounded by his friends. )   “I’m scared,” I admit sometime after lunch on our seventh day here, half- reclined against the headboard of Newt’s bed with the blonde. It was only the two of us in the room, Minho and Thomas had gone off with Ben, Zart and a boy named Winston. Being surrounded by so many people for such an extended time was really wearing on my social limits, in here I could decompress and recharge. Of course, when Newt offered to join me I couldn’t say no, and I was glad to find he was content with sitting beside me and remaining silent aside from occasional bursts of small talk.   By now I could say with confidence that we were friends. Both Newt and Minho were the ones I felt closest to, but Newt was on his own level. While after a while I’d need a break from Minho, it was never the case with Newt. His presence held me together when Thomas was away, like glue.   “...of what?” There’s no boyish teasing in his tone. He’s not the type to ridicule a person for having emotions.   “A lot of things, Newt,” I chuckle, but it’s not a completely happy sound. “But mostly of what’s gonna happen next.”   “What do you mean?” He turns his face a little in my direction, our shoulders brushing together.   “If they were going to let us stay here, wouldn’t they have added new beds by now?” I ask, wringing my hands, “Thomas doesn’t want to hear it — and I can’t blame him — but I’ve never been as optimistic as him. I think they’re going to take us away again, and I’m….”   I breathe deeply, feeling shy and tense. Feelings are so hard to put into words, and I’ve never been comfortable confiding in others. “I’m terrified of going back there.”   It comes out as a whisper, like I’m reluctant to let the admission hit the air. Maybe I am. But the truth is that I am scared. I’m scared that they’ll make me kill more cranks, or even people who still had their wits about them. Every night I’d been here I’d woken from nightmares, though they’d been getting less violent and loud, and I still looked half-dead according to Minho.   “What did…” Newt trails off, lips twitching into a quick frown that quickly disappears. He looks at me with a vaguely neutral expression, but his eyes are bright and serious. “They did something to you, didn’t they?”   “Yes,” my voice is still low, cracking a little over the word. “I don’t want to go back but I think I am. There’s no way they’re done with me and Tommy, Newt. No way .”   “Maybe.” he nods, “But you’ll never know for certain until it happens. You’re in a state of constant fear, Eddie, that this second could be your last with us. That’s no way to live! Time you could spend enjoying some sort of freedom with us you’re wasting by lettin’ WICKED ruin it.”   “What else can I do?” I murmur, eyes wide with distress. I feel so small in this moment, seeking comfort and advice from a boy — a child of only ten years. “I want to have fun with you guys while I can, I really do….but when I look at Thomas I can only think about how wrecked he’ll be when we have to leave and I — I desperately hope that maybe they’ll just take me and leave him here.”   “Blimey, Eddie!” Newt’s voice is almost scolding, his face screwed up in aggravated surprise. “Don’t you bloody say that! You know the both of you are better off together than apart, Thomas would go crazy without you!” His voices rises a little and he sits up, body almost fully turned to me as his eyes blaze and bore into my own. “Why don’t you think of yourself for once? I like Thomas well enough, as do most of the other boys — but I like you, too! What if I don’t want you to go, huh? What, did’ya think ‘oh, it’ll be fine if I take off, no one’ll miss me’? Not bloody likely! ”   I stare at him for a long moment, slack-jawed with amazement. His chest heaves a little, a brilliant red flush on his cheeks. Despite his apparent embarrassment at his outburst, he maintains eye contact with me, driving his point home with a, “ You might not care about what happens to you, but I certainly do. So don’t go saying rubbish like that — like you’re somehow worth less than Thomas.”   “I’m — it’s not like that,” I protest weakly, feeling a little numb with shock. “I just want to protect him!”   “Yeah, I know.” Newt clenches his jaw, looking mulish, “But I think you’d do a much better job at protecting him if you were by his side. That way, you can protect each other. You keep forgetting, Eddie, that maybe you need to have someone take care of you sometimes.”   “Thomas does that.” I answer immediately. He does, after all. When I have nightmares he supports me, he holds my hands and he loves me with all his heart. There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for me and I feel it every second through our connection.   “He tries,” Newt shakes his head, prominent frown looking out of place on his young, cute face. “But I don’t think you let him do it completely, because you’re protecting him from yourself.”   My mind goes blank for a moment, expression reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights. When had Newt gotten so observant? So good at calling out the hidden parts of me? I felt more than a little startled and bewildered by his observations. All I could do was stare into his earnest eyes and try to formulate a reply. I had no idea what to say about his vehement outburst.   A red flush settled on his cheeks and deepened the longer I stared at him. I was starting to make him anxious, I realized. “How did you….?” I finally choke out.   Newt breaks eye contact finally, glancing down at the bed sheets. “I just...noticed, from watching you interact with Thomas. You only let him comfort you to an extent, and then shy away to be alone. And he lets you — because I bet that’s what you’ve always done so he’s grown used to it. You’re not his mum, Eddie. You’re his brother. ”   “You— ” I swallow, feeling more blindsided than ever, “ — you were watching me that closely?”   “N-Not intentionally!” He stutters, and now his ears are turning pink with the force of his blush. I can feel my own face heat up at the sight of his discomfort and embarrassment. “You’re new and you’re my friend, of course I was lookin’ out for you! You — you only really talk to me or Minho and you spend most of your time with me! I know you don’t feel comfortable around new people but you like me enough to—” he cuts himself off, suddenly looking a little worried, “you do like me, right?”   “I like you.” I answer dazedly, but I mean it.   “Good that,” there’s something like relief in his voice, “I’m just sayin’, I thought — it made me feel special .”   “You are special, Newt.” My voice comes back to me and I sit up. “You’re….you’re my best friend.”   He stares at me in silence for a moment, before sighing and settling back down against his pillow. “Well. Good.”   I lay back as well, feeling disoriented and chastised but strangely light . It’s an odd feeling, to have someone watching out for you like this. Thomas looked out for me and adored me with everything he had, but from day one I’d considered him a child and me an adult. I’d made it my job to take care of him like a parent would, because our mental age difference had been so great. Newt was right -- Thomas wasn’t my child. He was my brother. Our dynamic was tilted because of me , because of how I’d been treating him. And Thomas, not knowing any better, had gone along with it.   “I don’t know how to change.” I blurt out, staring at the base of the top bunk. “It’s been so long and … I can’t just not look out for him.”   “I’m not askin’ you to change or anything, Eddie.” Newt is quieter now, less worked up, “He’s your brother, and family always looks out for each other. I just want you to remember yourself every once in a while. Let him grow up a little bit, yeah? He’s allowed to make his own mistakes.”   “When’d you get so wise?” I tease weakly, knowing full well Newt had always seemed a bit more mature than the others. At least that haunted look in his eyes I’d seen the first time we’d met had faded as the years passed -- I still didn’t know what put it there to begin with, and I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to ask. “Oh, I’ve always been this way, mate.” he laughs and knocks our elbows together. We’re silent for a few moments, comfortable.   “I’m glad you’re my friend.” I say, just as I feel a familiar presence barreling towards us. Newt doesn’t notice, opening his mouth to respond before being interrupted when the door slams open. Thomas stands in the doorway, Minho peering behind him. They both have huge grins on their faces and flushed cheeks.   “What did you do?” Newt asks, resigned.   “Gally fell asleep, so we took the opportunity to improve his looks.” Minho proclaims, smug. Thomas is giggling, a hand stifling the sounds. The image of Gally with colorful pictures and lines drawn across his face in marker comes to my head, and I huff out a laugh. I almost want to reprimand him, but I halt, glancing over to Newt. I’m not our mom and dad, I’m a child like Thomas and my brother could do what he wanted as long as no one got hurt.   “But then he woke up so -- ” Minho’s words halt as an enraged yell echoes down the hall. “Oh, crap!”   “MINHO! THOMAS!” A boy, most likely Gally, screams. His voice is getting closer.   “AH! We gotta run!” Thomas yelps, tugging Minho away from the door and further down the hall.   “YOU TWO!”   “WE’VE BEEN SPOTTED!” Minho shrieks, laughter in his voice. They bolt down the hall and shortly after a figure flies past the entrance to the room. Gally is right on their heels and the sound of laughter and yelling echoes through the door.   “....yeah,” I nod solemnly, and Newt glances at me curiously, “You’re definitely my favorite.”   ===============================================================================   It’s during dinner that same day that the doors in the common room open, and a man in a lab coat walks in with two soldiers. Dread pools in my gut as the room quiets and attention is turned to them. Thomas catches my gaze and I can see my terror reflected back at me. They’re here for us, they must be.   “Thomas, Eddie.” the man says, stopping at our table. The soldiers hang back near the door. “Come with me, please.”   I don’t want to go back. But I look at the soldiers, with guns strapped to their thighs, and stand. My jaw clenches and -- to my embarrassment -- my eyes burn and water. I don’t care that I’m not technically a child in all senses, there’s only so much I can take -- no matter how old I am. I hate what WICKED is doing. I hate it.   A hand finds my own and I jolt, a tear slipping down my eye. Newt looks at me, deep brown gaze searching my face, tracing my features like he’s trying to memorize them. I look at him in much the same manner, taking in the way his sandy hair is always a mess, his button nose and delicate features. He looks more like a fairy than a lizard -- like Peter Pan. Something magical.   “You’re my best friend.” I whisper, voice thick and shaking. Newt’s bottom lip trembles and he swallows, eyes suspiciously bright.   “Why do we have to go!?” Thomas smacks his hands on the table as he levels himself up. His amber eyes narrowed in a glare. Minho and Ben look angry as well, mouths set in stubborn frowns on either side of Thomas.   “You have tasks to complete, Thomas. We can’t allow you to stay here.” the man placates, his blue eyes sharp like ice despite the disarming smile on his face. “It’s not like you won’t see them again.”   “We’re coming back?” he asks with all the innocence of a child, brows drawn together and a steely expression on his face. “Do you mean it?”   “I promise. You’ll see your friends again.” the doctor replies. I don’t trust a word he says, but Thomas looks like he’s a little more agreeable. He knows as well as I do that we could easily be dragged out of here kicking and screaming -- it was better to go without a fight with the promise of being allowed back.   The soldiers step forward, ushering Thomas and I towards the doors. Newt’s hand slips from my own and he flinches. Thomas takes my hand in exchange, gluing himself to my side as we trudge between the two towering men, the doctor leading the way. A chair clatters to the ground when we reach the door and it slides open with a mechanical whir, faint compared to the commotion behind us.   “Eddie!”   I whip around as the door begins to close, catching Newt’s wild expression from where he’d shoved away from the table. His lips part to say something else - - but the door slides shut with a click.   ===============================================================================   Thomas and I don’t see each other during the day as much anymore. Ever since returning from Group A, my twin has been working very closely with Teresa and the doctors on some sort of project. They’re designing a test of some sort, though I don’t understand why they’d want two kids to make it -- especially if it was so important to their ‘research’.   I, on the other hand, began training in physical combat as well as firearm usage. I was woken every day bright and early, allowed breakfast, and then dragged off to shooting practice. From there it was lunch, followed by hand to hand combat until dinner. Thomas and I were exhausted, both mind and body, and were unable to talk much when we were finally left alone for the night. I usually conked out shortly after my nightly shower, though I tried my best to stay awake to ask him about his day. The worry Thomas feels for me is potent, and it simmers like a constant buzz in the back of my mind most days.   If our situations were reversed, I’m sure I’d be just as worried. After all, every night I return to our room covered in new bruises and the occasional cut. A few weeks in and half my skin is yellow with faded, healing marks and the rest is vivid purple with fresh ones. The soldiers don’t go easy on me. We’re starting at the basics but they don’t pull their punches nearly as much as they should. My age doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest to them, their only concern is making me as efficient a weapon as possible. Because that’s what I’m becoming, a weapon for WICKED to use.   My purpose is to protect Thomas and the other children. There’s a lot of talk about a trial. It’s connected to whatever Thomas and Teresa are making, but I’m unsure of exactly how I fit into the equation. Why would they need protection from a test?   “Again.” Instructor Davis is a tall, imposing man with a gnarly scar across his left cheekbone and eyes so dark they look black. He terrifies me. His shaved head and silent movements scream ‘soldier’ in the black ops sense, but I guess you have to be light on your feet to survive in this world. Cranks are attracted to sound.   I pick my aching body up from the training mat, my shin throbbing from where he’d leg-swiped me. It was hardly fair, he was enormous compared to me! His leg looked more like a tree trunk when it clashed with my own, there was no way I’d stay standing.   He moves back into position and I mimic him, my arms shaking as I hold them out in front of me.   “Roll!” he demands sharply as he lashes out again. I manage to dodge to the side and avoid his kick, dropping into a roll over one shoulder. The maneuver was successful. Thank god, I think, I do not need another black eye.   We do a few more drop-rolls, not all of them as successful. I’m improving, at least. And it’s noticeable enough that I sometimes receive a curt nod of approval from Instructor Davis. After we finish those, he sets me on the makeshift punching bags until my knuckles go numb.   “Why….” I don’t speak much, if ever, to anyone aside from Thomas since coming back from Group A. If my Instructor is startled he doesn’t show it. I need to ask a question that’s been on my mind for weeks since they started me on this routine. “Why am I the only one learning this? Wouldn’t it be beneficial to all the kids to know how to defend themselves?”   “Yes.” he answers my second question curtly. “But we don’t have the time or resources to train that many kids.” It sounds like a flimsy excuse. “And you and your brother are needed for different objectives.”   Well, that doesn’t sound reassuring.   “I don’t understand.” I state, blunt.   “You don’t need to. You just need to do what you’re told.” Instructor Davis counters, settling back into a defensive stance. “Now try to land a hit on me.”   ===============================================================================   “Ow, ow!” I hiss through my teeth as Thomas prods my recently broken bloody nose with a tissue. His own face is scrunched up in second-hand pain, a finger rubbing the bridge of his own nose. I’m seated on the lid of our bathroom toilet, Thomas standing between my knees.   “Sorry, Eddie.” he frowns, eyeing my new bruises with poorly concealed anger. I’d been freed from training early today after being nailed in the face by an errant elbow, my nose having suffered a break. One of the doctors had snapped it back in place ( I’d nearly thrown up from the shock of it ) but it was still bleeding a little.   “Hey,” I soothe, “It’s training, Tommy. Every day I’m getting better.” It was true -- I’d been training for almost eight months now. ( Eight months away from Group A. ) Lately I’d been returning back to the room with less bruising. My body was more toned too, well -- as toned as an eleven year old’s could be. Our birthday had passed again, though neither of us had noticed until nearly a week after.   I miss Newt.   “I know.”   I startle, eyes refocusing on my brother. He smiles, soft and understanding. I must have projected my thoughts without realizing.   “I miss him too,” he continues, leaning back and tossing the bloody tissues in the wastebasket. “And I miss the others.”   “Yeah,” I sigh, thinking of Minho’s blinding grin and Ben’s boisterous laughter and even Gally’s blunt jokes. I missed them all with a fervor that surprised me. I’d never gotten attached to anyone so quickly, much less a group! Hard times, desperate measures, overwhelming desire for safety -- I guess it wasn’t hard to see how it happened.   “I think we’re gonna see them soon.” Thomas confided. “Dr. Paige said she’d look into it when I asked her.”   Because of course he did, it wouldn’t be Thomas if he didn’t. The entire eight months we’d been on our own, he hadn’t let up in his pestering about seeing the other boys again. I might not have said anything about it to the adults, but I didn’t have to. Thomas spoke enough about it for the both of us.   “I hope so.” I didn’t affirm or deny his claim, not wanting to hope but also not willing to ignore it entirely. I desperately wanted to see those kids again, just to feel normal for once.   ===============================================================================   Turns out Thomas was right. Three days later we were collected in the morning and led together down a hall towards the wing that housed Group A. Thomas beamed the second he realized where we were being led, a bounce to his step. I followed more slowly, body stiff and sore from sleeping on bruises. I had two black eyes from my broken nose, the cartilage still tender and held in place by a piece of white medical tape. My face felt like one big bruise, more purple and red than pale flesh, even three days later. I’d been allowed a break from hand to hand combat while my nose was healing. The trainers were harsh, but not cruel. Instead, for the past few days I’d been learning how to handle knives - - which is why my hands looked mummified with the amount of bandages covering thin slices and nicks.   Not exactly ready for picture day, was I? I felt a little self-conscious about my less-than-stellar appearance, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Thomas slipped his hand into mine, the action second nature by now. We walked through the sliding door together, excited and nervous.   I was worried that they’d forgotten us, despite the fact that before, two whole years had passed and now it’d only been eight months. Children formed bonds easily, they could meet and decide to be best friends all in the same day. Thomas and I, being separated from the rest, held onto the memories of the friendships we’d formed with desperation to make ourselves feel better. The other boys were constantly around each other and most likely never felt lonely. They had no need to cling to each other or rely so heavily on a couple of hours worth of time with two boys.   But….Newt’s face came to the front of my mind, as did the words he’d said to me. I had to believe he meant it. I had to believe he actually cared enough about me to keep calling me a friend.   “Eddie!”   Speak of the devil, my head had never turned so fast when I heard the familiar british lilt. Newt’s sandy blonde head came into view, his brown eyes wide as he jogged over to us, some of the boys right behind him.   “Jesus!” Minho exclaimed, right on Newt’s heels. He pinwheeled to a stop beside the blonde boy, looking from me to Thomas and back. Genuine concern filled his face as he gazed at me. “Oh, man, what the hell? Are you alright?”   “I’m okay.” I shrugged, glancing over at Newt, who stood silent with a heavy look in his dark eyes. “Honestly, it’s worse than it looks. Really.”   Thomas huffed. “Yeah, a broken nose is ‘okay’ .”   “You broke your nose!?” Minho frowned, brows drawing low. “How?”   “Minho, zip it.” Newt finally spoke, elbowing his friend in the gut lightly. Minho scowled and rubbed his side, but dropped it.   “Whatever, c’mon then -- let’s hang out while we got time, yeah?” the Korean boy jerked his head back toward the center of the common room where a large group of boys stood. Thomas moved to follow and dragged me along. Newt fell into step beside me, his expression pensive.   I glanced at him a few times before sighing and slipping my hand out of Thomas’ grasp. He spared me a look and a questioning jab at our connection, but I just shook my head and offered him a smile. He quirked his lips and nodded, turning back to Minho and the others. I stopped, staying a few feet back from the other boys and Newt stayed at my side, twiddling his thumbs. It felt awkward, and I didn’t want that. I wanted it to be as natural as it was before -- I wanted to feel safe beside him. So I took one of his fumbling hands in my own and held it.   He started, glancing at our joined hands for a bit before slowly looking at me. A flush spread over my cheeks as he looked at me with an unreadable expression. I wondered, for a terrifying moment, if I’d made a mistake and Newt really had stopped considering me a friend.   But then he smiled. It lit up his whole face despite the lingering anxiety in his eyes. He adjusted his grip on my hand and laced our fingers together.   “What were you going to say?” I ask, recalling the way he’d yelled my name out the last time I’d seen him. “You got cut off…”   It’d been eight months though, maybe he didn’t remember…   “Ah.” his grin turned sheepish, free hand brushing through his messy hair. “I just -- well, I remembered a little too late that I’d never said it back.”   “Said what?”   Newt’s cheeks turn rosy, but he meets my eyes, “You’re my best friend too.”   “Oh.” I say, and now we’re just standing there staring at each other, red-faced and grinning. “Well. Good.”   ===============================================================================   “There’s a new kid here. They brought him in a month ago.” Newt mentions offhandedly. We’re seated off to the side against one of the walls, hands still clasped together. “His name’s Chuck. He’s only six -- no one really knows how to deal with him, he’s a bit of a crybaby.”   “You’re not bein’ mean to him, are you?” I question, one eyebrow raised.   “Nah,” Newt shakes his head, “I’ve been lookin’ out for him a bit, but some of the other boys aren’t so kind. It’s like they forgot we were all that young and scared when we first came here.”   “Yeah...it’s been a while.” I hadn’t thought about it in a long time, but Thomas and I had been here for about six year now. We’d been with WICKED longer than we’d been with our parents. I couldn’t remember what they looked like now. My mother had shared our eyes, that much I recalled.   “Eddie?”   “Sorry,” I murmur, squeezing Newt’s hand gently. “I just...realized how long it’s really been. I can’t -- I don’t remember what my parents looked like. Not entirely.”   The british boy tenses for a moment, enough that I glance at him sharply and realize that the topic of ‘parents’ might be a bit sensitive for reasons I’m unaware of. But he purses his lips and gives me a sympathetic look.   “....do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, hesitant.   “I mean. Maybe?” I frown. “It’s hard, I guess. Because I don’t want to forget them but...I feel like I miss them less every day. I’m so distracted by everything that’s happening that I barely even think about them anymore -- I haven’t in a while. Does that make me a bad son?”   “I don’t think so.” Newt denies, shaking his head. “After all, it’s not your fault.”   “They’re probably dead.” What drove me to say it, I’ll never know. But I bite my lip harshly after the words leave my mouth, eyes stinging. I felt awful that I hadn’t spared the people who’d loved Thomas and I so unconditionally a thought throughout the years. They deserved more than that.   “Hey, hey,” Newt shuffles closer, his grip on my hand tightening in comfort. “You don’t know that, Eddie.”   “My dad,” I feel mortified when my voice catches. It feels like all I ever do is cry and I hate it. I’m supposed to be the adult here -- I’m supposed to be the strong one! “He had the flare.”   Newt’s hand leaves mine, instead moving his arm to wrap around my shoulders and tug me closer against him. “Alright, maybe you do know. But listen, Eddie, you can’t -- you can’t let that get to you. They loved you, yeah?”   “Yeah.” I agree weakly.   “Then all you gotta do is remember that.” Newt presses his forehead to my own, “You gotta hold onto the good, Eddie.”   “You’re good.” I mumble, pressing into his side.   He laughs, his grip on me tightening for a split second. “If you say so.”   ===============================================================================   I meet Chuck for the first time a few hours later. He’s sat by himself at a table, eating lunch and wiping at his running nose with one hand.   “Stop that,” I scold gently, startling him. I drop into the seat next to him and wrap a napkin around his nose. “Blow.” I instruct.   Blindly, he does, too taken aback to do anything else. I wipe at his nose a little more before balling up the used napkin and placing it atop clean one. He’s a cute kid, pudgy cheeks flushed red and eyes bright. His hair is a curly mop of sandy brown, and his eyes are hazel. Hazel, I muse, I think father had hazel eyes, didn’t he?   Chuck looks at me in wonder, though clearly pensive about the vivid constellation of bruises maring my visible skin. It’s obvious the other boys haven’t bothered to take care of him, being children themselves. In fact, he looks like he’s about to start crying at my basic show of kindness.   “Chuck, right?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle. He nods rapidly, curls bouncing, not responding verbally. “I’m Eddie. How’re you holding up?”   “...okay.” he responds shyly, moving his awestruck gaze back down to his food. Every few seconds he glances back up at me, like he can’t believe I’m actually sitting there beside him, giving him the time of day.   “That’s good. None of the boys are bein’ mean to you, are they?” Newt had told me they weren’t, but I had to make sure.   Chuck shakes his head vehemently. “No, no -- they mostly ignore me…”   “Well, that can be pretty mean, too.” It wasn’t good for a kid as young as Chuck to be left on his own. “No one wants to be your friend?”   “Newt’s nice.” he shrugs, little shoulders hunched.   “Yeah, he is.” I feel a burst of pride in my chest and I grin, pleased.   “Is Newt your boyfriend?”   “Yeah, he -- ” I pause, blinking. My mouth drops a little, an expression of surprise dominating my countenance. “Wait, what?”   Chuck looks at me, owlish. His fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt, obviously wondering if he’d said something wrong. “I’m sorry!” he exclaims, biting his lip, “It’s just, Minho said -- ”   “Oh,” I breathe. That kind of teasing should have been expected from Minho of all people. The other boys were either just around twelve or older -- nearing the age where girls and things became a concern. Puberty was just around the corner, it made sense that jokes and jabs about girlfriends ( and boyfriends ) were starting. But god, did I already feel exasperated.   Puberty. Again.   The idea of it filled me with a kind of hilarious dread, I felt like laughing and screaming at the same time. Hormones were the last thing I wanted to deal with, especially since I was surrounded by boys. The amount of testosterone that’d be filling this place in the next few years was gonna drive me crazy. And puberty was embarrassing , too. It was awful having to go through it once! ( At least, I recall going through it. But the details were fuzzy. I still couldn’t remember if I’d been a girl or a boy in my first life. Maybe I’d been neither? The fact was, I didn’t really know if I had experience with male puberty, but the feelings of teenage angst and mortification would be the same no matter what. )   “I’m eleven,” I say, putting those tumultuous thoughts on the back burner. “I’m not really interested in dating. Don’t listen to Minho, he’s dumb. ‘Sides, Newt’s my best friend, definitely not my boyfriend.”   “Oh, okay.” he nods, though I’m not sure if he completely believes me. Whatever, I suppose I should get used to all this crush talk sprouting up in the coming months and years. I wonder how it would pan out, seeing as we were separated from the girls, I highly doubted every Group A boy was solely attracted to males .   Actually, I’d never thought about it myself. Did I like boys or girls? Both? Neither? I pictured myself with a girl. Didn’t seem awful. Picturing myself with a guy didn’t seem bad either, so I suppose I just didn’t have much of a preference.   “Anyway, why don’t you hang around with us today?” I urge, jerking a thumb behind me in the direction of the other boys. “Unless you want to be alone?” I could relate to that, but I highly doubted Chuck was the same way. He’s face had longing written all over it.   “No!” he gasps, “I mean -- I don’t wanna be a-alone, if...if that’s okay?”   “Yeah, Chuck,” my eyes soften, taking in his big doe eyes and earnest expression, “That’s totally okay.”   Chuck is shy at first, but Thomas takes him under his wing within minutes, making sure to include the younger boy in all of the games. I send over a warm burst of pride and happiness, glad to see the more mature, kind side of Thomas. He’s grown so much in such a short amount of time. My twin shoots me a brilliant smile, cheeks flushed. I feel a tangled mess of exuberance and returned pride through our connection.   Newt joins in this time after I urge him to stop wallowing around me. I know he doesn’t want to leave me alone, but running around and dodging flailing limbs with an aching body and healing nose isn’t my idea of fun.   To my surprise, Minho actually plops down beside me, breathing hard and wiping sweat from his brow.   “Hey,” he greets, grabbing a random cup from the table we’re sat at and downing it. “You sure you’re alright just sittin’ out?”   “Yeah,” I shrug, “I like watchin’ you guys more than participating. Thomas feels enough for the both of us.”   Minho nods like he understands, but I know it’s impossible unless you’ve got a bond like the one Thomas and I have. “Well,” he begins, “Later, do you mind telling us one of your stories, like you did last time?”   I’d told quite a few stories during the week my brother and I had been left here, mostly about various superheroes. Spider-Man continued to be my favorite hero to talk about, while Thomas stuck with Iron Man. I tried to recall the ones I’d told the Group A boys, but the memories were a little faint.   “Yeah, sure. I might repeat a few.” I acquiesce, “And I’m not sure how long we’ll be allowed to stick around this time.”   “Don’t think about it,” Minho says, leaning back against the table. “And don’t worry about repeating stories, a lot of us forgot details anyway. Plus, Chuck hasn’t heard any of ‘em.”   “Yeah,” I nod, before giving him a considering look. “Who was your favorite?” I wonder if he’d told me before. I hope he hadn’t, because then I’d feel bad about forgetting it.   “Captain America, duh! ” he scoffed, “The Winter Soldier too, they’re both awesome. And best friends -- so it’s like, even cooler!”   “Good choices,” I laugh, patting his shoulder. “They’re some of my favorites too! Do you guys still have the -- ”   “The pictures?” Minho interrupts, “Yeah. No one’s as good as you are, but we’ve got a lot of boys drawin’ all the different heroes even now.”   “Aw, that’s nice.” I grin, feeling strangely proud that I’ve turned so many boys into unknowing comic book nerds. Me telling stories hazily ingrained in my memory would never be the same as actually reading the comics or watching the movies, but it was all we had to keep ourselves entertained.   “Newt draws a lot.” the Korean boy mentions suddenly, false nonchalance in his tone. He’s trying to hard to seem innocent.   “Does he.” my voice is dry, expression giving nothing away. I can already see where this is going.   “Talks about you a lot too.” He’s glancing at me slyly now, trying and failing to be subtle.   “Listen, Minho,” my lips quirk into a knowing grin, “Just because your love life is lacking doesn’t mean you gotta start projecting on everyone around you.”   “I’m not!” he denies, hands waving, “But you guys held hands! Everyone knows if you’re not family and you hold hands that means you’re dating! ”   “Says who?” I snort, completely bewildered by his logic. Then again, the environment he’s in hasn’t exactly provided him with any information on how proper relationships form and progress. “When has holding hands been just for romantic situations? Friends can hold hands if they want! Anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot.”   I was a big believer in platonic touch and comfort. It was stupid to think that expressions of affection like hugs and hand holding had to be stigmatized. In a place like this, we needed as much comfort as we could, and without the full influence of a society and popular culture, there weren’t any forced ideals of masculinity being pressed upon us. There was no reason to think affection and kindness couldn’t be shown between us, even if we were boys.   “....yeah, maybe.” Minho shrugs, accepting it easily. He has no reason to doubt me or believe otherwise. “But Newt only holds your hand.”   “I held his hand first,” I counter, shooting him a look, wondering what exactly he was fishing for. “...Newt didn’t put you up to this, did he?”   It didn’t seem like something the blonde boy would do, but if he did have a crush on me, he might have confided in Minho. I really hoped that wasn’t the case, I didn’t know how to deal with the affections of a soon-to-be twelve year old. Even when I was older ( in my last life ) I’d always been bad at reacting to other people’s confessions. I always felt awkward and bad about saying no and it usually sent me spiraling into bad moods. Then again, that was when confessions came from people I wasn’t interested in, so I didn’t have a positive experience to compare to. I’d never been approached by anyone I’d had feelings for. Never been in a relationship before my death.   But forget that -- I wasn’t attracted to Newt, or anyone for that matter. In this moment in time, the only outcome was that crushing awkwardness.   “No, no!” Minho shook his head rapidly, “It’s just me messin’ around. You’re both just really shy and blush easy so teasing you is funny.”   “Thanks.” I deadpan, punching his arm lightly. “I feel honored.”   “You should,” he puffs out his chest, nose raised snootily. “Having my attention is a blessing!”   “More like a curse. ”   “Hey!”   ===============================================================================   They let us stay for ten whole days this time, when my bruises are finally yellowed and fading. My face still looks a mess, but it’s easier to make quick movements without feeling pain now.   I tell stories every day, and Minho falls in love with Black Widow. Newt’s favorite hero is the Hulk, to my surprise and joy. We have drawing circles that more often than not end with markers been thrown at faces and limbs being drawn on instead of paper. But we have fun -- all of it is fun. Chuck integrates himself well into the group, following Thomas and I around like a lost duck. I hope he’ll be okay when we’re taken away.   We stay in the same room as before, Thomas and I crammed into Newt’s bed again while he shared with Minho. I only wake from nightmares twice.   It’s nice. But it makes the idea of returning back to that cell of a room Thomas and I live in even more daunting. I don’t talk about wanting to stay anymore, not this time around. Something feels different. WICKED has something planned and we’re capaulting towards it. There’s a plan set in motion, that test I heard them speak of -- the one Thomas and Teresa are designing.   It scares me, because there’s an endgame here. And I don’t know what the outcome is meant to be, or where it will leave us.   