Subject A250: The Fallen

Eighteen: Family Feud

A/N: My heart hurts. Listen to the song. You won't thank me, but you might feel things a bit more.

Seven hours later, the Berg arrived in Denver.

At that point, Trace's heart was pounding so hard that she thought it might come loose and jump out through her throat, sliding across the floor and shocking everybody who saw it. She kept her mouth firmly closed in case, and tried to steady her breathing.

"Hey."

Thomas walked up to where Trace was sitting-- in the cargo hold, on the same couch she'd slept on earlier. He sat down beside her, staring at the ground ahead of him.

"Hey, Tomato." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and rubbing her face. "So, this is it, huh? This is where cranks and immunes part ways."

Thomas' forehead was creased with concern and he watched Trace with worried eyes. "We'll be back," he assured her. "We'll figure it out."

"Yeah..." Trace trailed off. She wasn't so sure he could promise that last part. She wasn't so sure she could figure anything out herself.

"You ready to go?" Minho asked, walking in from the other side of the room.

Trace lowered her head; she wasn't ready for this -- then again, she doubted she ever could be ready.

"Hey, Tracey face. We'll be back for you in the nick of time." Minho had seen her glum expression and tried to cheer her up.

She raised her head again and smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I know you will."

"Try not to eat each other's brains while we're gone."

"You're a real slinthead, Mint-Fro."

The truth was, Trace couldn't make any promises about what she would do while the others were gone; she had no idea how quickly she was spiraling-- although she seemed to be going much slower than Newt was.

Brenda and Flint walked into the room, both struggling to hide their worries. Flint looked over at Trace and gave her a quick nod, as if to ask if she was okay. She nodded back to say that she was, but in no way did she mean it. Flint seemed to sense that, and walked over to her.

"We'll do all we can," he said. He was so much taller than Trace, and had to peer down at her as if she were a child. She stared up at him now, wishing he could just tell her what to do -- how to fix this.

Nobody could tell her that.

She believed him, of course; she knew that he would do all that he could. She just doubted that would be enough. She doubted he could do anything in that city that would stop Newt --or herself-- from becoming a Crank. She doubted very much that he could save them from that.

She nodded at him again, unable to find the words to express how she really felt. He probably knew anyway-- he was probably feeling the same way too. This was all so hopeless.

Newt sauntered into the room from God-knows-where, a grim frown etched across his face. He paused and looked at the group, all crowded into one corner. "You lot look bloody cheerful," he chided, shuffling over to them.

Minho scoffed. "Says Mr Happy Funtime himself. I don't exactly see you handing out balloons or baking us a cake."

"Oh," Newt mused. "Is that what I should be doing with my precious time? Baking a cake? Pretending to be happy for you all? Don't you think that I might've had enough of that after all these years?"

"Newt," Thomas urged him. "Not now."

"Not now?" Newt pressed. "Not now? What are you asking me, Tommy?"