#a fragile line

[kareofbears]

a fragile line, chapter 3/3

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

—

Or, as they infiltrate WICKED, Gally notices the shift between Newt and Thomas.

read the final chapter below or the entire work on ao3

Gally had never seen Thomas fight, not really. But he's just as ruthless as he'd imagined.

His lungs are on fire, the soles of his feet beginning to burn as they sprint from one end of the WICKED tower to the other, Thomas leading them with a single-minded focus. The only time he slows is to make sure that Newt is still close to him before advancing.

Masks on, boys, Gally told them as they exited the stairwell. They know we're here, but they don't know how to figure out it's us. Let's take this nice and easy and we'll get to the med wing before we know it. That was out the window as soon as Thomas took a step out the door.

The sprinting, Gally doesn't have a problem with. He did have a problem with it, in the beginning, but it was nothing compared to what came after.

The first target was a WICKED soldier who took a step in front of Thomas to stop them. He responded by shooting him in the gut with a stun gun.

Things got out of hand from there.

People started screaming. Some, astutely, turned tail and ran. But soldiers took out their own firearms, cocky and stupid and unaware that Thomas was on a warpath.

Thomas doesn't fight with any particular style or strategy but Gally still recognizes the influence from all over the place—sees Minho in his throws, sees WICKED soldiers in the brutality of his strikes, and surprisingly, sees himself whenever Thomas knocks someone down on their ass. But for the most part, he sees Newt in Thomas' movements, recognizes the false sense of calm and steady movements that coats his every move like the beginnings of a storm.

Thomas tears through their advancing ranks, shattering ranks and letting electric bullets fly from the barrel like it was limitless. Not a moment of hesitation as he mows through soldier after soldier, barely taking a glance before taking a shot. Gally is reminded that he's actually clever when he isn't being a lovestruck idiot. The ways Thomas can conceive of ways to rapidly move people out of the way was terrifying and spectacular; tossing stunners in well-positioned spots, shooting lights out so there's a temporary black out, pushing people over railings and staircases without hesitation.

The soldiers aren't used to fighting someone so fast who fights with such grit and utter lack of consideration—by the time they realize what they're up against, they're already on the ground. The wake of bodies he leaves behind him as they stalk past is a sick gingerbread trail to anyone who dares to follow them. Gally doesn't even bother telling him off. The plan's gone to shit and he can't exactly disagree with Thomas' methods considering how much ground they're covering in a short amount of time. Besides, he doesn't have the urge to see himself caught in the crossfire.

To his credit, none of his hits are lethal. When Thomas eventually runs out of ammo and pulls out a real pistol, he goes for flesh wounds. Organs missed by a mile. But Gally has a sneaking suspicion that is from efficiency than anything else—aiming for something vital might take an extra second. A second that Thomas doesn't seem keen on wasting.

He wasn't concerned with maiming or causing pain. Thomas doesn't want prisoners, no. What he wants is time.

Newt hasn't made a noise except for his constant cacophony of coughs, breaths coming out through tight wheezes. When there's a moment to spare, Gally glances at him. Newt's expression is filled with nothing but curiosity, a devastated kind of awe, and certainty.

He'll never understand these shanks.

They get on the elevator, a jingle playing above them as blood and sweat drip down their bodies.

When they get to the 21st floor, Thomas takes a deep breath, cupping his hands over his mouth as he continues his sprint. "Teresa!"

His voice echoes along WICKED's walls, climbing higher and higher until it peters out to nothing.

"Teresa!" he screams. It sounds like his throat is tearing itself apart. "Get out here!"

A handful of soldiers step out, drawn by the noise, and by the time Gally gets one of them, Thomas is already stepping over three bodies.

"Teresa!"

Newt falls in step with Gally, breathing heavy from running and skin drenched in sweat, he coughs hard enough that he almost loses his balance. "He really wants to find this Teresa girl,” he pants, complexion pale and wan. “Is Tommy alright?”

Gally tries to laugh, but he can’t even muster a smile.

Thomas nearly smashes the med wing's button into pieces, door opening obediently. Emergency lights flash red and yellow, dousing everything in tones that makes it hard to see what's blood and what's not. Even more soldiers greet them, but it seems like they've heard what happened, because they fight with hesitation and unease. They look at Thomas like he's a meteor, an inevitable force of destruction that they have no choice but to meet. At one point, an idiot made an attempt to grab Newt.

The three of them are surging forward before the body hits the ground.

Throughout the bloodshed, Thomas is screaming, again and again, as if he can personally summon Teresa through volume alone. "Teresa—" he calls, but it's nothing but a rasp at this point. Gally sees how his hands clutch at his gun like an anchor, like he'd float away if it was taken from him.

They turn the corner and stop.

His usually spiky hair is flat, his skin is gaunt, his eyes filled with a deep and unmistakable horror that Gally can see from here, but there's denying the bastard who just threw a WICKED soldier straight through glass paneling.

"Minho?" Thomas whispers, taking an unsteady step forward before rushing forward to pull him into a tight hug. "Fuck, man."

Minho turned slowly, shaking so hard it looked like he was vibrating. "Thomas?" he asks, voice brittle and hoarse, as if it hasn't been used in days. "Is this real?"

Gally's chest is threatening to spill over with pure emotion and he can't help but move to grab Minho's shoulder, not quite having the courage to go in for a hug but unable to keep himself distant. "Hey, you dumb shank."

Eyes widening comically, he has to hold Minho steady so he doesn't topple over. "Fucking Gally?"

"Just can't get rid of me, can't you?" Gally grins, and he knows they should get moving, but it just feels so good to have these three within arms reach of him again.

Three?

Gally turns and sees that Newt hasn't moved an inch. He looks pleased, but he looks pleased for them. "You're Minho, yeah?" he asks, the smile he’s attempting falling flat as his face is flushed scarlet, fever truly settling in. "Glad to see you're alive, mate. These two were worried about you."

Gally turns back in time to see the grin slip off Minho's face. "Newt?" he mutters before recognition clicks behind his eyes. Minho pushes Thomas off him with a fury. "You useless shank, you let him get the fucking Flare?

Thomas' eyes harden. "You think I wanted this?" he asks, voice low, the relief melting away for swift anger to take its place.

"What I wanted was for you—" he prods at Thomas' chest, hard. "To take care of that self-sacrificing bastard, and now—"

Newt shoves Minho’s finger away, weak but unwavering. “You don’t get to talk to him like that,” he snaps, ire dripping in every word.

Minho’s flinches and is about to retaliate when Gally cuts in. "Not the fucking time," he hisses. "We gotta go. Thomas here called enough attention for—"

He interrupts himself at the sound of the entrance door sliding open, a plethora of footsteps falling in time with each other. "Shit."

"Spread out." The voice is unmistakably Janson's. "These rats aren't going anywhere. Put this place under lockdown."

The four of them look at each other, tempers momentarily forgotten. "Run?" Newt asks.

Minho takes the lead this time, turning left and right with a confidence that Gally can almost imagine came from running the Maze for years. But despite that, he's not running with the same gait that he had before—there's no injury but he's sluggish and shaky, none of the easy confidence that Gally had associated him with.

He skids to a stop as soldiers approach him, and when they attempt to backpedal, more soldiers flank them from behind.

"Oh, shit."

Thomas grabs the handle to the door behind them and forces it open. "In here!"

They scramble in and with Minho's help, close the door off with a built-in locking pole. With the way they're banging and slamming on the metal, it wasn't going to last long.

Gally swivels around to take in the room. It looks nothing more than an average storage unit, file cabinets and medical supplies littering the shelves that go up into the ceiling. The wall opposite to them is sheer glass, overlooking the beautiful landscape of the Last City.

"Now, I may be under the impression that I'm losing my marbles," Newt starts, and relief washes through him. Newt may be losing huge swathes of his memories, but at least he's not hostile. "But I think we have a few violent bastards on our tail and we're bloody stuck in what looks like a shitty doctor's clinic."

"You used to be the optimistic one, Newt," Minho grits out.

"Can't be the judge of what I used to be, mate."

"Minho," Thomas and Gally offer in unison.

"That's what you're focusing on?"

Gally turns to glare at him. Can you quit joking around? sitting just behind his teeth. But what he sees is Newt leaning against the wall next to the door, sucking in deep breaths like he can't get enough. Black lines trail from his pulse points and crawl up to his cranium, temples lined with black as if they were sweat trails, and he barely looks like he can stay on his feet. His retort dies in his throat. Even now, always jokes, always humor.

"Newt," Thomas grabs his shoulders, peering closely at his face. "Talk to me."

“I’m fine,” he tries, but can’t even make it through his own words before he turns sideways, spitting more black liquid onto the floor. “Fine. Just fine.”

“Come on,” Thomas shakes him, insistent. “Try again.”

"Not sure what I can say, Tommy," he breathes, smile still plastered on. "Other than I'm feeling—not my best—"

"I know," he drops his forehead to Newt's for a moment. "I know. Almost, okay?"

Newt nods and Thomas pulls back, expression drenched in vitriol. Without saying a word, Thomas grabs what looks like a helium tank, and spins, using the momentum to lift it off the ground.

Gally and Minho, fully aware of Thomas' nonsensical plans at this point, just barely moves out of the way as he throws the tank straight through the window. The three of them watch as it falls, and falls, and falls, before landing clean into a deep, decorative pool, twenty-one stories below them.

