Fire ➳ TDC, Thomas [3] ✓

chapter {8}

"Just try to relax." Teresa told me comfortingly, somehow still rather shaken up which was clearly audible in her voice, wavering just by bit even if I did notice she quite struggled to maintain its neutral tone.

In answer I simply nodded, not knowing if it was wiser to consider her betrayal as the worst happening of six months ago even if it wasn't the only bad thing that happened then— I wagered the two, in the end even if her betrayal led WICKED to take our friends, we were still sure fighting to get them back and not seeing those who had given their life then was not comparable. I decided not to hold anything against her.

As she picked up the knife with a low rattling sound, and began working on removing the mark WICKED had given us my shoulders abruptly froze with the feeling of acid, uncomfortable tweezing arising in the back of my neck which as if sent down my body even more of that previous acidity I felt.

We were both in silence, somehow  comfortable one until she spoke again. "I read your files and I'm...sorry. It must be hard."

"So you know about it?" I questioned, squeezed my eyes shut as another wave of acid pain went down my neck.

"Yes, how are you feeling?" Teresa asked comfortingly, at last removed the colder blade from the skin of my neck.

Looking at my wrist, all around the paler skin scattered black veins that one moment seemed to grow more distinct and the other pull back, faintly visible, I sighed. "I get this feeling like everything is spinning once in a while, but after it stops it's like...it's there but not taking effect." A shiver went down my spine when Teresa layed down the last of her tools and I shifted the angle of my head just by bit to meet the awful sight of bloodied knife which immediately forced me staring back to the seemingly endless dark area the room was in.

I heard the girl heaved a long sigh, stopping her breath must've hitched in her throat as I turned to look at her widened, unblinking stare looking back at me. "How? You can't just be non-immune then immune again."

Shaking my head, I grabbed the white gauze sitting besides a metal plate of sorts and putting it to my neck, shrugged in a obviously tense manner. "I don't know." Rather heavily I lifted myself up, smiling a thankful smile at the raven-haired girl who gave me one of her small ones back and even before any of us spoke again, I trudged to the table set in utter darkness whose only tingling light was a already burnt candle, its orange flame gently swaying from left to right, seemed it would extinguish any moment, yet it continued shining.

My hand moved fabric after fabric the presented suits we had managed to snatch from WICKED, fumbling through their collected dumps in utter disconnection to the things happening around so it felt as if I didn't even percieve what I was doing, only stared emotionlessly at the sight— perhaps it were all the thoughts plaqueing my mind, powerful that they just would not leave. The thoughts of everything that happened, often lingering in past, pushing through the present and just barely hoping for the future.

At last, I heaved one last uncertain breath before stilling my breathing to certain— certain that I would not stand at the side anymore, certain that WICKED had to pay for what they had done and certain that even if the mission seemed by a bit unstable, moved left or right and it could crash, that we would execute it and be over with it. Once and for all. 

I found the smallest suit possible, one that would fit me even though they were all by far bigger than my being, and unzipping it, carefully pulled its horrible red fabric over the white shirt I wore. Rather scratchy and uncomfortable it clung to my body, but accepting there was no other option I slowly pulled the rest of it up to my arms so now it covered me whole, and zipped it back.

My hands came in contact with a small knife, a faint engraving in previously intense, dark letters on its leathery handle fading to gray, barely visible writing which presumably became that way after years of usage— it was the same knife Newt had given me before, and the one my best friend gave as a gift to him. Anger bubbled inside of me, threatened to consume me all too quickly as I pulled the knife closer to myself and set it to my chest, looking up as I made a promise to myself, and him I would not let his death pass in vain.