Thomas was back in the chair, back in the white room, back in WICKED. His wrists were tied down with razor wire sinking into his skin bordered with blood welling up around it. But it didn't matter, he couldn't feel it, at least not right now. His ears rang with the screams of his best friend. But he couldn't open his mouth. He sat unmoving and unable to blink, watching the scene play out in front of him.

Newt was in a chair, tied down similar to Thomas. He was hurt, he was always hurt, and Thomas could never quite reach him. Not without making it worse. Faceless people passed in and out of view, carving at Newts skin and prodding his mind in ways Thomas couldn't see, but based on the intensity of Newts screams he couldn't tell which was worse.

"Newt." Thomas watched helplessly as another version of himself walked into the spotlight trained on Newt. He could see Newt's eyes widen. Hope waging war with confusion behind them. Thomas felt himself wanting to fight again. The Thomas in front of him was talking quietly to the panicking Newt. He whispered words into his ear and behind his back, he held a gun. Thomas, the real Thomas wanted to scream. He wanted to shout warnings to his friend. But it was too late, as Newt begged for his life, pleading and sobbing, the Thomas in front of him took aim and pulled the trigger.

A scream ripped through his throat sending him sitting straight up and pulling desperately at his wrist. Unaware of the door to his room swing open and the light flipping on.

"Thomas?"

"Get it off, I have to get it off," he yelled pulling against his wrist.

"Thomas honey, calm down, talk to me."

"He's going to die and I cant, I have to get out of here, I have to, I have to find..." Thomas couldn't get a full sentence out before the sobs would build up in his chest and choke him. When he could talk the words tumbled over each other all fighting to get out.

"Who, who are you talking about honey?" she asked, grabbing him by his shoulders and forcing him to look at her.

"Newt" he cried like the answer wasn't obvious. She nodded

"Okay, alright."

"Please get this off of me, you don't understand."

"You're, um, the Sheriff is on his way right now. He has the keys. Just a little bit longer okay?" he nodded and took a shaky breath.

"Thomas... Can you tell me what happened to you?" she asked, hesitantly dropping one of her hands into his cuffed one. He shook his head.

"Okay that's alright, we don't have to talk about that," she said, pulling a chair over and sitting next to him. "What can you tell me?"

"My name is Thomas. That's the only thing they let us keep." he said. It felt like the Glade all over again, like there were some giant puppeteers manipulating the world around him still. Like he wasn't actually out.

He never really thought he was out, to begin with, rescue was something WICKED liked to pretend to do a lot. But Melissa didn't feel like part of WICKED. She felt like she genuinely cared. She felt like what Thomas imagined a mother should feel like.

"Who's they?" she asked

"WICKED."

"Like the letters on the clothes, we found you in?" Thomas sucked in a breath.

"I'm not with them." he shook his head violently.

"No, I know you're not honey. I know."

"No you don't, they made me! Don't you see? They made me, I didn't have a choice. He would have died." he could feel hysteria pushing at him like it was just waiting for him to fall into its grasp.

"Newt?" her voice was so quiet he thought he must have made it up but he nodded all the same and her eyes said they understood. They sat in silence for a while, not all uncomfortable. He felt like he didn't have to pretend to be anything with her.

"Thomas," she said finally breaking the silence. He looked at her but she wasn't looking at him, or rather not at his face. Her eyes were trained on his wrist and his stomach tied itself in knots. "What happened?" She asked, pulling his wrists closer to her face, inspecting them both and running cool fingers over the darker scares that wrapped all the way around his wrists.

"Nothing," he said pulling them away.

"Stiles," she said sternly, but he refused to make eye contact. The name sounded like it hurt her to say and he was tired of hearing it. "Thomas." she amended, trying again to take a closer look at his wrists.

Neither of them said anything until the sheriff got there, he took one look at Thomas and worry filled his eyes.

"What's wrong, what happened?" he asked Melissa. He didn't like the way they whispered to each other, talking like he wasn't sitting right there like he somehow missed the fact that there was something going on that they didn't want him to know. Or didn't know how to tell him yet. He hated the way they looked at him like he was a ghost, a mix of fear both of him and of the possibility of him disappearing before his eyes.

When they finally got done with their super secret conversation the sheriff finally walked over and unlocked the handcuffs. Thomas held his now freed wrist in his hand, running his fingers over the spots that felt sore. He focused on his hands, not wanting to meet the other's eyes. Feeling their eyes on him.