Chuck cries when the soldiers come to take us away. Big, heaving sobs with snot dripping down his nose. He clings to our shirts with pudgy fingers and Minho has to pry him off of us because Thomas is clinging right back. He’s grown attached to the boy during our stay. I ruffle Chuck’s hair as he burrows into Minho’s side and cries, the korean boy looking mildly uncomfortable but offering us a nod in farewell, smile tight.   I give Newt a hug. It’s not something I do often, generally my hugs are reserved for Thomas and maybe Chuck -- the most I do is quick side hugs with the other boys. But this is a tight, full-on hug, my hands fisted in the back of his shirt and my nose buried against his neck. He’s a little taller than me. His own arms lock around me instantly, squeezing tightly.   “Goodbye, Newt.” I whisper, for his ears only. He stiffens, arms tightening for a moment. There’s a finality in my words and tone that he’s noticed.   “Don’t...don’t say that.” He pulls back a little to look at my eyes, chocolate clashing with amber. “It’s ‘see you later’, Eddie. Never goodbye.”   “See you later.” I echo, and step out of his lanky arms. “I’ll miss you.” Whether I see you again or not.   “See you later.” he murmurs.   ===============================================================================   “Eddie, get up.”   I open my eyes, squinting into the darkness. The space beside me is empty, and I wipe my eyes groggily. It takes me a second to realize that it was Thomas who had spoken. He’s standing next to the bed, hand on my shoulder.   “Wha--?” Dazed, I sit up. “Wha’ssa matter?”   “It’s our birthday!”   I blink at him, hands in the sheets. “....oh. Uh, happy birthday.”   This is one of the few times we’ve actually remembered the correct day. I squint, still feeling a little out of it. “What time is it?”   “Early,” he shrugs, “But they wanted us up. I think...they’re letting us see Group A today.”   “What, as some kind’a birthday gift?” I ask, shuffling out of bed. Thomas moves back to let me slip by.   A lot of time has passed. We’re thirteen today and we’ve seen the Group A boys only a handful of hours over the past two years, always entering and leaving the same day. My training has increased, but so has my skill. I have more kills under my belt. Not people per se, but Cranks. Still made me feel awful, because they had been someone once. ( Someone like our father. ) But once I became proficient at killing with a gun, they had me work with the knives. That was much worse, getting up close and personal and actually having to force a blade through resisting flesh. It was a million times more awful than using a gun. More scarring. I was messed up for a while after the first time, but I hadn’t been given a reprieve like I had after my first gun kill. Thomas had to pick me up every night and piece what he could back together. It was trying and awful and took a toll on both of us. I felt like he was taking care of me more days than I was taking care of him.   It didn’t matter who was older anymore. We had each other and we used that to our advantage, relying on the other for help and comfort. Thomas needed it less, safe and tucked away in labs designing a goddamn maze trial. So a lot of his efforts were focused on me rather than himself.   But I pushed forward. For him. WICKED needed me to be strong enough to survive the world and protect Thomas from all possible adversaries. Even if we found a cure, the world wasn’t safe anymore. There were Cranks everywhere, some so far gone we weren’t even sure a cure was viable for them. The world would need to be purged and searched and there would always be the worry that someone had been missed and the Flare still thrived. So I needed to be enough . I needed to be the guardian that watched Thomas’ back. I needed to be good enough to face the Scorch and make it back in one piece.   This is what they tell me, clinging to their hope of a cure. I’m bitter and wrathful and I will never approve of their methods but I hope a cure is found. I really do. The time to worry, I believe, would be if WICKED finally decided that the remainder of humanity was more important than the Immunes who could survive and drained us to our deaths.   If it came down to it...the world could fall. I didn’t care anymore. How long would it take for a cure to be found, if there even was one? Immunes were humanity's last hope, in more ways than one. Two futures, two paths, two possibilities.   “They’re going to tell everyone about the trials today.” Thomas says, breaking my heavy thoughts. I’m halfway through changing, one leg in my pants. He sounds somber. I finish dressing and eye him, feeling the roiling darkness in his gut.   “You’re worried.” It’s not a question.   “Yes.” He answers anyway. “I don’t like it….I know I made it -- and that just makes it worse. I keep telling myself it’ll be worth it, because it’s for a cure...but WICKED isn’t telling me anything and I don’t want…” he swallows, looking so young and scared than I’m across the room and pulling him into my arms before I even realize it.   “I don’t want them to get hurt,” he whispers, voice tight. “I’m scared, Eddie, I’m so scared.”   “It’s just a maze, Tommy.” I murmur, hating that he can hear the lie in my words and feel the fear in my chest. “What could be so bad about it?”   “Everything,” he breathes, “More than you could ever imagine.” Chapter End Notes Puberty is scary, huh? We're so close to the beginning of the Maze guys! ( Not the Maze Runner, that won't happen for a while. But the trials are about to begin! ) ***** Remember What Matters ***** Chapter Notes See the end of the chapter for notes Thomas is keeping something from me. I don’t know what it is and that worries me more than words can say. He’s never tried so adamantly to keep secrets from me, we’re usually open books with each other. I can’t help but eye him as we walk into the room housing the Group A boys. It’d almost been a year since we last saw them. The mood when we entered was somber and tense, which only made Thomas stiffen. I frowned, eyeing the downcast and fearful expressions on everyone’s faces and Thomas’ uncomfortable shifting. My life had been so separated from my brother’s that I felt out of loop. Thomas hung back by the door when no one came to greet us, everyone lost in their own thoughts or huddled in groups speaking lowly. I strode forward, searching for my favorite familiar faces. “Newt, Minho.” I breathe a sigh of relief when I spot them together at a table with the usual crowd. They glance up at me, startled. “What the hell is going on? Why is everyone acting so weird?” “...Thomas?” Minho questions tentatively, dark gaze moving from my form to my twin, who was acting like … well, like me. “Eddie, actually.” I correct. It’s not the first time we’ve been confused for each other, but it’s a first for it to come from Minho. He blinks a little in surprise, but quickly shakes it off. “You mean you don’t know?” I grit my teeth, crossing my arms, “No. Thomas is keeping secrets from me, I can feel it. It’s scaring me -- and so is the way you’re all acting!” Newt and Minho exchange looks, something heavy in their eyes. I haven’t seen that look of loss on Newt’s face in years, not since our first meeting. It’s worrying, enough that my heart kicks up a notch in response to my anxiety. I feel like I’m vibrating, the tension in the air getting the best of me. “Guys, please...what’s going on?” I plead. Minho sighs, glancing at Newt before standing up. “I’ll let Newt explain, I wanna have a word with Tomboy over there.” he murmurs, patting me on the shoulder as he passes. He’s grown taller and filled out a bit in the past year, putting him almost two inches above my current height. Newt pats the now open seat beside him, and I drop into it with a pensive expression. Newt looks a little older too, still thin and lanky, but even sitting his head is a little above mine. “When we were younger, do you remember what they did to us, with the tests?” he begins, stilted and slow like he’s figuring out exactly what to say. “Yeah.” It was hard to forget, all the brain scans and needles and prodding and poking. They’d even inserted a chip in our necks about a week or two in. It’d been so long I’d almost forgotten about it. It was easy to forget what it really was -- after all, it had felt like a simple shot ( albeit at the base of your skull ) that was over in seconds. No surgery required. “Well, they said it was for scanning our brains while we’re -- while we’re in the Maze.” his voice drops off, quieting so others around him don’t hear. “They’re gonna put us in soon. WICKED won’t tell us much about it, or what we’re even gonna be doing there. It’s spooked a lot of the boys.” Okay. That wasn’t new information. I’d been aware they wanted to put us in a maze. It didn’t sound so bad; after all, how long would it take for us to find a way out? Strictly speaking, it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world, unless there was something else about the maze WICKED ( and Thomas ) weren’t telling us. “I heard about being put through a test of some sort but,” I scrunch my nose, confusion visible on my face, “What’s so frightening about a maze? We just need to find the exit, right? Is there something else we need to be worried about?” WICKED needed us, didn’t they? Surely the Maze wouldn’t be life-threatening! But, I thought with sudden, icy fear, then why was I trained to kill? Was there some adversary lurking in the Maze that the boys would need to be protected from? I breathed in sharply, twiddling my fingers in a nervous habit. Learning these skills was one thing, but using them in front of my friends? What would they think of me? Sure, I’d use what I’d learnt to protect them, no matter what -- but I didn’t want them to look at me like I was some sort of monster. “I dunno...it’s just…” Newt shrugs, clearly at a loss. “The whole bloody thing was unsettling. I can’t help but think it’s not going to be what we expect. And they said...they said there was more than one Maze. Lizzie’s being put in a different one.” He sounds so defeated, shoulders slumped and exhaustion at the situation obvious. There’s nothing fair about this, about what WICKED is doing to us. Terror lurks in the Maze. We don’t know what it is or what to expect, but every boy in Group A is stricken with the same fear. Our situation is about to change, and we haven’t been promised safety. “I’m sorry, Newt.” It’s all I can do, I’m just as helpless as he is in this situation. I hadn’t known there would be more than one Maze -- I hadn’t thought about it much at all, actually. “Yeah, Eddie, me too.” =============================================================================== We left the Group A boys on a sour note. Thomas still quiet beside me as we made our way back to our room. The last time we’d been this quiet was after Thomas had come back from ‘putting down’ some of the staff who’d gotten infected by the Flare. That had been a dark time, WICKED had made Thomas, Teresa, Aris and Rachel chose the fates of those poor soon-to-be Cranks. Of course, they hadn’t had to shoot them like I did. No, this time they were just euthanized. But they’d had to watch. I’d felt Thomas’ fear and discomfort during that day. The night after he’d told me how terrified he’d been, to see Teresa and Aris so resigned and willing to put down doctors they’d worked with. Rachel was the only one who’d been as disgusted by the idea as Thomas had been. He’d cried every night for a week. But now, I didn’t know what had Thomas so out of it. It bothered me. I wasn’t used to not knowing everything about him. “They’re going to be put in the maze in two weeks.” he speaks up suddenly, when we’re finally back in our room. “...okay.” I furrow my brow. “How long should it take them?” Thomas looks at me, heartbreak swirling in his gaze and his heart. It makes me step back, overcome by the hurricane of emotion I’m bombarded with. “I don’t know, Eddie.” his hands shake. “But it could take years.” “Years!?” I gasp, “What the hell, Thomas! What the fuck are they being sent into!?” My brother flinches at my raised voice and harsh tone, having never been on the receiving end of it. I feel awful, instantly regretting it and he shrugs and shakes his head to let me know it’s already forgotten. But I’m still trembling with barely concealed rage, none of it actually directed at Thomas. ( But he’d certainly played his part. ) “They don’t want me to tell you about it.” he admits, wringing his hands. “Why not?” I grit out, clenching my fists. “Because you wouldn’t like it. They don’t trust you.” “With good reason,” I mutter, I’d never given them an opportunity to do so. I hate them and I’ve never tried to hide it. “Eddie,” Thomas says, despair twisting between us. “We can’t fight them. You’re going in the maze.” Ice creeps down my spine. “You didn’t say we.” “No.” he chokes, eyes wet, “I didn’t.” ===============================================================================   We were isolated. I was moved into a separate room and put through my training routine, only communicating with Thomas through our connection. They were preparing him for something, and his trepidation only fueled my own. For the first few days apart I’d had mixed emotions, taking time to think over everything that was happening and how Thomas fit into it all. No matter what happened or will happen, he’s still my brother ( he’s still Stevie ). I would follow him anywhere. My purpose was to protect him, I couldn’t blame him for doing what he had to in order to survive WICKED. There was no fighting back here...and the world wasn’t black and white. A cure. This was for a cure. It happened in the middle of my shooting practice. Thomas’ voice echoed weakly in my mind and made me pause. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. In fact, every sound had faded out. My body tingled. Numbness spread under my skin and the gun dropped from my hands. I stumbled back, my legs refusing to cooperate. I couldn’t feel my toes -- my knees, my limbs. Someone grasped my shoulder but I barely felt it, everything blurring and distorting. I was sinking, drowning. My mouth moved to form words but I couldn’t be sure if they ever left my lungs. In fact, I couldn’t even feel my lungs. Was I breathing? Who knew. I didn’t even care. ===============================================================================   They’d done something to Thomas. Put some device in his head. They hadn’t expected the process to affect me the way it did, but maybe they should have. When the surgeons had put Thomas under, his stress and the force of the sensations had hit me like a brick. I’d succumbed the same time he had, both of us remaining unconscious for a few hours before waking at the same time. Whatever they did to him, they did to Teresa and Aris and Rachel as well. It hurt for a bit. A phantom strain in my head. Sometimes I heard stray, random whispers in my mind that didn’t belong to my twin. When I questioned him, he told me that he could now communicate with the other three in his mind. It’s not like what we have, he’d told me one day, voice sounding tired and regretful even mentally, I can’t feel them or their emotions. I just hear thoughts they want to share. I hated it. It felt a little petty, being jealous, but that’s what I was. What Thomas and I had had always been special, and now it wasn’t even that. I was just an extra piece, a pawn on WICKED’s elaborate chess board. I want to see Newt. ===============================================================================   I got my wish a few days later, about a week after I’d been separated from Thomas. Group A had a week left before a group of them were being sent into the Maze, Newt and Minho included. I hated that they would be some of the first, that they’d end up being some of the few who spent the longest trapped there. But at least they’d have each other, as well as Alby and Nick. My door slid open. I sat up from where I’d been dozing on my bed, startled. Thomas stood in the doorway, a finger to his lips. Sh! Don’t say a word. They don’t realize I’m doing this. He told me, gesturing with his hand for me to approach. I did without question, because he was still my brother and I know that no matter what, he’d never lead me into harm on purpose. Plus, I could feel the tension in him easily, and his desire to be stealthy. He really was sneaking around. We made our way down the hall, feet pattering near-silently against the shiny metal floors. His hand slipped into mine as we turned a corner. I gripped back and sighed quietly. Being away from him for a week had been torture, no matter how disoriented and mad I’d been. Never had we been separated for so long -- it only made my fear of the Maze even more potent. Who knew how long we’d be apart for? I recognized where we were going once we entered a familiar hall. Group A? I asked, side-eyeing my brother. You wanted to see Newt. He shrugged, peering around another corner before tugging me along further. And I know he’s your best friend, but he’s one of my close friends too. I want to do something for him, because he deserves it. What are you gonna do?I almost think I know, but I’m too scared to hope. Thomas turns to me for a second, amber eyes blazing with a determination I haven’t seen in a while. I’m gonna take him to see Lizzie. Oh, Thomas…I blink furiously, overcome with sudden, crushing relief and affection. He was right, Newt did deserve this. He deserved so much more, but if we could only do this much…. It’d be worth it even if we got caught. At this point, they couldn’t do anything to us without mucking up their plans. Thomas opened the door to Group A’s wing with a keycard, one he’d stolen from a guard sometime during the day. I was pretty impressed at his dedication and pickpocket skills, and incredibly proud. The door slid open soundlessly, and we crept into the darkened room. It was late, all the boys would be in bed by now, sleeping. Walking through in near darkness was terrifying, but at least we were used to walking the path to Newt’s dorm. It didn’t take long for us to find ourselves standing outside his door. Carefully, Thomas opened the door and relief burned between us when it didn't creak. Not that we really expected it to -- this facility was so high-tech and modernized the idea of a creaky door was practically blasphemous. The sound of quiet breathing filled the dark, the four boys out cold and sleeping away. The two of us tiptoed in, making our way to Newt’s bed. I was glad he slept on the bottom bunk, it made getting to him much easier. Thomas shook his shoulder gently, the two of us standing beside his bed. “Wha--?” Newt mumbled, face screwed up in a grimace as he fought to reach wakefulness. He smacked a hand over his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Shh…” Thomas hissed, finger pressed to his lips. His voice is no more than a whisper but Newt finally focuses on us. He starts a little, clearly surprised to see us there. In fact, even in the shadows I can see how wide his eyes are. We must paint quite the startling image. “Tommy? Eddie?” he murmurs, sitting up in his bed. “C’mon Newt,” Thomas urges, “I got a surprise for you.” I hold out my hand, eyes pleading. Newt glances from Thomas to me, looking more awake. After a moment, he purses his lips and takes my hand. ===============================================================================   Newt and I hold hands all the way to the Group B wing, Thomas a few steps ahead of us. We don’t have the luxury of talking in our heads, and it’s too dangerous to talk out loud at the moment. So we have to be content with shared glances and the heat of our clasped hands. I didn’t want to think about the fact that in just a few days, Newt would be sent up into the Maze. Neither of us recognize where we are, but Thomas seems to know exactly where he’s going. He walks with as much confidence as a thirteen year old sneaking around a creepy facility can. The door we stop in front of is identical to the one leading to the Group A boys. Thomas opens it with a keycard -- but I’m not sure if it’s the same one from before or a completely different one, and I didn’t care enough to ask. It slides open just as soundlessly as the others, revealing a common room identical to the boys one. She’s in the third dorm on the right. Thomas tells me, leading the way through the dark room. Newt trembles a little the closer we get, realizing exactly what’s going on. His grip on my hand tightens to the point of pain, his coffee colored eyes wide and disbelieving as they bore into my own. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for us to laugh and turn around. We don’t. Thomas opens the door to the third dorm on the right. It’s dark inside, a mirror image of the very room we’d pulled Newt from. Wait here, Thomas glances at me, then Newt. He holds up his hand in the universal ‘stay’ expression, slipping into the dark room. Newt practically vibrates beside me, his grip on my hand still uncomfortably tight but I make no motion to get him to loosen it. It’s not that bad anyway -- and I can’t blame him for being excited. Thomas appears from the shadows, making his way through the open door. A girl follows behind him, much smaller and shorter than my twin ( and therefore, me ). Even in the poor lighting I can see the resemblance between her and Newt. They have the same pale, milky white skin and red-tinted honey blonde hair. The shade of orange-gold had always been a beacon in the sea of boys, and Lizzie was no different. Her eyes were more hazel toned though, contrasting with the dark cocoa brown Newt sported. Both also had fair, fairy-like features, although Newt’s face was getting a little sharper as he came upon puberty. The two estranged siblings looked at each other for a moment, long years of separation making them both wary yet desperate. Let’s give them space. I tapped Thomas’ elbow and slipped my free hand into his. He nodded in agreement. I leaned into Newt, his attention still on his sister. “Tommy and I are going to wait in the common room at the end of the hall, alright? Try your best to keep as quiet as possible.” I whispered into his ear, my chin bumping his shoulder. He nodded wordlessly, and I pried my hand from his grip. As soon as I got him to release me, it was like he’d been rebooted. Newt surged forward with arms out and scooped up Lizzie in his arms, her own gangly limbs wrapping around him with equal fervor. Thomas glances at them with obvious curiosity as I usher him down the hall back where we came from. Nosy, I scold gently, to which he smiles at me sheepishly. We pause back in the common room, hearing only faint wisps of Newt and Lizzie’s conversation. In sync, the two of us lean against the wall, our clasped hands dangling between us. The silence is suffocating. I feel too hyped, my heart in my throat. What we’re doing is dangerous, but it brings me such joy that I can’t even be bothered to care about possible repercussions. Thank you, Stevie. I knew he’d been more supportive of WICKED’s goals lately, but sneaking around like this convinced me that he was still the same brother I adored. He’d never be as cold-hearted or clinical as the adults here, no way. Why’re you thanking me? He sounded amused. Even if you hadn’t wanted to see Newt I would have brought him to see his sister. It’s common human decency...and he’s my friend. Stevie, they would have put him in that Maze without a second thought to his and his sister’s feelings. You’re the only one in WICKED with common human decency. He’s quiet for a moment, obviously contemplating my words. Logically, Thomas knows that WICKED sees us more as test subjects than actual children, he just doesn’t like to think about it. But I feel the reluctant and despairing acceptance lance between us and it almost makes me sad. He’s so desperate for a cure, so desperate to believe that what WICKED is doing will be worth it. But his morals continue to make him question their actions. Good. I have to believe we can find a cure. I have to believe that we can do it and no one will get hurt. He finally says, tilting his body to the side to rest against my own. His head finds my shoulder, the weight of the world on his young mind. I want a cure as much as you do, Stevie. I begin, mulling over his words, But if it comes down to harming all of us for only the possibility of a cure, or all of us surviving for humanity --- I’m going to pick us. If it’s too late for the world, there’s no reason to destroy the only people who can actually live in the aftermath. I hear you, Mikey. He sags further against me. I hear you. ===============================================================================   Newt comes back to us crying. He stands at the hall entrance for a moment, observing the two of us with silent tears streaming down his ruddy cheeks, before leaping forward and crashing into us. Thomas and I grunt a little under the force of his limbs as he embraces us with a trembling breath and a quiet, “Thank you.” We hug him back just as fiercely, silent for a long moment as we graciously ignore the little, hitching sobs that leave Newt’s lips. “C’mon then,” Thomas finally says, pulling back and letting Newt cling to me. “Let’s