Thomas looks at them expectantly. "You'll survive."

Minho gapes at him. "You're fucking kidding me."

"It's either this—" he gestures through the broken window. "Or that." The banging on the door ceases for a moment, before something that sounds horribly like a chain being started up rings out.

Thomas marches over and grabs Newt. "You two go first," he tells them. "Then we'll jump."

"Why do you get Newt?" Gally demands.

"Because if someone gets Newt, then one of you gets stuck with me."

He can't argue with that.

Minho gives Gally an odd look. "You take care of these bastards while I was gone?"

"Not like I had much of a choice."

Despite everything, he barks out a laugh. "You're alright, man."

Kicking the remaining glass out of the way, Gally and Minho nod at each other before taking a step forward, knees bent, ready to run, to jump.

He hears it before he sees it.

It's a particular sound. Newt, had he been in the right state, probably would have recognized it right away. Gally knows the sound, has broken through enough door to know the satisfying, final crunch of a lock giving up and a door sliding open.

Janson enters, eyes ablaze and stun gun cocked, eyes scanning the four of them before landing on Thomas.

Unexpectedly, Newt lets out a deep, guttural sound that almost has Gally covering his ears. It's unnervingly animalistic, violent, predatory. Inhumane. "No."

With a speed that's faster than Thomas and a strength that outstrips Minho on a good day, he launches himself directly at Janson.

Time slows down.

Minho, carried forward by his own momentum, is out of the window and can only look back at the scene in pure horror as he dives.

Newt and Janson brawl it out, Janson clearly unprepared for Newt but holding his own well enough to pull out a dagger from his back pocket.

Thomas is immediately surrounded by soldiers, screaming for Newt, arms outstretched as he gets pinned down, sections of his body aglow as he gets tased repeatedly. Just before he loses consciousness, Thomas cranes his neck at Gally, gaze loaded.

It's like he was back in the Maze again, watching as Grievers stormed into the Glade, sees his Gladers get picked off one by one and he can only fit so many of them in the Box.

Thomas would be dead weight, surrounded by three soldiers. Newt might be truly Cranking out, but he can still be convinced, and he's only against Janson. It's obvious. The choice is obvious. Not only that, but Thomas is basically handing the answer to him on a silver platter.

Still mid-jump, Gally grabs the window paneling and, using all the strength he has, redirects his momentum to swivel back into the room and sends a punch directly into a WICKED soldier's jaw.

Fuck Thomas.

With a hardened fury in his core, he kicks Janson in the abdomen, sending him sprawling out onto the floor.

Fuck Newt.

A gun cocks behind him and Gally doesn't think twice before ramming the guy straight into the wall, fumbling for the gun and throwing it out the window, hoping it doesn't hit Minho on the way down.

He's done choosing who lives or dies. He's tired of being full of grief for people who are still alive.

Someone gets a good blow in his ribs, and he hisses before he pulls out a pocket knife, sinking it deep into the guy's lungs before kicking him down.

Dammit, he misses his friends.

There's someone who's still tasing Thomas, and his vision blurs red as he grabs the taser and forcibly twists it until the man is tasing himself, over and over, until he finally collapses.

And now that he has them back, they're expecting him to choose between them? To become the executioner, when that's the only thing he refused to be back in the Glade?

Gally doubles over as someone gets another hit on him, this time in the back of his head, and the knife slips out of his hands. That's fine; The knife was getting blunt anyway. He straightens up, feels blood trickling down his nape, and squares with the soldier in front of him, fist raised. They all have their specialty—Gally's just happens to be hand-to-hand.

In ten seconds flat, the guy's on his ass, sporting two black eyes and a missing tooth.

Janson groans somewhere on the ground and Gally's about to shoot him straight through the skull when he hears the footfalls of more soldiers on the way. This irritating bastard has all the luck.

Gally spots Thomas, knocked out clean, hunched over on the floor. Newt's bent over on his knees, barely conscious, holding onto the corner of the desk like it's the only thing keeping him up. His cheekbones are bruised badly and purple fingerprints around his neck that have Gally gritting his teeth. "Newt, buddy?"

No response. Only erratic breathing sounds in the room, with the footfalls getting closer and closer.

Brute force it is. This is gonna suck.

He starts with Thomas. Sinking into a squat, he picks up Thomas with a grunt and tries tossing him onto his back, accidentally dropping him. This shank is a lot heavier than he looks. Clenching his jaw, he tries again, successfully catching his weight by holding him up by the waist. "You owe me, Greenie," he mutters, with a wry smile.

Newt's a lot easier. "I'm going to carry you," he warns him, because Newt's really the only one who's earned his kindness. "Don't Crank out on me, man."

With one arm, he pulls Newt up, relieved for his slender form, and starts dragging the three of them out the window, sweat pouring from every inch of his skin from the effort. For a second, he wonders if they would have done the same with him when they left the Maze, if they weren't taken by WICKED so soon. Would they have left him then? Would they leave him now?

It doesn't really matter. He'd do it for them, anyway.

He looks down. Twenty-one stories. Okay.

Squinting, he can just make out Minho, wading out of the water and going towards—

Gally's eyes widen as he spots a bus. A bus. The bus. Relief is so strong it almost chokes him. There’s people down there, waiting for them. Rooting for them.

He can’t fail now.

The footsteps are practically on top of them, and there's no time to waste. Nerves threaten to fray but he ignores it, steeling his hold on both of them until he's certain he can't slip from his grasp. Thomas on one side, Newt on the other. Gally bends his knees and—

A gun cocks behind them.

Not a stunner. A live pistol.

Janson, that fucker.

“As a gift, I’ll let you leave,” Janson tells him. His breathing is labored, and it sounds like every word is a struggle. “I’ll let you jump out of that window. I’ll even give you a head start before I send my men after you. In return, you leave Thomas on the ground.”

Gally doesn’t turn around. He can’t jump faster than Janson can shoot. Despite the ache in his arms, he doesn’t move to adjust the boys in his arms. Can’t reach for a weapon. “Thomas getting the special treatment, as always,” he responds eventually.

“Drop him.”

“Can’t do that, man.”

Janson fires at the ceiling, and Gally can’t hide the full-body flinch that courses through him. In his arms, Newt lets out a rasp, a slur of incomprehensible words, focus flickering back into his eyes.

“I was being kind, you know. But now,” he hears Janson take another step, glass crunching underneath his boots. “I’m just sick of you kids.”

“Let me go,” Newt grates out, almost inaudible. “Gally. Let me go.”

“Shut up,” he says sharply. He can’t deal with this right now. “No altruism for five fucking minutes.”

“I don’t know you, but you know me.” Newt twists his neck, imploring and urgent. “Trust me.”

“I do know you, and I know you’ll probably do something stupid.”

“I won’t, I can’t,” he insists, eyes darting to Thomas’ unconscious face. “Take him and jump. I’ll be there.”

“And if you’re not, then what?”

Newt only gives him a helpless look. “I’ll be there,” he repeats.

Gally grits his teeth, frustrated and bitter and so, so exhausted of having his choices dwindle again and again no matter what he does. Stop, he wants to implore him. Stop trying to leave us.

Instead of answering, he subtly nods, nothing more than a twitching of his head, before letting go of his hold on Newt.

It’s strange how the Flare affects its victims. Death, the obvious one. Darkened veins and memory loss, heightened strength and rage. But what’s strangest of all is its speed.

Newt moves almost faster than Gally can follow, hurling towards Janson like a comet. Dodges the first shot, dodges the second.

A speed that’s monstrous, inhumane, yet is identical to that of Thomas. As if he can’t look at Newt at his worst and see Thomas, over and over; a body and its shadow, inseparable in every way.

Gally doesn’t hesitate. He jumps, Thomas in his arms, and hears a third shot, imploring the universe that Newt dodged that one, too.

“Jump, Newt!” Gally screams, begs, as they fall, wind whooshing in his ears until he can barely hear himself. Grief, once again, threatens to eat him alive. “Please.”

—

He doesn't even feel the impact when they hit the water. His body was cold longer before the landing.

It's only his body's instinct that has him kicking his feet, tightening his hold on Thomas as he all but seeps the very last bit of his energy to take them to the surface.

Are they alive?

It’s that question that gets him moving again, to go past his limits and drag Thomas’ body up, up, up, until someone dives in and grabs Gally and Thomas by their harness and drags them up to the surface. When they break free, Gally gasps, sucking in the air that his lungs are begging for.

Brenda’s dragging him to the edge of the pool. "Missing one,” she gasps, hair flat and breathing hard to the point where she can only let out a few words at a time. “Where?”

"Janson came in—" Gally had to stop, air too scarce in his lungs to speak. “Self-sacrificing idiot. Said he’ll jump—”

Still holding onto the two of them, she wades to the edge of the pool where Minho was pacing, droplets falling with every move he makes. "Newt?" he demands.

Gally pulls himself out and points up, trying to calm the shake to his voice. “Any minute now.”

They haul Thomas onto the concrete first, Gally pulling himself up. They crane their necks, seeing only blackness through the broken window. From this distance, they can’t hear anything even if they strain. “Should we go up there?” Brenda asks anxiously.

Minho shakes his head. “It would be too late.”

