"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 could 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.