get back before we’re caught.” Newt nods against my shoulder, breathing in deeply before standing up straight. I can see him visibly pull himself together, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes and nose. We all trudge out the main sliding door, Thomas peeking around the low-lit hall for any personnel. Newt slips his hand into mine when we step out into the hallway, his bloodshot gaze heavy on the floor. I don’t know what him and his sister talked about, but Newt looks both better and worse after the experience. It had obviously been good to see her and hug her and talk to her again -- yet whatever they spoke about must be the reason he looked so downcast. I didn’t want to pry ( I still wasn’t sure I even had the right to ), but the last thing I wanted was for him to enter the Maze sad. He deserved to be happy for as long as possible. The walk back to the Group A wing was almost silent aside from Newt’s occasional heavy breath. Honestly, I expected us to get caught; we’d used up enough luck just getting to the Group B wing, and we almost never caught a break normally. To our collective shock, the three of us made it back all the way to the Newt’s dorm without incident. “Tommy, Eddie,” Newt whispered as we stopped outside the door to his shared room. “I seriously can’t thank you enough for that.” “Don’t mention it, really.” Thomas shrugged, “It wasn’t right that they wouldn’t let you see her.” “And I didn’t do anything,” I murmur, “Tommy was the mastermind, he just picked me up for the ride.” “Doesn’t matter,” Newt shakes his head, “I’m glad you’re here anyway.” “Well, I certainly couldn’t come alone,” Thomas pokes my side, tone teasing, “After all, Eddie here kept moping around and complainin’ about missin’ you.” “Shut up,” I roll my eyes, swatting at Thomas’ prodding hand. “You have your dumb friends when you work, I’m alone all the time.” The truth to that statement makes Thomas drop his teasing, mouth twitching into an awkward grin. He doesn’t know how to take my response. I shake my head, signalling to him that it’s fine. My humor has always been a little off- putting….though I hadn’t really been joking. “Well, ‘m glad you wanted to see me.” Newt whispers, eyeing us with amusement. He looks a little better, that hollow look gone from his face. It’s sure to return once we’ve left his presence, and I dread that moment. “I know we’re on a bit of a time constraint, but could I talk to Eddie for a moment?” Newt addresses Thomas, hands shoved in his pant pockets. My brother sighs, but there’s a grin on his face, mischievous and knowing. “Yeah, yeah, I see who’s the favorite twin here! You can kiss him goodbye in peace, I’ll be over there.” My brother points toward the common room before stepping away and giving Newt the ‘I’ve got my eye on you’ gesture, two fingers pointing from his own eyes to Newt’s form and back. I roll my eyes, turning away from my ridiculous brother to face my best friend. He doesn’t even look phased by the teasing, which means he’s feeling serious. “What’s up?” I ask, voice low. I’m dreading the moment he says goodbye. “I wanted you to know that it means a lot to me, our friendship.” his eyes meet mine, surrounding skin still puffy from his crying. “I dunno what’s gonna happen next, so I just...I needed you to know that even if our relationship isn’t exactly normal, I’ll always think of you as my best friend.” “Newt,” I choke, hating how truly final this feels. “You told me things you didn’t tell anybody else. You leaned on me and listened to what I said whenever I spoke -- ” his breath hitches and his voice breaks, eyes misting, “You made me feel special, and I wish we had more time -- because I haven’t made you see that you’re special too, Eddie. You’re special to me and to everyone here.” I hate crying. I hate how I look when I do it and how weak it makes me feel to have someone witness it, but I can’t stop the tears from spilling down my face at his earnest words. He’s talking like we’re never going to see each other again, and I’m hit with the very sudden realization that this could be the very last time we do. These could be the last words he says to me. But Newt is crying too now, still finding tears to expel despite the crying he’d already done. “When WICKED found my sister and I, they killed my parents in front of us just to take us away. I’d never felt so helpless and weak in all my bloody life,” his words catch in a sob, “I’m supposed to be the strong one, I’m supposed to take care of her! But when we talked tonight I broke down like a baby and she had to comfort me! I’m still weak, Eddie! I can’t do anythin’ and my own sister knows it. I’ve never been good enough for this place, I’ve never belonged here -- christ, Eddie, I’m not even immune!” “What?” The world tilts. I’d been shocked and overwhelmed at his words, furious at the death of his parents and the way he felt about himself -- but his last exclamation swept the rug from under my feet. “You -- you’re what?” “I’m not immune, Eddie.” there’s a wild look in Newt’s eyes, “I’ve always known, they’ve always known. I don’t know what the bloody fuck I’m doing here!” “No,” I can barely hear my own denial, weak as it is. My hands shake and I can barely breathe. When was the last time I’d been gripped by such terror? The faces of the Cranks I’d killed filtered through my mind, black veins and putrid, dark blood -- but suddenly they were all Newt. His delicate features twisted into a snarl, black liquid spilling from his mouth and chunks of his gorgeous, gold-toned hair falling out in clumps. Before I could fully process it, I threw myself forward and wrapped my arms around him, nose pressed to the rapid pulse in his neck. His heart was still beating and his lungs still heaving. There weren’t any black, creeping spider veins under his paperwhite skin. Not yet. Newt made a startled noise before reflexively returning my impromptu embrace. His nose buried against the side of my head. We rocked in place for a moment as he got his balance back. “It doesn’t matter why you’re here,” I whisper against the hollow of his neck and shoulder, “Better here than out in the Scorch by yourself. And we -- we’re looking for a cure. If -- when we find it, I promise...Newt, I promise I’ll get it to you no matter what. I’ll tear the world apart if I have to.” “You...you’d do that for me?” “Newt,” I grip the back of his shirt tightly, furiously blinking in vain to slow my tears, “You’re my best friend. You make this place bearable, you make everything better -- do you understand? You’re important to me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” “What if we don’t find a cure?” he breathes his fear into the air, ruffling strands of my hair. “We will.” I say sternly, gritting my teeth. Everything I’d thought about WICKED was suddenly thrown into disarray, because now what happened to us mattered far less. Any pain would be worth getting a cure….worth saving Newt. How many other kids weren’t immune? Were Thomas and I even immune? Was WICKED just lying to us about anyone being immune? I had to believe that there were immunes, and that Thomas and I were safe. I could only handle one world-shattering problem at a time. “It’s okay to be scared, Newt.” He huffs, bony fingers digging into my back. “It just seems like that’s all I ever am.” I take a deep breath, commiting the scent of clean linen and salt and sunshine to memory. “Well, you’re not alone in that. Don’t ever think you are -- I’m scared, okay? I’m terrified. I’ve been terrified for years -- I can barely remember what it feels like to not be. That doesn’t make you weak, Newt. Just human….just alive.” “Okay,” he sobs quietly, “Okay...” We have to go. Thomas’ reminder is solemn, my emotions and thoughts probably leaking between us. “I gotta go, Newt.” I whisper, reluctant to part from him while he’s so fragile. “Yeah,” he nods jerkily, loosening his hold and pulling away a little. “Before you get in trouble.” I recall what he said about saying goodbyes. No matter what, this will not be our last meeting, I refuse to let it be so. Newt still needs the cure, he needs to survive. “See you later, Sammy.” I say instead, giving him his old self back for a final time. Maybe when we get out of here for good he’ll take up the name again. Maybe we all will. “See you later, Michael.” his smile is bittersweet. It still feels like a goodbye. ===============================================================================   “Did you know?” I ask Thomas, when we’re parting for the last time that night, him lingering in the doorway of my room. He doesn’t ask me what I’m talking about, we both know what’s on my mind. “No. But I,” he swallows, “I suspected that WICKED was taking more than just immunes. Some of the scans from certain kids looked different.” We’re silent. Thomas doesn’t move despite the continued danger we’re in with him remaining here. It feels like there’s a storm crackling in the air, lightning in the space between us. Every thought and feeling burns. “You do whatever you have to.” I mutter, jaw clenched. Maybe I’d regret this, putting my faith in WICKED and their aspirations. But I was desperate, and if Thomas could help them find a cure I’d forgive him for aiding them. No matter what he had to do. “I swear.” his eyes blaze, gold in the dim light. He wants to save Newt too, and whoever else in their group of friends that wasn’t immune. “Then get outta here,” I shoo him away, slouching onto my bed. Exhaustion overcomes me the second my body hits the sheets. I’m drained emotionally, which is so much worse than physical tiredness. Thomas nods, a motion I feel more than see, and leaves, the door shutting behind him with just a click. ===============================================================================   “Eddie.” The voice of Ava Paige is a familiar one. She works for WICKED so I’ve never been her biggest fan, but she’s more tolerable than most. She’s earnest in her desire for a cure, despite crushing morals underneath her heel, and that’s what I need right now. I’ve considered that WICKED could have possibly done this on purpose, put non-immunes with immunes so they’d form bonds — then reveal that if a cure isn’t found their friends would die. It was definitely a motivator. But as far as Thomas and I knew, none of the children realized there were non- immunes in their midst. Newt had been aware of his status through mere accident. “What.” I respond, voice flat. Even if I now want a cure as desperately as she does, it doesn’t mean I have to like her. She and all the Doctors here at WICKED just rubbed me the wrong way, and I couldn’t forget that they’d killed Newt and Lizzie’s parents. “We’re sending you into the Maze,” she begins, “But not as soon as you may be expecting.” I tap my fingers against the steel tabletop, glancing around my room. It had only been three weeks, but it felt hollow and barren without Stevie beside me. They were weaning us off each other, trying to make it easier for us to prepare for our inevitable long term separation. I hated it. Going from practically conjoined to seeing each other maybe an hour a week felt devastating. “Okay. When are you sending me in?” Because if I couldn’t have Thomas, I’d like to have Newt by my side as soon as possible. This isolation was killing me, despite the fact that I usually preferred it. This felt more like a prison sentence than personal time. “Five months.” She answers, looking like an angel of death in all white. She’d let us all die if it’d lead to a cure, in spite of her kind features. “We’re sending one of the remaining boys up every month.” “Exactly how many did you put in already?” “Twenty.” her lips smile but her eyes remain placid. I couldn’t even begin to understand what WICKED was doing — why they’d put only twenty in and decided to shove the rest up one at a time. Whatever game they were playing was beyond me and I was tired. “Tell me something.” I sigh, putting my elbows on the table and resting my chin on clasped hands. “Why did you train me and not Thomas? I don’t mind that it was me, not really, but I want to know if there was a reason. I feel like we both should have been trained, he needs to be able to protect himself if I’m not around.” Dr. Paige watches me for a moment, calculating. She’s never treated me like a child before, and she gives me her full attention like you would an adult. “We did train the both of you.” “No,” I shake my head, “I mean physical training— ” “I know what you meant,” she interrupts. “And I’m saying we did train the both of you.” “I don’t understand — if you’d trained him I would have known.” No matter what, we were connected. If he’d faced what I had there would be no hiding it. “We trained you.” She replies cryptically. “And in doing so we trained him.” “You’re not makin’ sense.” I tell her, raising an eyebrow and frowning. “Tell me, how many sections are in the Maze?” Dr. Paige folds her hands in her lap, staring at me with a look I can’t comprehend. I blink, confused. I don’t know anything about the Maze except that it is a maze. A test. “Eight.” My lips freeze after I utter the number and so does the rest of me. How did I know that? “Uh.” “You and Thomas are very special.” Dr. Paige offers something of a smile. “We gave him a gun yesterday and told him to disassemble it. He’d never held one in his hands before, but he took it apart in seconds. Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Your minds operate as one. Every brain wave and chemical change is completely synchronized. He’s got muscle memory of all the training you have, just none of the experience or muscle to back it up. You have equations and codes and information about the Maze in your head, just out of sight. You could answer any question about it and you don’t even know it — you two are so incredibly fascinating.” I sit back in my chair, hands falling into my lap. The idea is so strange but makes all the sense in the world. This place isn’t normal. I am not normal. Maybe it’s something all twins can do, maybe it’s not. This is the future after all, who knows how humans have evolved, little by little over centuries. It still takes a second for the truth to settle. I chuckle, a little disbelieving and a lot exhausted. This feels like a comic book, like it isn’t real. “You’re sayin’ if you switched me and Thomas for a day, we’d be able to go about it perfectly fine?” I finally ask, resolving to just accept it for now. “Thomas doesn’t have the same experience, but he’d know all the movements.” she confirms. “Okay,” I say, “okay.” I wonder if they’d used our brain scans to figure out how to make Thomas speak telepathically to Teresa, Rachel and Aris. Unless making kids telepaths was more common than I thought. “We studied the two of you for three years before deciding it had to be you who went through the physical challenges. You always were the more mature twin, and we knew you’d be better suited to dealing with the mental strain than Thomas.” she moves to stand, patting down her crisp, white clothes. I hate her, but she’s right. Thomas was a true child, too young and naive — and I’d never have wanted him to be in my place. I don’t respond, staring down at the table in contemplation. Instinct. Everything we learned was ingrained in the other like instinct. In a way I was glad. Thomas had what he needed to protect himself, even if he’d require a bit of practice to build his strength. But we could work on that, once this was over and we were back together. I had to hope we’d be back together one day. Even if it was years from now. I could wait. He was my brother after all, my twin and my only family. “Good luck, Eddie.” Dr. Paige placed a hand on my shoulder, touch light and possibly meant to be comforting. Then she turns and leaves, the door swishing shut behind her. I’m left alone in my room, with my single bed and single chair. I’d forgotten how to be just one when I’d been two for so long. “Guess I’ll need it.” I whisper into the air belatedly, long after Dr. Paige had left. A little luck would go a long way in a place like this. ===============================================================================   The next time I saw Thomas, Newt and the others had been in the Maze a whole month. He couldn’t look me in the eye and instead spent the whole time cuddled against my side and looking ill. “It’s not going well, is it?” I whisper, unable to untangle the venomous coil of emotion within him. There was a lot of stress and fear, and other feelings I had a hard time identifying. “No.” he answers, short and soft. There is more to say, I can feel it. But Thomas doesn’t open his mouth again, instead clenching his jaw and looking at the wall with a despondent look in his glimmering eyes. He looks on the edge of tears, like he’s holding back breaking down. I wouldn’t care if he did, I’d never judge him for it and he knew that. How old were we now? Thirteen? He was growing up, or trying to. Crying was for children, and children we were not. Not really. I’d wanted him to have a normal childhood; friends and time to spend doing whatever he wanted. But time had slipped through my fingers before I’d realized. We were entering our teenage years already. We’d be young adults before I knew it. My little brother wasn’t that tiny, babbling infant anymore, no matter how much I wanted him to be. Things were easier back then. “Alright.” I let out a breath, running my hand through his messy brown hair. He’d need a haircut soon. As would I. “They’re still…” “Newt and Minho are alive,” Thomas sniffs, knowing immediately what I’d been trying to ask. His response makes me breathe a little easier. “So are Alby, Nick, Winston ‘n Zart.” So all our friends were doing okay. I wondered what was going so wrong that made Thomas so troubled. It couldn’t be good. I wanted to know -- badly -- but on the other hand I didn’t. The Maze terrified me. I kept getting flashes of it in my mind, now that I was more aware of the connection Thomas and I shared. Blueprints of it, of pieces that connected to form a monstrous enclosure. “Good.” I didn’t want to think about the terrifying structure and size of the Maze anymore. Not when it would be my reality in a few months. Newt’s there, I kept thinking. Minho’s there. I used those thoughts as comfort. Whatever happened, I wouldn’t be alone -- and neither would Thomas. He had Teresa and Rachel and Aris, who wouldn’t be entering the Maze either. They could stay in their bubble of safety. I still didn’t like Teresa that much, but I trusted her enough to watch out for Thomas. There wasn’t a specific reason I didn’t like her, we’d just disagreed on methods of finding a cure for so long that now it’d tainted our relationship. Now though, I wanted a cure as badly as she did, but I wasn’t really willing to reconcile our ‘friendship’ because we’d never been close. It might seem cruel or rude, but being her friend wasn’t really high on my list of priorities at the moment. ===============================================================================   My training continued, just as rigorous as before. As my time to be placed in the Maze approached, the harder they worked me. Instructor Davis hit harder, moved faster and talked sharper. My bruises had bruises and new scars were added to my surprising collection. Nothing awful, just knife nicks and cuts I’d gotten from weapons training. Getting swiped by a blade wasn’t a feeling I particularly enjoyed, especially when they cut deep enough to scar. The trainers weren’t supposed to hurt me too badly, but fights were pretty unpredictable when weapons were involved. I traced a scar on my abdomen underneath the spray of cool water. I didn’t usually spend a lot of time in the shower, but I felt a little out of it with exhaustion. My knuckles were bruised once more, twinging painfully whenever I stretched out my fingers. It was familiar pain though, easily ignorable. Nothing in comparison to the newly stitched slice across my left deltoid. The numbing shot I’d been given was beginning to wear off. I had a bottle of painkillers by my bed to use in emergencies ( like the time I’d broken my nose ), and I was planning on taking one before bed. Hopefully it would knock me out for the night. I didn’t need nightmares, not right now. My sleep had only just begun normalizing. Spending thirteen years sleeping beside someone had spoiled me, I couldn’t settle without a weight by my side or the sound of breathing in my ear. But it had been over two months now of me staying in a separate room from Thomas. I’d begun to sleep a little better, but it still felt like something was missing. I don’t think that feeling would ever go away. I had less than three months left before being sent into the Maze. Even as time passed, I became no less terrified of the prospect. There were too many unknowns. I was being kept in the dark for a reason, one that I believed largely had to do with my current skill in fighting. They couldn’t afford to have me making a scene and stalling their experiment or whatever if I didn’t agree with what I’d be heading into. As it was, I already didn’t agree with being sent into the Maze, but I wasn’t stupid. I’d be sent there whether I liked it or not -- in here, I was outnumbered. It couldn’t be so bad. What held me together was seeing our friends again. These damn trials had already taken so much from us….I just wanted to see them again. I needed to see for myself that they were okay, because for the first time there was a distinct possibility that they weren’t. When I exited the shower, it took me a minute to remember to take the towel and start drying off. My limbs were heavy with exhaustion, eyes dropping and I realized I was swaying a bit where I stood. Shaking my head, I forced myself awake a little more, just enough to finish drying off and slip into pajamas. Once, I had felt bad about the fact that my exhaustion could be felt through the twin bond. Thomas wasn’t completely affected by it, but it certainly wasn’t a pleasant feeling. But now, we’d grown so used to being worn out that it became something of a nightly expectation. I could feel his own sleepiness in the back of my mind, not as heavy as my own but urging me into bed all the quicker. Goodnight, Mikey. Thomas says, feeling for a moment like he was right beside me. I glance over to the empty space on the bed, still feeling disappointed when I don’t see him there. Goodnight, Stevie. I answer back, closing my eyes and falling asleep in seconds. ===============================================================================   The day approaches rapidly. You’d think that months would take longer, feel longer. But routine had always made time feel like it was passing faster. I had less than a week left before the Maze now. Newt turned fourteen a few days ago, I wonder if they celebrated. Thomas and I still had about six months until we ourselves turned fourteen, and it would be our first birthday apart. I could always dream and hope that the boys and I would get out of the Maze trials before then, but Thomas had told me that they weren’t even close to figuring it out. Years, Thomas had said. It could take years for us to get out. I didn’t want to miss seeing my brother grow up, I didn’t want to come out of the maze at -- god forbid -- eighteen or later! To enter a child and exit an adult was my worst nightmare. I hadn’t seen Rachel or Aris in a long time. Teresa barely left Thomas’ side, so even if we weren’t friends we found ourselves together every once in a while. I tried not to be too bitter about her crashing the few hours a week I was allowed to spend with Thomas. I’m sure my brother felt it anyway. He had mixed feelings about Teresa and I’s tense relationship. On one hand, he also didn’t like her taking up our time together either; but on the other, he liked her enough that he thought our lack of friendship was ridiculous. As I’ve said, I don’t hate Teresa. But Thomas just doesn’t seem to understand that some people don’t get along. Not everyone has to be friends just because they’re the same age! Her lack of reaction towards some of the experiments WICKED did were unsettling. There was compassion within her, obviously. She wasn’t a bad person, not even close. But I couldn’t really trust her when I knew she’d kill me if it meant finding a cure. I didn’t want a friend like that. Newt and Minho and the others were all I needed -- I knew they’d have my back no matter what. They might want a cure, but never at the expense of one another. “Eddie.” I turn to Thomas, taking a break from working on WICKED’s equivalent of ‘homework’. He’s looking at me with a worried gaze, pencil tapping against the table. His own sheet lies half-finished in front of him. “What’s up?” I ask, wondering what could be distracting him so much from his work. He’s usually done within moments, the little genius. “Just….I’m really gonna miss you, ya know?” he bites his lip, skittish. Hiding something. “I’m gonna miss you too, Tommy.” I eye him, suspicious. He winces, obviously feeling it. Subtlety is not his strong suit. “Don’t worry, I’ll think about you the whole