“Don’t say that,” Gally interjects, unblinking as he refuses to tear his gaze away from the dark square above them. “It’s Newt. He said he’ll jump.”

“He said he’ll try,” she rebukes. “Right? There’s a difference.”

Minho's eyes flash with pain. "Does—" he glances at Thomas. "Does he know?"

Gally shakes his head.

They all fall silent.

"Shit," Brenda says, summing up their thoughts.

It was at that moment that Thomas' eyes fluttered open. "Newt?" he rasps before he can even take a full breath.

In a moment of hope, or stupidity, or a sliver of childishness that he just can’t get rid of, Gally expects Newt to come flying out of the window.

Instead, silence reigns.

"Newt." Sitting up, he grips Gally's neck, voice low and sinister. "Where is he?"

Gally swallows, and opens his mouth to answer, when the speakers blare out a tune. An announcement.

It was at that moment that he knew Newt wasn't jumping down. A dull ache, the sharp blade of truth. Wave after wave of grief, and in this moment, he drowns.

"Thomas," Janson's voice rings out, brooding yet tinged with amusement. "I hope you enjoyed the lovely swim just now. You kids are just so clever, now aren't you?"

Thomas' grip on Gally slackens as utter horror eclipses his face. "No," he whispers. "Please, no."

"But you can’t leave. Not without him." Janson goes on, and he actually lets out a laugh this time. "Newt? The Crank? You do know how to pick them, don't you?"

Unsteadily, Thomas gets on his feet, staring at the sky, like Newt would be written in the skies, somewhere.

"It's simple. I want you to come back here, alone, and I'll consider giving him back to you. How does that sound?"

"Thomas," Brenda mutters. “Don’t.”

"If I find out that you brought anyone along—any of your little rats for pals, vermin for allies. Well, I suppose your Newt here won't have much time left, either way." A pause, as if he was savoring the moment. "You have half an hour."

The tune plays again before the world falls back into quiet.

Gally closes his eyes, mind spinning as adrenaline shoots through every inch of his body, like it was preparing to fight. But there’s no fight—that would be too easy, a mercy, to use his fists or knives or guns for this. Words are not his weapon to wield. That’s always been Newt’s, Thomas’. The way they can embroider syllables into tapestries of new meanings, can twist and embellish a conversation until it’s in an entirely new direction. He can’t do that.

But fuck, he said he’s going to care. And this is care.

Squaring his shoulders, he faces Thomas. “I’m going with you.”

Either Thomas doesn’t hear him or chooses not to. He goes to a nearby WICKED soldier, unconscious and half-sunk into the pool, and rummages through his pockets, shoving various items into his own. His movements are efficient, clinical.

"You can't go alone," he insists. "It’s a trap.You’ll die, he’ll die. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Thomas’ response is picking up a stun gun and checking its voltage, nodding to himself.

Gally clenches his jaw. "I know you don’t want to test Janson’s threat. I know what Newt means to you. But Thomas, if you go, you're dead. You get that?"

No response.

“Newt would die. For nothing.”

Thomas turns to him, face contorted and eyes bright with tears, unspeaking

“And it would be your fault.”

It was like all the air around them was sucked away, with how Thomas gasps and begins clawing at his own throat. He collapses onto his knees, hard, holding so tightly to the gun that it seemed almost an extension of him.

Gally sits next to him, his joints screaming in relief at the momentary respite. “You’ll let us come?”

Instead of answering, Thomas reaches into his breast pocket and hands Gally the note.

Gingerly, he plucks it from his fingers. It’s wet, on the verge of ripping, but still intact against all odds. With a delicate tug, it reveals Newt’s careful calligraphy staining the page:

To Newt,

Don’t be a twat to this one—Tommy is the love of your life.

Your Crank self, Newt

“A note,” Thomas finally says, the rhythm of his words are cut with unsteady pauses like the first few droplets before a raging typhoon. “If a note is the only thing I have to remember Newt by...”

The implication enters Gally as if through a vein, the reality settling into his bones.

Thomas isn’t going to change his mind.

Minho marches forward, pulls the note from his hands, crumples it up, and throws it into the pool. Somewhere behind them, Brenda lets out a slew of shocked expletives. Thomas only stares at where it steadily sinks underneath the water.

Grabbing Thomas by the forearm, he pulls him up, getting right in his face. "Listen to me, you dumb idiot,” Minho spits, harsh and violent, like it would be enough to erase his own despair. “I've been gone awhile, I know, but I'm going with you to help Newt. I'm saving him. A note? To remember him by? There’s no fucking way I heard that right, because that sounds like you’re giving up.." He shakes him roughly. "Are you giving up?"

Thomas slowly looks up at Minho. "Never.”

“Good—”

“If a note is the only thing I have to remember Newt by,” his expression is almost calm. “Then you can stop worrying about me. You never have to worry about me again.”

Minho pauses, suddenly unsure.

“If I go alone," Thomas says in that same strange tone. "You'll stop me?"

"Yes, obviously—"

Quicker than he can process, Thomas pulls up his stunner and tugs on the trigger on Minho. He collapses on the ground, seizing, before he stills.

Gally stares down at Minho’s unconscious face and can’t muster surprise. Cold dread coats his nape.

“Thomas—” Brenda starts. Scared, Gally notes idly. She’s scared.

He turns to her, expressionless. "Put him on the bus. Take him to Fry, with the kids."

She's about to speak, but he shakes his head. "You can't leave him here." And, with a stillness and poise that he isn't used to seeing on Thomas, he points to stunner on Gally. "You chose me?" he whispers, words edged with a silent fury. "When you promised you'd choose him?"

Gally clenches his jaw. "I chose both of you," he admits. "But Newt—he saw an opportunity and he—"

Thomas' mouth twists and his features form into something oddly, gut-wrenchingly familiar. It's the exact same look that Newt has whenever he loses his memory, just before he loses himself to something that’s definitely unhuman. “Thanks. For everything until now” Thomas takes a deep breath. “But you can’t come, Gally. I can’t risk losing him. You know I can’t.”

It’s a concession, almost. It comes as a sudden truth that Thomas isn't doing this because he hates Gally. He's doing this to save Newt. And for that, Gally finds that he can't really fault him in doing this.

The pull of a trigger, and every inch of Gally's body is encompassed by wave after wave of electric current, until his vision falls into a blissful dark.

[mmelolabelle]

Armand is someone who has been has been trained (in brothels, by Marius, and by 500+ years worth of life experience) to adapt himself to what the people around him want. Throughout seasons 1-2, different people get very different versions of Armand, depending on who they are and who’s retelling the story at the time.

It’s the primary way Armand protects himself, whether he’s a teenage sex slave or the oldest, strongest person in the room. It’s how he controls people. Fundamentally, it’s the only way Armand knows to make people love him (an approximation of love at least). Worse, it’s the only way Armand knows how to love — by twisting and contorting himself into whatever form he thinks his current obsession wants or needs him to be. He even does it to his victims for crying out loud.

And then here’s Daniel, who is constantly seeking authenticity and truth. Who’s bullshit detector is never “off”. Who cannot tolerate any kind of masquerade, manipulation or lie – no matter how kind or well intentioned. Not out of any moral or ethical objection, but because Daniel simply cannot leave things well enough alone once something attracts his attention. He has to know. He has to see where it goes and how it ends.

“It’s my job, I’m built this way”

“It’s in your nature, Mr Molloy. Couldn’t get out the door without lobbing one more bomb.”

Daniel knew something was off about “Rashid��� from the beginning, so he began to pick the situation in Dubai apart until Armand revealed himself. And then he kept going until he completely destroyed the narrative Armand had spent 77 years constructing.

Daniel deliberately and systematically pulled “Armand, Amadeo, Arun” apart and laid him bare with nothing but but a laptop, some free time, a near-suicidal disregard for his own personal safety and a mouth that just wouldn’t quit.

There’s power in being seen, in being known, ugly parts and all. What would it feel like, to be completely exposed like that for the first time in centuries?

So yeah it makes sense to me that Armand, who puts on all these acts and artifices to draw people in, but which only serve to ensure they’re kept at a distance, would turn his big sad orange eyes on the person who blew them all to smithereens and be all “…I wanna do this forever, actually.”