"Thomas." The Sheriff said at the same time as the door swung open, revealing a shaggy-haired boy with a god awful tattoo on his upper arm. He wanted to say the boy looked about as old as Thomas, except that Thomas didn't even know how old that was. The first thing he thought of this boy was that he looked exactly what he'd think a puppy would look like in human form.

"Stiles?" the name instantly turned Thomas's stomach over and he was starting to connect some of the dots laid so obviously out in front of him.

"Can somebody please tell me what the hell a Stiles is?" he asked, the name made him uncomfortable like he was letting everyone down by not knowing it, and it was getting harder and harder with each new person that decided to burst through his damn door. The boys face fell going from obvious excitement to pure shock to complete and utter depression so fast it had Thomas thinking his second thought about the boy, he wouldn't survive 3 minutes in the hands of WICKED.

"Honey, why don't we talk in the hallway?" Mellisa called him honey exactly like she called Thomas honey. He wasn't sure why this stuck out in his mind but it did.

"Son." the Sheriff started

"Who was that?" Thomas asked, completely ignoring him.

"That was Scott, Scott McCall." the sheriff sighed. "Listen, Thomas, there's a lot we need to talk about, on both sides of this, thing." The sheriff's words were awkward and he paused at random points like he wasn't quite sure what he was going to say before he said it. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but Thomas interrupted him.

"How do you know me." because that was obvious wasn't it?

"Why don't I take you home." the sheriff said, ignoring Thomas's question and looking anywhere but at him.

"Home?" the word had never carried much meaning to didn't think he had a home, at least not a place he could call home. Home the way he knew it was Frypans cooking, Gally's brew, and Chuck talking his ear out in the hammock next to him and running the maze with Minho. That was the closest thing t a home Thomas had ever had. He didn't want anything different.

"We have a lot to talk about." the sheriff repeated, resting his hand on Thomas's shoulder.

"How do you know me," Thomas repeated louder pulling away from the man's touch.

"You're my son." the words fell out of the sheriff's mouth like a bomb exploding in Thomases heart.

"No" Thomas could barely whisper. He was told he didn't have a family. He was always fed stories of how his mom went crazy. But that was the only information they'd ever given him. He didn't think anything of it. All he could remember was WICKED.

"You're my son." the Sheriff repeated firmer. Thomas shook his head. No. no because that wasn't possible. no, because even if it were true he wasn't allowed to have this. Not yet. Not until he knew the rest of the surviving leaders had it. Not until he knew they were safe not until he knew this wasn't just another trick WICKED was playing on him. And even then. Thomas didn't get to have this. Not after what he did. Not after any of it.

"I'm your dad." tears welled up in Thomases eyes, his hands blurred in his vision.

"No, you're a part of WICKED. This is a trick, its always a trick." Thomas hated the way his voice sounded.

"no, son. I'm not. I know you must have been through hell, I can't even begin to understand what they've done to you but I promise I'm real."

"The where were you!" Thomas screamed at the man, unaware of Mellisa in the doorway and the shaggy-haired kid behind her.

"Son, I'm sorry."

"No. no, you don't get to be sorry. You don't understand. I don't have a father. I Never had a father." he was yelling he knew he was yelling. He wanted to tear the needle out of his arm again to get away, to make it stop.

"Son." the man whispered and Thomas couldn't. He shook his head harder and covered his ears with his hands. It was too much

"I'm not your son" his vision blurred more as he said the words, his head shaking back and forth slowly.

"Of course you are. You're Stiles Stilinski. I've known you your whole life, I'd know you anywhere."

"Stiles is dead, don't you understand! Stiles died when WICKED emptied his head. Hen they sent him up into a fucking maze like a lab rat." he looked at Mellisa, in the doorway with tears in her eyes, the boy in front of her who stared at them shocked and confused and hurt. He didn't know these people. He didn't trust these people, and he didn't owe them a damn thing. Nobody said a word for a long time.

"I don't know what kind of life I had before WICKED. But none of it matters anymore, nothing from before the can even trust what they've done to me and my friends, the ones that actually know me, Thomas, and I don't know where they are. And I cant think about anything else until I know they're safe."

"It's okay son. We can find them, let me help you find them. Come home with me and we won't stop until you know they're safe." Thomas felt the sincerity in the words and he felt like he could trust this. He wasn't ready to throw out the idea that WICKED still could be behind his rescue but he trusted the Sheriff to find his friends.

"Okay. ill let them know you're free to go." Mellisa said walking out of the room and dragging the other boy behind her.

The short drive home was silent between the two. Thomas starred out the window of the police car, but he could feel the sheriff, his dads, eyes on him more than would be considered safe for someone that was driving.

