[ whiplash isn't really terribly surprising, after all, thomas had just been forcibly dragged through a Flat Trans, after minho, while the building around him was being blown to hell. just before that, he'd nearly had his brain carved out, then went running through collapsing rubble, then fought a grown man and strangled him to death. the aches and pains don't seem out of place.
what does is the blond boy who'd just gone tripping over thomas's sprawled legs, speaking in a familiar accent, looking more like a memory than what he knows his best friend, newt, ought to actually look like. were he still alive.
this can't be real. this cannot be real, and thomas is shaking in his seat, staring wide eyed at the boy with jaw slack and eyes stinging. he felt newt collapse on him, heard the gunshot, the crack as it made contact, felt his friend's body jerk as it hit.
but he hadn't looked, had he? his eyes were closed, and when he got up, he ran. he didn't look at newt's body, he didn't try to move it or take it with. for that matter, how could he have been certain that was newt to begin with? they can give four kids telepathy, who says they can't make another look and talk and act like newt? ratman's words from the dorms in the scorch ring in the back of his mind. you should never, ever believe your eyes, or your mind, for that matter. a chill shoots up his spine at the same moment as a seething, burning rage pumps through his chest like raging wildfire. thomas's hands tighten over the straps of his seat restraints clutched in his hands, knuckles white. death wasn't nearly good enough for that man.
whether that newt was real or this one was, he can't decide, and thomas is torn between the two, mind in a storm, but none the less, a single syllable falls shake from his lips, whispered almost, and unbidden. ]
...Newt?
[ he looks like hell, probably. covered in dirt and grime and carbon dust from the explosions, scrapes and bruises blossoming across his face from being repeated hit by jansen, and pale. thomas isn't concerned with any of it at the moment, and doesn't take note of anything else going on right now, because really? who the fuck cares anymore? ]
hahahahahahahahhahahhah gjrklfjldksgjregavfdsfsa i should be sorry but im not
what does is the blond boy who'd just gone tripping over thomas's sprawled legs, speaking in a familiar accent, looking more like a memory than what he knows his best friend, newt, ought to actually look like. were he still alive.
this can't be real. this cannot be real, and thomas is shaking in his seat, staring wide eyed at the boy with jaw slack and eyes stinging. he felt newt collapse on him, heard the gunshot, the crack as it made contact, felt his friend's body jerk as it hit.
but he hadn't looked, had he? his eyes were closed, and when he got up, he ran. he didn't look at newt's body, he didn't try to move it or take it with. for that matter, how could he have been certain that was newt to begin with? they can give four kids telepathy, who says they can't make another look and talk and act like newt? ratman's words from the dorms in the scorch ring in the back of his mind. you should never, ever believe your eyes, or your mind, for that matter. a chill shoots up his spine at the same moment as a seething, burning rage pumps through his chest like raging wildfire. thomas's hands tighten over the straps of his seat restraints clutched in his hands, knuckles white. death wasn't nearly good enough for that man.
whether that newt was real or this one was, he can't decide, and thomas is torn between the two, mind in a storm, but none the less, a single syllable falls shake from his lips, whispered almost, and unbidden. ]
...Newt?
[ he looks like hell, probably. covered in dirt and grime and carbon dust from the explosions, scrapes and bruises blossoming across his face from being repeated hit by jansen, and pale. thomas isn't concerned with any of it at the moment, and doesn't take note of anything else going on right now, because really? who the fuck cares anymore? ]