[shanastoryteller]

Shana, your tags on this post ...I need to know more! What exactly was the plan for Supernatural season 3 if it hasn't been for the writer's strike??? And how haven't I heard about this already?? I need the deets!

i'm so glad you asked :)

the original plan for season 3 was for sam to descend into using his demon powers to get dean out of the deal, and for dean to never go to hell. then the writers strike happened, the season got cut from 22 eps to 16, with only 4 after the strike, and that wasn't enough time to establish sam's spiral and powers, so changed the ending. it's on the wiki and there are some articles around about it

this was, in my opinion, the worst fucking decision they could make

it ruined the characters in a lot of ways and really unbalanced everything in a way the show never recovered from

the thing is that this arc is so well set up!

literally at the end of season 2 we get

"You're my big brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care, I'm going to get you out of this. I'm going to save your ass for a change."

sam has evaded azazel's every attempt to corrupt him. his shitty home life, all the demons he's exposed sam to, killing jessica, taking away his father, putting him in a literal life or death hunger games scenario. each time sam refuses to play ball

(sam's incorruptibility is what makes him qualified to be king of hell, but that's a different post)

he's the moral compass between him and dean. always has been. there is nothing in sam's messed up, twisted life that has pushed him pass mercy

but dean could do it. there's nothing sam wouldn't do for his big brother

john told dean that he had to either save sam or kill him. except he's never needed to save sam, because it's literally always sam making the measured, compassionate, merciful call. he's the one holding dean back, not the other way around

and sam straining towards darkness for the first time, for dean, would kill him. we'll come back to this

mystery spot, as an episode, is actually pointless if the plan was for dean to go to hell. because sam's sneak peek into what his life is like after dean doesn't do anything. i love this ep, but it's narratively pointless now

however

with the og plan, mystery spot is the turning point. it not only tells sam how miserable he'll be after dean is gone, but it also establishes what he's willing to do to get him back - pretty much anything. it's not theoretical pain, it's not theoretical grief. mystery spot is the thing that pushes sam towards being hard, away from the moral sweetness he's embodied for the past two and half seasons.

the next ep, jus in bello, shows this. sam is considering doing the terrible thing. he's now capable of considering the terrible thing in a way he wasn't before mystery spot. this is when his descent starts, when sam decides he's willing to trade his humanity for his brother's life

and then the writer's strike happened

right when it's getting good, right when sam's arc is ramping up, we lose it. and instead of picking it back up, pushing dean's deal to next season and giving it the weight it deserves, they say fuck it, and send dean to hell

but this fucks it all up. we have sam's "descent" with ruby and demon blood. except not really because he's not even hurting anyone. and dean's back, but not because of sam. sam didn't save him

this fucks it all up

because deans anger and fear and desire to save sam should have been tempered with the knowledge that he did that to save dean's life. that once more someone dean loves has made a terrible sacrifice for him, which he can't stand, which he hates. he has the self esteem of a gnat and the best people he knows keep destroying themselves for his benefit

i think the og build up was sam strengthening his powers to kill lilith, doing it, and then releasing lucifer at the end of s3. sam unwittingly starting the apocolypse to save his brother (does he regret it, dean wonders. it would be easier if he did)

and now everything is shit and dean's drowning but here and his brother has turned himself into something that's not unlike the kid dean loves so much it almost killed him, but not exactly the same. and now he understands john, because this is the sam that dean has to either save or kill, except he could never kill him. he loves him (and how can he kill sam for doing this when it's dean's fault, when dean made the deal that doomed his brother when all he wanted was to save him)

this is the flip that the show has been building towards. dean having to be the moral center for his brother for once. dean being the one saved. dean finally having to face his father's words and deciding once and for all if he's john's son or sam's brother

but instead dean goes to hell. and he's no one moral's center. because he broke in hell, he tortured people and he enjoyed it. they ruined dean with this. because instead of fighting and growing from his violence, they push him into it, and then they call him a righteous man. dean was the one harming people, he's the one that descended into darkness, not sam. sam and his demon blood had still only been trying to good, and in the end did do good, far more than anything dean did in hell, or has done since. his moral outrage, his anger, his disgust towards sam isn't only wildly out of character, it's hypocritical as hell. sam remains the moral, compassionate one, even through this. it never slides to dean. neither of them are really forced to grow or change, only to become twisted into each other in ways that hurt them both

this should have been the story of what sam would do to save his brother (anything) and what dean would do to save his brother (anything)

they should have saved each other

[justaz]

arthur (prince of camelot) still has to study under a tutor bc yknow uther wants him to be very intelligent before becoming king or something bc its super important idk idc anyways merlin is doing chores in his chambers while arthur is squinting at a book and merlin eventually caves and asks him what he’s reading and arthur gruffly explains that its a collection of stories from greece that make absolutely no sense so merlin asks him to read them outloud to him. arthur of course teases him and calls him an idiot and asks how he could possibly help but does as he’s asked and reads the stories to merlin as he does his chores. merlin (being crushed under the weight of destiny and tormented by the prophecies that kilgharrah spews) understands the stories almost immediately and gets all excited and starts rambling about them with arthur. arthur is glad to have someone who understands so he can give something that reflects a hint of understanding to his tutor who accepts it and moves onto the next unit of education.

the thing is, arthur finds more stories in camelot’s library and brings them up to his room to read them aloud to merlin under the guise of completing his studies but really he just wants to watch as merlin’s eyes gleam when he understands whats happening and listen to him ramble on and on about them bc he’s gay. the stories stick with merlin though and he realizes that they’re cautionary tales, that the heroes who were told too much of their future doomed themself to fulfill them - that them fighting the prophecies led to their completion. merlin takes it to heart and gives a big “fuck you” to kilgharrah before forging his own fate and helping morgana with her magic and handing out an olive branch to mordred and now everyone can live happily and peacefully in an albion teeming with magic.

[sysig]

Rainbows (Patreon)

[royalarchivist]

Fit: Where are you, Pac? I got you, I got you, I gotchu!

Pac: I'm in- I'm in- I'm in heaven, Fit! I'm in heaven...

Fit: No, you're not in heaven yet! You're not going to heaven, no no no–

Pac: I'm gonna go for... I'm going- I'm going to the light, I'm going to the light...

Fit: Stay with me, stay with me! Stay with me.

Pac: I'm going for the light– [Sighs in relief as he's revived] I'm here.

Fit: You're good, you're good.

[Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

Tina: Wow, the radius for that is huge.

Pac: [Steps on a mine and gets blown up] Whoa!

Fit: Oh, those are all mines, arent' they? Those are all mines, you bastard.

Aypierre: Let- let- let me fix this road... [He starts placing blocks]

Foolish: See? This is why mines need to be allowed, they're too fun.

Fit: [Laughs]

Pac: Yeah, actually.

Aypierre: Look, look– it's perfect, it's perfect.

Pac: [Steps on one of the blocks Aypierre placed, which was a mine, and immediately blows up]

Fit: Pac! No, Pac–! NOOO!!!

Pac: [Laughs and then shouts at Aypierre]

Aypierre: Where are you, Pac?

[Time skip]

Foolish: Did you get your stuff, Tina?

Tina: I will... I'll find a way... [She steps on a mine and blows up] AAAAAAAAA–

[Fit and Pac laugh]

Tina: PLEASE!

Fit: Those are all mines!

Tina: No, please! My stuff! I gotta go– [She gets lit on fire and screams again] PLEASE!

Pac: God damnnit!

Tina: Please, I just want my stuff back!

[They all laugh]

Fit: Jesus.

Tina: I'm gonna go get it! I'm gonna get it! Aghhhh–

Foolish: [Jumping in after Tina] Wait, there could be another landmine!

Tina: I want my things, Foolish!!!

Pac: [Jumps in too and steps on a landmmine, which immediately downs him] AAAAA!!!

Fit: Sht– Where are you, Pac? I got you, I got you, I gotchu!

Pac: [Overlapping with Fit] I'm in- I'm in- I'm in heaven, Fit! I'm in heaven...

Fit: No, you're not in heaven yet! You're not going to heaven, no no no–

Pac: I'm gonna go for... I'm going- I'm going to the light, I'm going to the light...

Fit: Stay with me, stay with me! Stay with me.

Pac: I'm going for the light– [Sighs in relief as he's revived] I'm here.

Fit: You're good, you're good.

Tina: Oh god... I'm scared, I'm scared!

Foolish: You did it!

[3liza]

look I know it's part of a much larger and trickier issue but in a vacuum, "gay people shouldn't own firearms because they will just get depressed and kill themselves" is like something my 80 year old Vietnam veteran father would remark casually during some sort of family gathering and then get REALLY surprised when absolutely everyone got mad at him

[purplebass]

shades of magic & threads of power color palettes

[chrisbangs]

Bang Chan .:. TOPLINE (Feat. Tiger JK) M/V

[lucreziaces]

when lucrezia asks "and when will I marry?" and cesare responds "never if I can help it" through gritted teeth, thinking he means it from the perspective of a protective older brother, but really he means it from the perspective of a possessive lover. "surely it is good to marry, cesare" and instead of agreeing with her, he plants seeds of doubt in her mind about marriage. "as the pope's daughter, you will have every prince of europe vying for your hand," with his pointer finger, he guides her to look at him, "they may care very little for your heart" he says, staring into her eyes, his eyes saying what his mouth does not, that he is the only one who cares for her heart. and then lucrezia reflecting this idea that only they can love each other the way a husband and wife should in 1x03 when she tells him "for I shall never love a husband the way I love you, cesare" WHATTTTT INSANITY I LOVE THEM I WOULD HAPPILY SUFFER IN HELL FOR SHIPPING THEM ONLY INCEST SHIP I WILL THROW ALL MORALS OUT THE WINDOW FOR GODDDDDD THEY ARE EVERYTHING TO ME

[kareofbears]

a fragile line, chapter 2/3

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

—

Or, as they infiltrate WICKED, Gally notices the shift between Newt and Thomas.

read on ao3 or below the cut

Thomas and Newt had come up to Gally with a fresh idea and a fresher bruise to match.

The plan is changing, they told him, clutching that battered notebook in their hands like it were a manual for how to barge into WICKED’s impenetrable tower. They spoke quickly, efficiently, nearly cutting each other off with how they finish each other’s thoughts, neatly tacking more details as they recount their changes. It isn’t the first time that Gally’s listened to Thomas labor through a plan, but it’s the first time he’s seen Thomas share that stage with Newt—or rather, sees Newt share that stage with Thomas. Words are as part of Thomas’ arsenal as much as his speed is, but where Thomas is practiced in its art, Newt has long since perfected it.