time.” It’s the wrong thing to say, I can see it in the way his face shutters and his emotions turn icy and frantic. He looks like he’s about to cry, pencil dropping from his slack grip and lips trembling. The door to my room slides open, a soldier stepping in. It’s time for Thomas to go for the day. He still sits, frozen and staring at me like I’ve devastated him. The soldier barks at him to stand up. He does. Stevie. What’s going on? I can’t let him just leave when he looks like that, not without some answers. I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so, so sorry. Please, keep me in your head -- keep me in your memories! The door slides shut, my last glimpse of Thomas is his big, watery brown eyes glancing back to meet my own. My memory? Thomas doesn’t reply. I can still feel his disorienting sadness and guilt. Stevie! ===============================================================================   On the day I’m set to enter the maze, my door sliding open awakens me. My eyes shoot open, startled by the sound of boots against the floor. Sitting up, I see Dr. Paige and two soldiers just inside the door. “Eddie,” she greets, nodding to me. “Please, get ready quickly. We’ve brought a change of clothes for you, ones more suitable for the Maze.” I slip out of bed, feeling the cold of the concrete floor even through my socks. In one hand she’s holding folded pants and a shirt, stacked. In the other she’s brandishing a pair of gray sneakers. They’re sturdier looking than the ones I’ve been used to wearing, meant to last. With a tired nod, I take the offered clothes and shoes from her and make my way into the bathroom to change. “Don’t take too long.” she reminds me as I shut the door. I don’t give her a response. My movements are sluggish with sleep, but I tug my pajamas off and dress myself in the new clothes. Tan, cargo-like pants and a muted, scarlet long-sleeve shirt. The shirt had seams like a baseball tee, but was all one solid color. It was quite the change from the grayscale attire I’d grown accustomed to over the years, in fact it was the most colorful clothing I’d seen in ages. I slipped the shoes on last, before standing and turning to the mirror. I looked….less tired than expected. My skin was a little pale and there was a light bruise across my cheek bone, but at least the bags under my eyes had receded. Actually, now that I think about it, I didn’t look too bad at all. I’d had worst days, and at least I wasn’t covered in bruises from training. Almost everything was healed, as they’d stopped teaching me almost two weeks ago. Most of my time had been spent with Thomas, up until our last interaction a few days ago. I splashed some water on my face, staring into mirror-me’s gold-brown eyes. My face was sharp from training, baby fat having faded faster than others ( though not completely, it still settled around my cheeks a little ). My jawline was prominent, and there was a collection of moles and freckles scattered across my face almost artfully. My eyelashes were long and dark and framed my favorite part of myself ( and of Thomas ). My eyes. Even in this body I didn’t feel comfortable, too self-conscious and lacking self-esteem, but even I couldn’t fault the stunning color of Thomas and I’s eyes. I wasn’t unattractive -- it was the opposite actually. Though I’d yet to grow in to all my features and body as a whole. It felt weird complimenting myself, but since Thomas shared the same face I supposed it could count as mere observation. It was a little weird. I’d been average in my other life, at least I’m pretty sure I was. ( Who knew, with the state of my self-love. ) Now I was barrelling towards the realm of pretty boy and the only reason I was seeing and accepting it was because this was a different body. I’d long since accepted my rebirth, but seeing these new features still made me realize exactly how different I was now. I left the bathroom. Dr. Paige offered me a small smile and led me from the room. I walked beside her, the two guards trailing behind us. I wondered why they were needed — it’s not like I’d actually try to attack her, no matter how much I hated WICKED. I needed that cure for Newt, therefore I needed her. She ran this whole operation as far as I knew. “Worried I’ll try to run?” I mutter, side-eyeing her. Her heels clack against the floor, the only sound aside from three sets of muffled footsteps. “We’re prepared for any reaction.” Is all she says. “I’m not going to.” She looks at me as I speak, our pace staying consistent. “Newt needs the cure, so I have to do this.” She doesn’t seem surprised that I know of Newt’s non-immune status, perhaps she thought Thomas had told me, or that I’d gotten the info just from our shared brain waves or whatever. There’s no way she could have known that Newt himself had told me though. “When we find a cure, you’ll give it to him.” I state, tone hard. I’m not asking for her permission. “After what you’ve done to us all, you owe him.” “When we find a cure, he’ll be among the first to receive it.” She looks at me with a kind, indescribable expression. I know she’s not truly a bad person, not really. There is compassion there, and she takes no joy from our pain. I don’t trust her, but I know in this moment I can believe her words. “Good.” I say, nodding my head. “I’ll hold you to that.” We enter a room that seems familiar to me, yet I’ve never stepped foot inside it. It must be somewhere Thomas has been, and frequently enough for it to make an impression. There are futuristic tables -- or are they desks? -- that are made of clear glass with holographic data, graphs and monitoring screens displayed on them. Very Tony Stark. And in the back, all along the wall, is an entire row of metal and glass cylinders, each one big enough to fit a person inside and a little more. One of them is open. “Please step inside, Eddie.” Dr. Paige instructs, and the two guards shift to attention. They’re preparing for me to resist. It doesn’t help settle my nerves. I wonder if it’s a chute of some sort, or a mini elevator. I can’t fathom what it’s for, but the sight of it fills me with some strange trepidation. For Newt. I think, and take one step and then another. When I reach the cylindrical container, I glance back at Dr. Paige. Her lips are pursed but her expression in encouraging. It’s not the face of a woman sending me to my death ( not yet ) but she could merely be deceiving me. I step inside. She closes the door behind me, and I can still make her out through the glass. She walks over to the row of desks and begins swiping at the monitors and tapping her fingers against it. The container I’m in makes a whirring noise, like it’s powering up. I step back a little, back brushing the other end of the cylinder. I glance around, heart rate picking up. “Subject A3, ready for the Swipe.” Dr. Paige’s voice is muffled through the glass and metal. Mikey, listen to me. I blink, breathing deeply, confused by Dr. Paige’s words but distracted by Stevie’s voice in my head. Something makes a bubbling noise at my feet. When I look down I can see liquid shooting from small holes around the base of the container. Are they -- are they trying to drown me? You’re not going to die. Thomas insists, but he sounds so heartbroken, even in his mind. What’s happening, Stevie?! Inwardly, I’m panicking. I’ve always hated water - - more specifically the ocean, or bodies of water that lacked visibility. ‘Fear of the Unknown’ they called it, which is why I hated the dark, too. This liquid, already up to my knees, wasn’t dark. It was crystal clear. But the idea of being submerged was still a terrifying one and I’m pretty sure the door was locked. No way out. There wasn’t really a lot of room to move in here either, the size making the water seem like it was rising quickly. It probably was. You’re not going to drown. It’ll feel like it, for a moment. But you won’t, trust me. It’s not actually water, it’s something else. What’s it going to do to me? There had to be a reason for this. I’m sorry Eddie, I’m so, so sorry. His words were filled with so much guilt and desperation that it startled me. You’re going to forget. I-I don’t understand. I blink, the water is passing my waist. The panic begins to take hold, my arms shooting out to brace against the curved glass walls. My chest heaves. They’re -- They’re taking your memories, Mikey. You’re gonna forget everything. I gasp, hands splashing down into the liquid briefly. No, no they can’t! Stevie! Is this what he’d been hiding from me!? Betrayal burned deep in my mind, disbelief a close second. Had -- Had all our friends been wiped and placed into the Maze? Had I lost my best friend without even knowing? I wanted to tell you! I swear! I wasn’t allowed to, I couldn’t --- I couldn’t let you fight back. Not against them. You’d only get hurt. Mikey, please! Thomas pleads, needing so desperately for me to understand. I don’t know what to think, Stevie! I all but scream in my head, beginning to shake a little in terror as the liquid laps my chest. You -- You kept me in the dark! You’re my twin! I don’t care if you hate me forever, or if -- if you can’t even remember me. I love you. I love you so much, Michael. You’re my brother and you mean everything to me. The liquid brushes my chin and continues to rise, I float a little on my toes, keeping my head afloat as long as possible. No matter what, Thomas is still my brother and I’d sworn to forgive him, forgive whatever he did to find a cure. But this was the last thing I was expecting. It was almost too much. And yet. If this was the last memory I’d make, knowing of him, then I can’t waste it. I love you too, Stephen. I always will. Whatever happens -- just….know that I do. He’s crying now, I can feel the sting in his eyes and tension in his throat. Thick regret and aching sadness is cloying, spinning between us. Please -- oh, please, remember me. Don’t forget me! I don’t want you to! Stevie. I say his name as the water covers my head and the tank is filled completely. Stevie, see you later. I don’t want to forget him. For maybe a minute I last before my chest begins to ache from holding my breath. I want to scream and bang my fists against the glass, beg and plead to be released. But I don’t. My limbs twitch and so does my body, curling slightly in on itself. I’m terrified. Drowning isn’t how I want to go. It’s pure instinct for the human body to resist drowning to the point of passing out. I am no different. My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune. My head aches, my lungs burn. It’s so painful, holding my breath for so long, unwilling to submit and take that one, single breath. I thrash in the liquid, kicking and lashing out with my limbs. I’m scared, I’m so fucking scared! My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune. Repeat. Don’t forget. Don’t let it slip away. Everything’s becoming foggy and my insides are on fire. I can’t open my eyes. My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune. My fingers tingle. My toes tingle. I can’t feel myself making movements. It feels like I’m dying. My name is Michael. I have a twin brother named Stephen, he’s a few minutes younger than me. We had parents once. They loved us. My best friend’s name is Newt. He’s not Immune. The world ceases to exist. I barely feel the liquid slip past my lips as my lungs force me to breathe in. Suddenly it’s not painful anymore. It’s peaceful, actually, and I’m wondering why I fought so hard to not breathe in the first place. There’s whiteness creeping in behind my eyelids, bright and ever expanding. I don’t know where I am. I can’t feel my body. Where was I? What was I doing? My name... I have a sibling, don't I? Was he older or younger? We had parents once, but everyone has parents. What were they like again? I had….I had someone. Someone special. I can’t remember. Chapter End Notes ANNNNND THERE YOU HAVE IT FOLKS! Time to enter the maze! If you think it’s weird that Thomas would let Eddie go through this, just remember that WICKED has the ability to restore their memories and Thomas knows that after the trials are completed that’s what is supposed to happen. He’s also not aware of how life-threatening the Maze trials currently are, as he’s been kept in the dark a bit by Dr. Paige simply due to his loyalty to Eddie. His love for his twin is a big factor in why he eventually betrays WICKED and ends up in the Maze himself. Just thought I’d let you know, since I’m not going to be writing Thomas’ POV in this story! Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!