Home turned out to be a small ton called beacon hills, a blue jeep that sat in the driveway to a small house with two bedrooms, and Scott leaning against the front door.

"Scott I thought Melissa told you to go home." the sheriff started.

"I know but I think I could help," he said. "I think we all could"

"All?" the sheriff asked.

"Yeah, like maybe if he meets some of the pack. Er, our friends then maybe we could jog some of his memories." Thomas hated being talked about like he wasn't there.

"You think after what you just saw at the hospital that that's the best idea, Scott?" Thomas hatted even more being treated like glass that could break with the slightest wrong move.

"I'm right here you know," he said from his spot behind the two. Who both looked at him slightly surprised. "What?" he asked slightly self-consciously. "I hate it when you talk to me like I'm not here. Can we go inside please its freezing." he pushed past them both to open the door to what he guessed was supposed to be his house. He stood in the doorway a moment and tried to feel some sort of familiarity. Part of him, albeit a small part, really did want to remember for the sake of his supposed dad at least.

"Stiles!" he had a face full of dark brown hair and was immediately reminded of Teressa. He shoved the girl away from him and took a step back holding his arms out in front of him. Looking at the girl closer she was nothing like Teressa. She was much taller and her hair was shorter and straight. She looked upset at the rejection and Thomas figured Scott hadn't told her much about what was going on.

"Stiles whats wrong?" she asked taking steps toward him.

"I'm, I'm not." he started backing away from her. he felt overwhelmed and the need to get away from her

"Your not what?" she kept getting closer and Thomas soon found himself backed against the wall with no way of escape.

"Him." Thomas managed to look around for somewhere to go. he made eye contact with Scott who was still arguing with the Sherriff on the front porch.

"Thomas! You want me to show you where your room is?" Scott asked pulling him away from he now angry looking girl.

"Uh, sure," he said letting Scott pull him up the stairs.

"That was Milia," Scott said as they walked the length of the short hallway and stopped outside a closed door. Thomas didn't know how to respond. "When I told them you were in the hospital they all rushed over here. I wasn't expecting you to not remember." Thomas just nodded, opening a door to what turned out to be a closet and pulling the first hoodie he saw out.

"Someone needs to tell he is not stiles." Scott didn't say anything, just watched as Thoms walked around his room, taking in everything. The silence stretched on so long Thoms wondered if Scott had even heard him.

"So uh listen, they, the people downstairs, they all missed you. We all, I just wanted you to know, even if you don't remember. I mean, I know you don't remember, but if you need help finding your friends, your other friends. Id love to help. And so would everyone else when they know whats going on." Scott stood awkwardly in the doorway of his room. Thomas starred at the floor for a second before looking at him and nodding.

"Thanks, for the record, I'm sorry I don't remember." Scott beamed at him.

"You're still Stiles even if you don't feel like it. You still do anything for the people you care about. If you want us to leave just tell me okay?" with that Scott left Thomas alone in his room.

Thomas hesitated for a moment. He stood in pretty much the same spot as when Scott had let him. He wanted to change into something with long sleeves. His father, the word felt odd even thinking, kept staring at his wrists and he didn't want anyone else to notice. He sighed and tugged on the sleeves of his hoodie, gripping the ends in the palms of his hands and squared his shoulders. Hed faced drivers and cranks and gally, surely another group of teens who had apparently been his friends at one point couldn't do that much harm.

"Thomas?" The Sheriff asked appearing in his doorway making him jump.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want me to make them leave?'" he asked. Thomas thought about it for awhile.

"How do you think we're going to find them?" Thomas asked quietly.

"Your friends? I'm not sure yet. I already searched their names but I'm thinking yours wasn't the only one to change." Thomas nodded thinking that probably made a lot of sense.

"You said we had a lot to talk about?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure how to do any of it. I need to know what happened to you over the last few years and there's a lot you don't know about Beacon Hills that id just as soon not tell you but"

"Are the people downstairs a part of what you have to tell me?" Thomas asked.

"Yeah, they're pretty much all of what I have to tell you."

"Then lets trade stories, might as well get it over with, put it all out there." The sheriff nodded but neither of them moved.

"Son, you don't have to. Not to a group of people like this." Thomas nodded biting his lip. "Look, we can send them home, it can be just me and you and Scott. Scott can tell everyone else later."

"No, most of it I can tell everybody," he said.

"And you're sure it's not too soon."

"It might already be too late," Thomas said under his breath as he left the room.