When they finished, Gally only had one question: “Seems like you shanks already got it under control. Why’d you bother bringing it to me?”

They both frowned at him, as if the answer should already be apparent. “We want to know what you think.”

Once they’re in the city, they split off with Brenda without so much as a wave. Too many eyes on them for a proper goodbye. True to his word, Newt slows his gait until he shuffles into the crowd of fellow WICKED soldiers, intermingling with them until Gally can’t tell which one’s him, little more than someone in a crowd. Despite that, he watches Thomas linger on a specific figure for a long moment before tearing his focus away.

They enter the tower without issues, and a variety of scientists, soldiers, and administrative personnel swirl around them like sharks. A bead of sweat rolls down his nape.

Like this, none of them speak, letting the thrum of their heartbeats merge with the ceaseless noise of people working around them. He has his eyes glued in front of him, as if straying his sightline would be a dead giveaway that he doesn’t belong, that he’s an intruder, that he deserves to be killed and sucked dry like any Immune that enters this facility.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Teresa studying him, and he resists the urge to tell her to cut it out. Every once in a while, someone in a white coat brushes past her, grins easy and familiar, some even offering her a friendly wave. He grips his stun gun a little tighter. For once, they were all playing in her field, and she has the advantage here. Not for the first time, he imagines her screaming for help, exposing them all until Ava Paige herself sticks a needle in their arm to drain them for everything they have left.

“Nobody comes back until you find them.” The words are rumbled high above them and spoken almost playfully; it parts the white noise of the facility easily. “And if you don’t find them—well. Let’s not talk about that quite just yet.”

Janson.

Gally risks a glance upwards, sees how he’s leaning over the glass bridge above them, arms splayed wide against the railing and overlooking the entire lobby, that nasty smirk resting on his face. Carefully, Gally casts his eyes back down, sees how Thomas is staring right up at Janson, and can imagine all too well the ripple of maddening fury spasming behind the mask.

With no amount of care, Gally shoulders past Thomas, rough and insistent. “Focus.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, and takes a step forward, and another, each more stiff than the last; as if smoothing out his stride would cause him to snap in half.

The flurry of activity around them is ceaseless, everyone either gearing up to a long night of testing cure variants or on their way to hunt down the escaped Immunes who are less than a few meters from where Gally is standing. Newt, on the other hand, is taking the long way around Sub-Level 3.

The bigger the group, the more likely we'll get caught, Thomas had said. Newt would be our eyes, make sure no one suspects anything. There's the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Thomas rolled his eyes. Yes, Newt, I know it's the only time you and I are being separated. Reconvene at Sub-Level 3 and keep your radio on.

They get to the power box without issue and Gally gets to work. Without saying a word, he pulls out his hacksaw without saying a word, sparks flying incessantly while Thomas radios Newt.

"Status update?"

"Absolutely radiant. You boys see Janson on your way in?"

"Yeah. Where's he headed?"

"Going up, by the looks of it. Careful—from what I've seen, those elevators could go straight down to the Sub-Levels. When I meet up with you, I'll lose eyes on him."

"Janson or not, you have to be here with me." A semblance of a smile ghosts his features. "Non-negotiable, right?"

"You're getting it now, Tommy."

The air is thick with sparks as he works, blinding him until his vision is nothing more than stars that are mere inches from his face. It’s tough work, cutting metal, and his wrist groans with the effort of digging, digging, digging, until, with a satisfying thunk of a heavy lock hitting the ground, he swings the box open and doesn't hesitate to rewire it until the harsh red pings into a pleasant green.

Gally signals—they're good to go. "We're done here," Thomas reports.

"Good that. Just saw Janson go up. Hopefully that ugly bastard locks up in his office for an hour or so. I'll make my way to you."

"Good that. See you soon."

"Over and out, fellow soldier."

They ditch the tools as they take the stairs down, Teresa leading them. Her face is still crestfallen and slightly glazed, but she's still moving in the right direction, at least.

The glowing signs on the wall indicate where they are. Sub-Level 1, Sub-Level 2, Sub-Level 3. Gripping the door handle, he peers in, feels his heart stutter in his chest, before letting it close again.

"What?" Thomas whispers, eyebrows already raised in accusation.

Gally ignores him, turning to Teresa. "You hide it from us on purpose?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Sub-Level 3 isn't just where they keep the hostages, and the serum," he hisses out. "It's where they keep everything valuable and fucking dangerous."

Thomas' eyes widen as he lets the implication settle in. Guns, drones, tasers, cuffs, grenades. Everything that could capture them. Before this, they were under the impression that it would be similar to a medical ward.

At least, that's what they were led to believe by the person who gave the building's schematics.

Teresa takes a step back, pupils shaking. "I swear, I didn't mean to," she stammers out. "I just forgot."

"Save it." Gally turns to Thomas, brows furrowed. "Warn Newt, but plans won't change."

Thomas' mouth twists in displeasure. "This could get ugly."

"This has been ugly," he shoots back. "We just need to lie lower than usual." He grips Thomas' forearm. "Do you understand, you temperamental shank?"

Thomas rips away from him, stare venomous as he pulls out the radio. "I get the idea," he spits before updating Newt.

Gally allows himself one, massive eye roll before straightening up, mustering calm, and entering Sub-Level 3.

—

Gally didn't just sit on his ass while the rest of them were traipsing in the Scorch.

He's a soldier now. It doesn't really matter that he's not happy about that development—he's alive, and he should just be grateful about it. But the past six months have been dedicated training, discipline, and giving himself up to the art of war. Or at least, the scrappy version of it. Lawrence's men don't have any funds, and most of the weapons they can get their hands on is from ripping it straight from the hands of WICKED themselves. Resources were scarce; knives were blunt, gas was limited, and bullets above all else were a rarity—Gally never even shot a loaded gun until three months after he was trained to pull the trigger.

So seeing Sub-Level 3 was both a nightmare and a fever dream for him.

Layers and layers of machine guns are stacked through bulletproof glass, grenade belts hung up like it was someone's closet. Daggers, knives, machetes, all plastered against the backs of soldiers with more hidden underneath the fabric of their jumpsuits. All of it sharpened to a tee.

Sweat coats his hands but he doesn't wipe it off. Someone could be watching and sniffing them out. Instead, he focuses on making his stride strong and confident, shadowing Teresa and keeping an eye on Thomas, the fall of their footsteps matching the thud of Gally's heart.

They turn a corner and stop in their tracks. A drone is airborne in the middle of the hallway, hovering as if it were a mini Berg. Beside it, someone in a lab coat was instructing everyone to move around it. "Just doing some repairs!" he yelled. "Apologies everyone, we just needed a space to do some testing. Please move around the drone."

Gally and Thomas share a look before advancing, warily keeping an eye on the drone. It helps that other soldiers looked equally as unwilling to go near the drone as they are. Machine guns with wings, Lawrence's men had called them. A buggy drone, exactly what they needed.

Not for the first time, a sick feeling of premonition coats his skin. He can't tell if it's paranoia, panic, or some kind of sixth sense he's developed when it comes to WICKED. But it's the feeling he got the first time he laid eyes on Thomas. It's the feeling he got the day he found them on the outskirts of the Last City.

Everything in Gally's life has been ripped away from him one way or another—everything but himself. And he's learned to trust himself.

Going against his own advice to Thomas, Gally lifts his radio to his lips until he can speak into it with nothing more than a mutter. "Did you secure the bus?"

"Yeah," Brenda responds, equally hushed. "Pretty quiet down here. You?"

"If you left for a few minutes, do you think it'll still be secured?"

"Uh, probably?" Even through the static of the radio, her quizzical tone is audible. "There's enough buses that if someone takes this one, I can grab another." There's a pause, and then she groans. "You're going to ask me to do something."

"I need you to steal a lab coat and get to Sub-Level 3." Thomas whirls on him, and even the mask can't conceal his incredulity. "I have a bad feeling."

"What are you, five?"

Gally represses a retort. "I just—" he tries, racking his brain for logic like he always does, use the pragmatism that he knows they associate him with, but he comes up blank. "I need you on shift right now."

There's a longer pause. "Fine."

He lets out a sharp breath. "Thanks."

"Heading out."

Thomas continues to give him a look, and Gally can't muster anything more than a shrug. "Don't like taking chances."

"Sure you don’t."

They give it a wide berth as they skirt around it, but with every step that Thomas takes, the camera on the drone seems to follow him, shifting its barrel to be pointed directly at Thomas.

Step, shift. Step, shift.

Gally glances around, sees other soldiers staring at Thomas, bewildered and apprehensive, wondering the same thing as Gally. Why was the drone following him?

An idea slides into his brain and Gally swivels at Teresa, looking gaunt. He watched her remove Thomas' tracker like she did with everyone else, and saw it with his own eyes. But is it possible that she left something there on purpose?

"Just doing some repairs!" they repeat.

Coincidence or planned?

"Nothing to worry about folks!"

When they reach the halfway point of skirting the drone, it begins to glow a bright, sinister red.

Teresa turns to Gally. I don't know, she mouths, distressed, and Gally doesn't trust her, will never trust her, but he saw her remove it, helped Thomas clot the bleeding himself.

