Adamantine

Chapter One

Thomas doesn't know what it is. But something, something is weakly tugging at him, almost like an invisible tether. His heart aches as he shakily recalls the past hour in his mind.

Thomas woke up alone and surrounded by towering trees, mind befuddled as he stared up at the cloudless blue sky. The last thing he could remember was stepping through the Flat Trans after Minho. But then he'd woken up completely and utterly alone. Where was Minho? And Brenda? Where was the Paradise they'd been promised?

After his initial panic and concern, Thomas stumbled (quite by accident) on a road at the edge of the woods, and he forced everything from the past few days, the past few weeks, to the back of his mind. He needed to find out where he was, and drowning himself in guilt and sorrow wouldn't help.

Though it took quite a bit of walking, Thomas was soon surrounded by houses and industrial buildings and apartment complexes. A town, obviously.

He found himself inexplicably drawn to the police station when he saw the little establishment. Whomever the man was sitting behind the main desk didn't bother to look up, even when Thomas grabbed a rectangular pamphlet out of a small case attached to the wall and sped out of there like a bat out of hell. Even though there had only been one other person in the room, he'd felt horridly uncomfortable, as if he knew the officer, and he was shaking when he exited the station.

He quickly unfolded the pamphlet and, with vague relief, noticed the simple animated map. He navigated the map with ease, and found that he'd woken up in some clearing in the Beacon Hills Preserve. Something about it felt familiar.... Almost in the way it felt when Teresa first was sent into the Glade. Whatever memory block had been in place from the beginning — it hadn't left when Thomas went through the Trans, that much was certain. Perhaps.... Perhaps, somehow, this was Paradise.... Maybe it was different for everyone, and that was why Thomas woke up by himself! But that meant that whatever reality he was currently in.... It was fake, too.

Thomas shuddered and shoved the frightening thought away resolutely. He noticed a small cluster of houses further in town, and he found his legs moving in that direction without consciously having been aware of it. He hadn't even had to look at the map to know that, somehow, he was in the right place. That he is in the right place.

Thomas sighs deeply and dismisses the last bits of the recollection.

How do you know this isn't another variable? Thomas's mind supplies darkly. He shrugs it off, not wanting to dwell on it; he knows exactly where the chain of musings will lead him, and he isn't emotionally ready for such intimidating thoughts.

Then there's that tug that pulls at his heart; that hollow strain that pulls towards the house, and he feels a pang of nostalgia staring at the wooden door in front of him. Thomas doesn't know what it is. Maybe.... Is it possible? Possible that.... that he knows whoever lives here? From before WICKED?

Thomas shivers, even though he isn't cold. On the contrary, he's beginning to sweat, can feel it under his arms and bangs stuck to his forehead; whether it's from nerves or from the sun's rays soaking into his skin, he isn't sure. But the warmth outside compares nothing to the blazing agony of the Scorch. In fact, the sun looks less orange and unusual than it had before he arrived... wherever here is. No, it looks.... normal.

He trembles, wringing his hands. His heart pounds painfully fast, aching with bittersweet memories, memories locked behind a thin veil he just wants to claw free from his mind. He bounces on his feet slightly, and the faded blue boards of the deck creak quietly. He holds himself still.

Thomas, steeling himself, knocks on the door in a rhythm vaguely familiar to him. There's a brief shuffling sound of footsteps from inside, and the door swings inward, revealing a dark-haired boy, maybe around his age, with soft brown eyes and an uneven jawline. A stab of recognition hits Thomas so hard his breathing pattern stutters and his heart jolts. And yet, when he desperately tries to capture the remembrance, it floats out of his reach.

Thomas knows that, realistically, it has to be instinct. Instinct is strong, and instinct is telling him that he's seen this face before.

Looking at Thomas, the other teenager's gaze is blank. Then, it's almost as if someone has slapped him across the face with a frying pan (maybe that's why his jaw is asymmetrical) and the boy takes a stumbling step backwards; the shock in his eyes seems to bleed into his voice when he speaks, seems to radiate off of him in waves.

"Um.... Isaac, Jackson. C-can you guys come here, please?" the teen says, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his now impassive expression. He doesn't speak any louder than he would've had he been speaking to Thomas, but whoever he's talking to seems to hear it, and Thomas hears multiple sets of footfalls coming closer. He doesn't have more than a few seconds to ponder before two other figures (both of whom are also teenagers, Thomas is quick to assume) are at the door, one set of eyes aflame with worry and fear, the second set unamused and reproachful.

The second pair of eyes focus on Uneven Jawline, and the teen opens his sneering mouth to ask something, but then his gaze follows Jawline's, drifting over to Thomas. His mouth snaps shut, biting off whatever he was about to ask. For just one second, he looks bewildered, an expression that morphs into astonishment. Then his mask slips on once more. He gives Uneven Jawline a withering glance and grabs him by the shoulder, steering him out of the doorway in a fashion that appears ironically gentle for a teen with such a hard exterior.

He nods at Thomas, a violent jerk of his head, to enter the house, but Thomas remains where he is, feet planted on the porch. The trio stares at him, one shell-shocked and pale, one coolly blank-faced, and one so seemingly overwhelmed, his expression has settled on a look of distress. Thomas sighs, and finally asks the question bothering him.

"Who are you shanks?"