[ all he sees are shadows, more like blobs, from where he is, and yet, thomas feels his skin crawl. it's like he can hear it, in the back of his hear, that crazed, teetering snickering that echoed off the walls underneath the Scorch. glass shattering in the van as the mob scream and pounded against the windows, skin scabbed, dirty and festering, bodies set wrong like everything was pulled out of its socket and put back together off, and blood. the Flare. Cranks. it's what he'd been fearing since he woke up here. ]
They're not people. [ there's an immediate sting of regret in that, remembering what Newt was like - sane in tiny moments of clarity. that's what's worse about it. they are people, when they're like that, but not for much longer. thomas is straightening up, pushing to stand. ]
You can't stay out here. And if you're not Immune, you need to cover up.
8D
They're not people. [ there's an immediate sting of regret in that, remembering what Newt was like - sane in tiny moments of clarity. that's what's worse about it. they are people, when they're like that, but not for much longer. thomas is straightening up, pushing to stand. ]
You can't stay out here. And if you're not Immune, you need to cover up.