"Keep on walking!"

The drone, slow and steady, begins to clank. Gally pivots to Thomas, and even with the masks, he knows what they're both thinking. If that drone turns on, Thomas is as good as dead. But if they do something about it, it'll attract an insurmountable amount of attention.

Propellers stutter, erratically falling down just to fly up again, and the light only grows bright, then brighter still, and Gally knows what that means. He's been warned of it too many times, had seen it with his own eyes too many times, had seen people fall to it too many times.

"Run," he breathes to Thomas, as the rifle of the drone twitches.

But before anyone can move a muscle, before Thomas can even take another step, a loud gunshot sounds out. The drone falls to the ground, camera shot clean through.

Silence falls throughout the floor.

A single look at where it was shot tells Gally everything he needs to know. One bullet, clean through the core machinery of the drone. A steady hand, knowledge of the anatomy of rifle drones, and most of all, done to protect Thomas. This precision in aim was famous back in the Glade.

"Oh my," a voice speaks behind them, humor-infused and mocking at the same time. "What could have happened here?" It's like a bucket of ice water fell down his back, and Gally turns to see Janson standing there, eyebrows raised as he peers at the group of people huddled around the drone like it was an impromptu funeral. "An unfortunate malfunction, I presume, but I do believe WICKED enforces a strict rule of not firing on any Sub-Level, am I correct?" His eyes light up. "Hello, Teresa. I see you're getting in the middle of this mess, same as I am."

Nobody speaks. Teresa doesn't even look like she's breathing.

Janson claps his hands together. "Who is it, then? Who shot it?" It's quiet, only the scuttling of shoes against the squeaky clean floors. It looks like Janson is going to speak when someone takes a step forward. "You then? Come closer."

A million thoughts barge into Gally's brain in the moment, all fighting for a chance to be first.

There's a few dozen WICKED personnel surrounding them, with about half of those carrying firearms. If Newt speaks, his voice will give them away. If Newt takes another step forward, he risks showing his limp. If Newt doesn't give the right answer, it would reveal that he's not actually a WICKED soldier at all.

Above all else, if Janson even breathes in Newt's direction, Thomas might actually just blow this place up.

Without thinking about it too hard, Gally moves in front of Newt. "Director Janson," he greets, gesturing to his black uniform. "I'm his superior. Unfortunately, there's been a tech issue and he's fairly new to the Sub-Levels. Isn't aware of the regulations here. We'll be sure to reteach them accordingly." For emphasis, he grabs Newt by the arm and shakes him, ignoring the heat from Thomas' glare behind him.

He's seen this enough times to replicate it. Gally had spent the better part of the past six months trying to get into the facility, had memorized and engrained the way WICKED personnel work—how they greet each other, the rankings, the military positions, shift work, weapons, anything he can get his hands on. To beat these assholes, he has to become one of them. It's not something he thinks about too often.

It also helps that Gally is presumed dead.

Janson clicks his tongue. "Then I suggest you begin supervising a little bit better, then." Pointing at Newt, his tone is deceivingly light-hearted. "Not again."

Newt stays deathly still.

Then Janson leans back, grinning wide. "What's everyone standing around for? We have Immunes to hunt, don't we?"

Immediately, everyone disperses, eager to get away from Janson's prying eyes. They take it as an opportunity to slink away, wanting to merge into the shuffle. Everyone except Thomas, who decides to bump into Janson on purpose, before continuing his gait.

Never again. Gally is never, ever working with Thomas again after this.

As the door to the Immunes gets closer, Gally leans close to Thomas, but gets cut off.

“He’s going to be looking a lot fucking closer now."

Thomas slams the button open with the butt of his taser. "Then let him look."

—

With the guards miserably unprepared for their assault, it takes a shockingly short time to take control of the Immunes room.

The air is still thick with static and floor littered with bodies as Gally rushes to the vault, tossing the extra hacksaw to Newt so he can start freeing the Immunes. “You know how to use one of those?”

“I’ve had my fair share of lock breaking, thanks,” Newt replies, kneeling as he starts working the metal with sure, steady hands, melting through it twice as fast as Gally can. For a moment, he wonders when he learned to do that, before chalking it up as yet another thing Gally missed out on in the past six months. He'll ask when this shit show is done.

"Done, Newt?" Thomas interrupts, ripping his mask off, expression antsy. "Give me the saw, I'm breaking into the serum vault."

Newt doesn't even look up. "You're too slow with it," he says, curt. "Leave me alone. Help Gally when he's done."

Despite everything, Gally cracks a grin. "You tell him, Newt."

Grumbling, Thomas squats next to Gally. For a long moment, neither of them speak. When he hits the halfway point, Thomas mutters, voice quiet. "Thanks. For earlier."

He eyes Thomas before focusing back on his work again. "Don't sweat it."

"You saved Newt." His voice cracks near the end, before becoming almost too soft to hear. "That's everything."

Newt's door opens and he peers in, unintelligible muttering as he approaches the kids, tone soothing but firmly urging them to get up.

Gally's own metal door breaks free, and swings open, revealing a dozen terrified kids. Thomas straightens up, and although it's brittle and fading and accidentally comes off as bellicose in a certain light, his smile is genuine. "Come on," he coaxes. "We're going to get you out of here." Turning, "Newt, now that you're done—"

Newt whirls on Thomas, and gone is the calm that he was directing towards the Immunes. "I'm on it," he snarls, militant and venomous all at once. "Fucking hell. Give me some room, mate."

Gally stills.

Thomas looks like the floor fell underneath him. Then his expression hardens, focused. "Who am I?"

There's a beat, where Newt and Thomas are studying each other before Newt’s eyes flutter close, mouth twisting in concentration. “I know you, I know I do. You’re someone I trust, someone I’m safe around. I just don’t—“ he falters. “I just can’t quite remember exactly who you are.”

“It’s okay,” Thomas’ tone is delicate, as if his syllables danced on eggshells. “It’s okay.”

"And I'm supposed to get that," he nods at the serum vault. "Open, because I know whatever's in there is important to you."

"It should be important to you, too," Thomas reprimands gently. He reaches into his breast pocket and offers a folded piece of paper to Newt. "Here. You wrote this for yourself."

Newt's brows scrunch as he reads it, expression blurring into a handful of emotions, recognition shining through before settling into shame. "Tommy," he breathes out.

"Don't apologize," Thomas mutters. "We knew this would probably happen." Taking a step forward, Gally almost averts his gaze when Thomas presses his lips to Newt's temple, tender and devout, and pulls away. "Now, open the damn vault."

Newt gets to work as Gally glances around, belatedly realizing that something is very wrong. "Minho."

"Shit," Thomas closes his eyes, thinking hard, before stalking forward. Action oriented, always. "Teresa, where the hell is he?"

Gally lets them figure it out, opting to approach Newt. His shoulders are tense, and even if his hands are still steady, he knows Newt's tell often manifests through what he says—or what he doesn't.

"Want to swap?" he offers.

Newt shakes his head and doesn't say anything. Gally lets him have his brief moment of quiet, orchestrated by the quick, harsh tone that Thomas and Teresa are throwing at each other like knives behind them.

Tries not to think about the implications of Newt's health. Fails.

The Flare is inevitable. He's seen it happen to anyone who isn't an Immune. It rips everything away from the person like paint stripper, seeping the saturation out of someone until all that's left is a thin layer of what it used to be. Reduces someone into something animalistic, uncontrollable, monstrous, vile, unthinking. How long does Newt have? Enough for the mission? Enough to find Minho? Enough for the next half hour? Gally's never fucked around when it comes to the Flare, but seeing Newt forget Thomas is somehow the most harrowing thing he's seen the virus do.

It doesn't matter, really. The current cure may not be perfect, but there's a serum on the other side of this door that'll give Newt time, no matter how short.

"—soon as Newt gets the serum, you're taking us there," Thomas is saying, words quick and sharp.

"Okay," Teresa says, still searching the monitor in front of her. "What about the Immunes?"

"Gally's—"

Suddenly, the door slides open slightly, and immediately all of them have their tasers out. Pointed, still, silent.

"I didn't come all the way out here to be threatened," a familiar voice grumbles. "Put that shit away."

"Brenda," Thomas breathes. "Almost shot you."

"Yeah, yeah. I think everyone in this room has been threatened by you one way or another." She walks in, wearing a lab coat and—is that glasses? She must have really been trying to sell the role of a scientist. "Except for your Newt, of course."

"Of course," Thomas agrees.

Brenda glances around, taking in the Immunes huddled along the walls. "Hey," she greets. Most of them are still cowering from fear, but a few braver ones give her a wave. "What do you need from me, Gally? Still need me to clean up after your mess?" she teases, but her eyes are serious.

Gally rises to his feet. "Minho's not here," he cuts to the chase. "We have to get him. Can you get the Immunes down to the bus?" After a moment, he tacks on: "Please. And thanks."

"A little manners go a long way," Brenda says. "When can I expect you boys?"

"Give us as long as you can," Gally replies, vision straying to the Immunes. For a split-second, he sees Chuck's face in one of theirs. "But if things go south, just take them and go."

