In between nightmares, there was only silence.
The metal in his ribs tightened, and with each passing minute, he shuddered at the cold stiffness and fear that he was being suffocated. There was a booming noise in the background. It started as far-away thumps that seemed as if in a different country, then they grew louder, and felt closer, and soon enough, the ground below him was shaking with it and the walls that kept him locked inside trembled as if in an act of mimicry from his breathless soul.
He was lost. He couldn't find a single thought in his brain that made sense. All he could think was, "I'm in a prison cell. They've got me. I'm dead. Can I kill myself before they get to do it?"
He didn't understand why he was having those thoughts, but he didn't think of that then.
A sudden shrieking cry broke through the cell and rattled open the ceiling, flashing in a bright light that blinded him for the longest time. He cried out in frustration. He had always been crying out, he just never really realized it.
"Shuck! Klunk-heads! Ya bloody monsters. I'll die before you get to lay any filthy stinger on me." The scene had suddenly changed. Now he was raging in a wide-open field. The place looked wildly familiar, however, he realized afterward he couldn't figure out where he had seen it. There wasn't much time for touring around. The minute his feet planted on the grass, he noticed the giant mechanical monster charging in his direction. He didn't recognize what it was, but he just knew he had to run. No matter the cost. Keep running.
Remember. Survive. Run. The words suddenly blew up in his brain, and with his dying breaths, he managed to outrun the beast. He didn't know how, it simply had disappeared, but when he looked back he saw something much more menacing.
There was blood everywhere. First, he saw the bodies. About fifty or so of them scattered all around the glade. They were poor, deformed things, barely human. Green veins throbbed throughout all of their bodies. Poison. They were faint, like ghosts, and his heart jumped out of his throat just looking at them. For one reason. They had been Stung.
"You bloody shank." He cried. One of them had caught his eye. He had the eyes of a fighter, deep and dark. Despite the violent tendencies Stung often had, this one seemed calm and satisfied with his life. He felt a tug on his sleeve and held tightly to his friend's hand. "Thomas. Don't die on me, buddy. I always imagined I'd go to hell, not you. Kill me first. If you're my friend. Kill me. I don't want to die alone." Images flashed in his mind. A rough guy with a deformed nose. A warrior. An Asian with the face of kindness. A Runner. A chubby boy with red cheeks and the attitude of a winner. Darker skin. Him. Him. And him. He knew these people.
"My name is Newt..." The faint thought came and went as everything faded to black.