Brenda frowns, but doesn't disagree. Facing the kids: "Alright. Not great with kids, but you guys seem promising. You three—" she points at a few Immunes. "Grab the guns from these unconscious bastards and arm yourselves. Don't fall behind, and don't do anything stupid." Brenda stops herself, suddenly unsure. "And don't be scared. It'll be okay."

They do as she says, one girl looking particularly excited at the chance to be holding a pistol. A boy nervously puts his hand up. "This guy doesn't have a gun," he squeaks out. “Or any weapons, actually.”

Brenda scowls at him. "Then don't pick that guy then, kid."

"Thanks," Gally repeats, letting sincerity bleed through this time. "Seriously."

She smiles before gesturing for the kids to go. "See you soon," she says, giving him a fist bump. "Bye Gally, Newt. Thomas—don't blow the place up." He simply waves in response, and Brenda leads them out the back exit, the door closing with a sense of finality.

"Here we go," Newt mummers, the lock finally falling away with a clatter that sounds almost like victory.

Thomas immediately surges forward, a newfound energy almost making his eyes glow. "It's open?" he exclaims. "That's great. Come on, let's get this serum in you."

Newt flashes a wide grin, and Gally can't help but notice how much younger it makes him look. Can’t help but notice how much life he has in him whenever he looks at Thomas. “Wow, Tommy, I was just thinking we chuckled the vials out on the Scorch, how about it?”

“So funny,” Thomas deadpans, mood undamped as he hauls Newt on his feet and sets him aside with ease. “Serum, then Minho.” He pulls the vault door open and his mouth splits into a smile that matches Newt.

“It’s not perfect yet,” Teresa says quietly, and they all ignore her. “Thomas, I think it’s your blood—“

Thomas darts into the vault with the duffel. “Newt,” he calls over the sound of clinking glass. “Roll your sleeve up. I’m not wasting a single second.”

Newt rolls his eyes but obliges. “You talk like the vials are suddenly going to fly away into thin air.”

“Who the hell knows, nowadays.” Thomas walks out, bag significantly more full and pure joy coating his features, practically skipping as he approaches Newt. “We didn’t even know about the Flare until—“

The door slides open again, and Gally turns, ready to retort. “You forgot something, Brenda—?”

His voice dies in his throat, replaced by his heart beating in overtime.

“I knew there was something a little odd in the works,” Janson says, voice lilted as a dozen WICKED soldiers march in, surrounding them. “Thank you for the heads up, Teresa.”

Slowly, they all turn their heads. Teresa gazes at the ground like she wants nothing more than to sink into it.

“Thomas,” Janson takes a step towards him, gun pointing at Thomas, who immediately takes a step closer to Newt, partially blocking him. “You know you need to give me that bag.”

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are darting everywhere, in all directions: up into the ceiling, down at the floor, left to the soldiers, right to their weapons. It’s as if he’s trying to look for a way out by looking hard enough. Gally concedes that it worked well enough in the maze. Slyly, he sees Thomas’ hand cover his holster.

“You don’t want to do that,” Janson chides. Thomas stills for a second before rushing to pull out his pistol. “I said,'' Janson stretches other the vowels lackadaisically, shifting his aim so that it’s directly on Newt. “You don’t want to do that.”

That gets Thomas to stop moving. Gally notes with the idle, dazed part of his mind that Janson knows exactly how to get to Thomas. Or maybe Thomas is just really obvious about Newt.

“Good.” Janson takes a lap around the room, surveying the damage. “You take a good portion of my men and move the Immunes. Now, you're going to—"

But Janson doesn't know the new Thomas quite as well.

With a speed that Gally's long-since associated with him, Thomas yanks a stun grenade from his belt, unclips it and throws it directly at Janson. Duck."

Newt grabs Thomas and Gally and pulls them into the serum vault just as it goes off, the sound of bodies hitting the ground almost satisfying. They stay still for a few seconds before Gally peeks out. "Nice one, Greenie. Who knew your crazy methods would actually—"

Something catches his eye, and Gally frowns as something rolls into the vault with them, before his eyes widen. "Fuck."

There's no time to move, no time to run. The only thing Gally can do is use his body to shield Newt and Thomas from another stun grenade that goes off only a few feet in front of him.

The last thing he sees is Teresa's hand still outstretched, expression unreadable.

—

He feels like a Griever just sucker punched him to the gut.

Every inch of his body is sore, with random points of his body twitching at unexpected moments. Vaguely, something smells like it's burning, and Gally thinks it might just be from being fried by a stun grenade.

His eyes flutter open as confusion hits him. That stun grenade should've killed him. Unless—

There's the sound of someone shuffling near him, and it takes all of his remaining energy to twist his neck sideways. It takes a second for him to realize that they're not in the same room anymore. Floor to ceiling of cold concrete, his best guess is they're in some stairwell somewhere.

Teresa is kneeling next to Thomas—still knocked out—careful hands holding a syringe as she extracts blood from his arm, brows creased in concentration. It's as if his vocal chords are tangled up, and it takes him a few tries before he croaks out: "You use a non-lethal stunner?"

Her eyes flicker to him briefly before focusing on Thomas once more. There's already one, full vial of blood tucked into her coat. "The medical wing," she starts, voice quiet but sure. "Take the door on your right. At the end of the hall there'll be an elevator. Go up to the 21st floor. Turn left, there'll be a portion of glass walls. You can't miss it."

He stares at her. "Shouldn't you kill us?"

She lets out a sharp breath. "I never wanted you guys dead, you know. I just wanted to find a cure."

"You're on WICKED's side—"

"I'm on the side that would help me find a cure." She finishes up with Thomas, gently bandaging his arm almost affectionately. "WICKED had the funds and the access to Immunes. It was a no-brainer." She glances around Thomas, then Newt, then Gally. "You recovered quickly," she tells him. "You get hit with stun grenades often?"

If he had any liking towards her, he would've offered that it was part of his training. Non-lethal stunners were something they were expected to endure on a daily basis while patrolling the outer wall. As it was, Gally stayed silent.

Teresa nods to herself, as if expecting the cold shoulder. "Janson's still out there. Had to choose between killing him or getting you three out of there."

"You'd kill Janson?" he rasps out. "Would killing him help you get the cure?"

"No." Her index finger gently traces Thomas' bandage, but she carefully avoids touching his skin. "But it would keep Tom safe."

A pang of pity strikes deep in his chest. "Thomas is Newt’s," he says bluntly. It's the closest thing to mercy that he can offer her. "That's not changing anytime soon. Or ever, really."

Teresa lets out a huff. "Thanks. I think I picked up on that." She gets on her feet, pocketing the second vial into her coat, the two bottles clinking against each other almost rhythmically. "The other two should be up in the next minute, and you'll be able to move again in the next ten. You'll probably get your strength back quicker than them."

She moves to the door, and as she's about to leave, she hesitates. "Tell Thomas I'm sorry. I think it got caught in the crossfire, during the chaos."

Gally scrunches his brows. "What?"

"Just tell him to find me. I'll be in the labs, somewhere, but I need to hide from WICKED, too. Tell him I think I might have the cure. The real one." She swallows, and pain flashes on her features before smoothing it out. "His need to protect Newt should be enough to outweigh his distrust of me, at least."

With that, she walks out the door, leaving Gally to stare up at the ceiling to wait out the stunner.

—

It doesn't take long for Thomas to rouse.

He scrambles on his feet, only for him to immediately throw up on the staircase. Gally can sympathize. "Where—"

"Chill out Greenie," he mollifies. He eventually found the strength to sit up, letting the wall support him. The soreness in his body is subdued and he can shift around without groaning out loud. "Newt's behind you."

Thomas turns and sinks to his knees, where Newt's eyes are still closed and relaxed. He watches, feeling almost voyeuristic as he touches the black veins on Newt's jaw. "Why isn't he up yet?"

"Not sure. Teresa said he'll be up soon."

At that, Thomas' hand stills. "Teresa," he mutters, like he's just remembering where they are right now. "Teresa. The cure. The serum."

Thomas pivots to Gally. "Where's the duffel?"

Gally hesitates. "Greenie..."

He stands, eyes lighting up as he spots the duffel bag sitting on the bottom stair. "Did you already inject—"

"Thomas."

Thomas opens the bag before his entire frame stills, motionless.

Gally's mouth flattens into a thin line. He knows exactly what Thomas is looking at—broken glass swimming in bright, blue liquid, sloshing within the bag. Not a single vial left untouched.

All the serums broke.

For a long, long moment, it doesn't even look like Thomas is breathing. Slowly, he reaches into the bag and cups a handful of wet, shards of glass, thoughtless of the pain. "Do you..." His voice is a terrible thing, crackling with grief. "If I separate the glass, then maybe..."

Gally is shaking his head before Thomas can finish. "I don't think so."

"Okay." Bit by bit, one hand clutching the fragmented pieces and the other still clenching tightly onto the dripping duffel bag, he settles next to Newt. "Okay."

He watches as Thomas looks at the ceiling, then to his hands, blue serum mingling with the red of his blood, before staring at Newt. The concrete walls provide a blissful quiet from what Gally's sure is a hectic facility mere meters from where they're sitting. Like this, he can hear Newt's steady breathing and Thomas' erratic exhales, with the faintest sound of glass clinking against one another as Thomas' hands shake and falter.

Like a bad surgeon, he sees how Thomas, impossibly, pulls himself together stitch by stich until he becomes something that functions again; tangled, knotted, limbs jumbled, but forced to function. He takes a deep breath before turning to Gally once more.

"What did Teresa say?" he asked, voice steady and monotone. His expressionless face giving nothing away, but his eyes swirls with something like darkness, thick and heavy.

"She told me where the medical wing is." Gally sees Newt's fingers twitch. "She also said she thinks she has a cure. Took some of your blood."

Thomas' expression doesn't shift. "A cure."

"That's what she said."

"A cure," he reiterates, like he was tasting the syllables on his tongue, like it was an effort to speak. Almost thoughtlessly, Thomas lets go of the duffel and sinks his fingers into Newt's thick hair. "A cure."

Gally leans forward. "Thomas." He keeps his words neutral, steady. This is how he speaks, in the rare moments where he's involved in hostage situations. Who the hostage is, he's not sure. "We can't trust Teresa, remember?"

Thomas' eyes lift. They're bloodshot and vicious. "The cure needs to exist."

For a moment, Gally wants to argue. Weren't you the one who blew up at her? Weren't you the one who was itching to kill her not long ago? Weren't you the one she hurt the most? Instead, he watches as Thomas continues to comb through Newt's hair, mummering to him softly, like softness is enough to remove the Flare from his veins.

"It needs to exist," Gally echoes.

Eventually, Newt's eyes flutter open before immediately lurching sideways, retching. Even from this angle, Gally can see the black liquid splatter on the floor.

"It's okay," There's none of the violence present when he looks at Newt; only worry and warmth in the cold stairwell they're all hiding in. "Don't get up too fast, but we need to go soon."

Slumping back into the floor, his voice has a shake to it that he isn't used to hearing. "Tommy."

"Yeah?" he replies, still combing through Newt's hair.

"Your name is Tommy."

The hand stills, before continuing. "Yeah, it's Tommy."

Newt sits up, Thomas helping him as he does so, and looks at Gally with that peculiar expression. "It's Gally," he says, beating him to it. "How much do you remember this time?"

"Where are we?"

"The WICKED facility. We're getting your serum and Minho, then we're getting the fuck out of here." At the tilt of Newt's head, Gally tries again, a twinge in his chest as he has to explain, "Minho's our friend. We need to save him."

"We must really like this guy then." Newt raises a hand and Thomas helps him stand. "What do I need a serum for?"

There's silence for a moment. "We should hurry," Gally says instead. "Newt, are you good?"

"I kind of feel like I got beat up," he rolls his shoulder, wincing. "But otherwise, I can walk."

"I got you," Thomas says gently. "Just stay close to us."

Gally cracks the door open, peering out, and feels someone behind him. "Don't you think it would be better if we had him meet up with Brenda?" he asks without turning around. "We can bring the serum to him afterwards."

"With the way he's going now, I can't risk delaying the serum. And besides," he paused. I promised him we'd stay together. No matter what."

A rush of irritation brushes down his spine. "And that promise is more important than keeping him alive?"

"You know that's not true," Thomas snaps. "But Newt and I talked about this beforehand. He wants to stay, so he's staying."

"Thomas—"

"Gally," his tone is final. "I have to trust Newt."

"Even now?"

"Especially now." Thomas yanks the door open, looks both ways, before leaving. Newt, confused and slightly feverish, follows him without question.

[mercurialskiies]

I don’t care what anyone says, but

“There is nowhere you go,” said the Antari to her prince, “that I cannot follow.”

was an absolutely banger line that, now in CONTEXT, hurt me on a spiritual level

They make me so absolutely ILL

Thanks miss schwab

[kazoo-the-demjin]

Neil really put all of Riko's crazy ass work in front of Ichirou in the car and had the gall to say "I am not saying your brother is out of line"

[melit0n]

I love Jaws with all my heart, so, here I come with a little analysis again!

First off, the title. Bite my neck, drink my blood and make us one type vibes. Sleep Token in general has a massive thing with biting, teeth, consumption and chewing (there's a massive post on Reddit with all the times it's been mentioned, which, if I remember correctly, is around twenty), across their discography, and Jaws is the immediate beginning of this trend.

Jaws are a sign of power, destruction, love, sadness and joy. We bear our teeth when we're happy, when we're angry and when we eat. It is the ultimate metaphor for so many emotions. You don't know someone until you've seen them destroy something, to shout and scream and chew and bite, hence the line "show me those pretty white jaws; show me where the delicate stops". He's asking to see the real them, whoever they are.

All the lyrics have this underlying religious tone, as most Sleep Token songs do, but here it's more directly addressed. "Stained glass" is almost always associated with Churches and Cathedrals, and presents 'them' as something Holy; something that can and will be worshipped. However, the line "Whites of your eyes burn" completely removes all the ideas of safety that surrounds a religious figure. Of course, when it comes to divinity and sin, fire is a massive symbol we have to talk about. To burn is to suffer, but to be cleansed. It's this double entendre that presents this figure of safety as one who is also a threat. A predator.

Then, of course, we have "And I'm not here to be the saviour you long for". Unfortunately, Vessel seems to be in this constant battle of 'I can fix them; we can fix eachother. We're gonna be fine!' and 'I fucking hate you; leave me be or I'll have at you', which is what's seen in this one. Neither of them are the saviour the other one yearns for, yet Vessel still tries. He asks, and then repeats over and over, creating the tone of begging and pleading, for them to show him what they've lost and, in turn, show him love.

He's asking them for the two things they can never genuinely give, but he never stops trying because God forbid the things he'd do if he was alone again.

[asirensrage]

Profane - Mitsuya Takashi x Reader Oneshot

Title: Profane Rating: Mature Fandom: Tokyo Revengers Pairing: Mitsuya Takashi x Reader Warnings: Non-descriptive smut? Nothing explicit. I don't think there are any major warnings in this one... Word count: ~700 Summary: You meet Mitsuya by accident.

Notes: I really love this fic. Like, I've reread it a thousand times and shared it with a bunch of people already lol. Inspired by the poem PROFANE by Ashe Vernon and I listened to Heat Waves by Glass Animals on repeat as I wrote it. I promise you don't need to know the fandom or character to understand this. I just really love it and I hope you do too.

You meet Mitsuya by accident. 

A chance encounter at a party that you’re only attending because the invite came from a friend of a friend and you felt like you hadn’t seen any of your friends in ages. They were all supposed to be there. Instead, you find yourself getting pushed by accident as you pass the dance floor and it’s enough to make you stumble. You don’t fall though. He catches you by your elbows, keeping you steady and helping you back on your feet. His gaze is soft, kind in comparison to the sharp glare that you send back to whoever knocked you over. 

You thank him for the assistance, and he promises that it was no trouble. You’re easier to catch than his sisters. That sparks a conversation since he’s removing his hands but not stepping back and you’re curious to see if he’s as soft as he looks. There’s something about him that draws you in, even as you’re tempted to step back, teeth snagging on his throat if he gets too close. He doesn’t though, letting you set the tone. 

By the time the party finishes, you’ve exchanged numbers and you leave wondering if maybe you shouldn’t have. You don’t expect him to text or call. 

He does. He tells you to call him Takashi. 

---

You’re abrasive and snap at times when you feel cornered, but he rarely seems to let it dissuade him. He waits, as patient as someone trying to woo a feral cat into their embrace, and you find yourself stepping closer with every interaction. He doesn’t press, doesn’t demand, and you think that you could ruin him. That you’ll break the best parts and lay waste to the remains. He whispers praises into your skin and you can’t help but laugh, teasing him with the attempts before you retreat. You don’t want to set a match to see him burn to embers and try to leave him. 

There is steel behind the softness. 

He has taken care to ease you into him and when you try to run, he pulls you back. He smiles as you snarl, unfettered in the way he presses his mouth against yours. You thought you would break him, but the man holding you is stronger than you realize. He isn’t one to let you run, to let you ruin what he has carefully crafted between you two. 

He shows you what it means to worship. The way he carefully undresses you, as though you are something to cherish in your unwrapping. You think that the longer you stay, the more layers you peel back and start to understand. There is a difference between softness and fragility and he proves to you that he can bear the weight you carry. 

He sets himself between your thighs, leaving marks as he carefully lays a trail with his mouth. His fingers carve a path that only he knows, memorizing the dips and curves of your skin, the places that make your breath hitch and what draws you out. He wants to burn the sounds he pulls from you into his memory. You feared you would leave him in ashes but you have him on his knees as he teaches you what it means to trust and fall in return. 

His moans draw out your own, eager to follow where he gladly leads. He fits with ease, the two of you connected in more ways than just one. You’ve never done anything to earn yourself the look you see in his eyes, but he whispers his praises and you’re inclined to believe. There’s no laughing in return when he feels like he belongs. You dig your teeth into him but he holds your throat with promise, keeping you steady as you both break. He is determined that you only call his name as he murmurs yours like a prayer. You’ve never felt more free than in this moment, here with him and the promises he makes as he kisses you.  

He holds you as softly as you can breathe. You think he might have taken your heart along with your speech, but when you tell him he simply smiles. You’ve had his first, he tells you. It’s only fair. 

---

gen taglist: @raith-way @chickensarentcheap @residentdormouse @themaradwrites @kingsmakers @far-shores

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

sunday is so funny because in his mind i truly believe he is this great holy horrifying pillar of salt but he looks like a gust of wind could knock him out cold