𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖓// 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘵 𝘹 𝘺/𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺

chapter two: newt's pov

I stifle a scream when someone stomps on my leg. I shove my head in between my knees, trying not to cry out. My pain is intensified as I am dragged through the berg and into a glass tank-like cell, where I am fixed into a standing position, metal arms holding my arms, legs and torso in place. A few tears roll down my cheeks from the pain as my breathing quickens, my chest heaving with anxiety and something else I can't quite put a finger on. I'm afraid that they have Y/N too. No, they can't. I saw her run off. It's only then I smile, knowing she got away. She must be so scared. I hope she isn't alone. Brenda and Thomas must be with her. I haven't seen them since this whole incident. The pain gets so unbearable that I pass out, my head falling uncomfortably to the side. I can't do this. I let the darkness swallow me up, allowing myself to fade into unconsciousness.

When I wake up, I'm back in the glade. It's early morning, very early. The sun hasn't fully risen. I get up from my hammock, unable to stop myself. I walk through the tall grass, the pale green blades reaching my fingertips. Soon, I realise that I don't have a limp, and I feel a lot shorter. I'm thirteen again. And it's that day. Being unable to stop myself, I start scaling the ivy, getting higher and higher and higher, until eventually, I go as far as the ivy gets. With a lump in my throat, I jump, but just like in every one of these dreams, my leg gets caught in the vines, and snaps painfully.

I wake up, for real this time, in what seems to be a lab. My arms are chained behind my back, probably to stop me from trying something like I did in the mountains. That would never work anyway. I don't have Y/N. I wonder where she is now. Far, far away hopefully. My leg is still screaming in agony, and I bite the inside of my cheek to distract myself. My knees are beginning to go numb from the shucking amount of kneeling I've had to do. I want to slam my head off a wall, or just die. But I can't do that. For Y/N's sake. The door opens, and I lower my head, only just now realising I've been changed into a fresh set of clothes. Not even one of Y/N's shedded hairs anywhere. Sometimes I wonder how she still has hair from the amount she sheds. "Newt." It's Teresa's voice. "What the hell do you want?" I hiss, not happy at all by this visit. "They told me you're not immune." She says as-a-matter-of-factly. "And you are? Rub it in, why don't you. Rub. It. In." I say, my words dripping with spite. "We need to test possible cures on you. Study the side effects." "No." I finally look up. "We're not going to take that as an answer, Newt. You're are property of WICKED. Whether you like it or not, you will be tested on. Now, you may not have the flare just now, but there is always the possibility you could catch it, so we are going to attempt to alter your system to make you immune-" "What!?" I splutter, looking over at my arm where black veins are beginning to spread. "Don't interrupt me. We have three possible cures, and have no idea which one has the highest succession rate. That's where you come in. We'll administer the first in fifteen minutes," she pauses. "Prepare yourself, Newt, I doubt this will be pleasant."

I've never been a huge fan of needles, so when one that night literally be the length of my hand gets stabbed into my neck, I think you can imagine how that went. I'm against this whole thing. All this testing. Unnecessary. WICKED's stupid, stupid tests. Everything is falling apart. How much longer can I take this. Is this a side effect? Extreme negativity? Or will it be worse? Will all my hair come out in clumps? Will my skin turn green? Maybe I'll loose all my memories again. That would be delightful to go through that once more.

Days pass, and the side effects begin to kick in. My body temperature has dropped, leaving me a shivering mess as Teresa said before carelessly jotting it down on some clipboard I wanted to tear out of her hands and burn the bloody thing to the ground, but I was too exhausted, another lovely side effect. I can hardly lift my head, so I currently lay weakly against a wall, my arms twisted at a painful angle. Every breath I take is a fresh wave of torment, as if someone has dumped gasoline on my insides and ignited it. I just want to see Y/N, to make sure she's ok. Even just for five minutes. Hug her, stroke her hair for a bit and give her a kiss. But she's not here, and I'm not with her. I need to accept I won't always be there to protect her. She's strong, she can do this. She can go on without me. 

The scientists at WICKED start getting video footage of everything. Every time they try a new procedure on me, the horrible side effect included. The torture. Even logging my declining weight, showing my bony ribs to the camera. I wonder who is receiving the footage. All I know is I'm too mentally and physically exhausted to fight back. I've been through the three procedures, and apparently none have worked. They've only hurt me. Made me weak, or depressed, or throw up continuously. My hair has overgrown, falling past my eyes every couple seconds, annoying the bloody hell out of me. I haven't changed clothes in weeks either, the same grey tee being stained with blood, sweat and other unidentifiable substances.

Some scientist comes into my room in what I assume to be early morning. I weakly lift my head, blonde hairs tumbling ungraciously into my eyes. "This is a pain tolerance test, so please brace yourself." I can't see it, but I can tell there's a camera on me somewhere. I've been through one or two of these tests, and it's really not a fun experience. My arms are pulled out of the chains, and it's now that I see how overgrown my fingernails are. I'll try to bite some of them off later if I get the chance. 

I am laid on a metal table before being bound into place. I lean my head back, breathing slowly. I already know what's coming.

Pain erupts like a volcano through my leg, and when I look down I see I've just had a hammer full-force swung into it. I fight back a scream, tears falling from my eyes as I am struck in the stomach with something. All just so they can study my brain activity or something. Think, Newt, think. Good things, positivity or something bloody stupid like that. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Her smile, that cute little smile. Another strike to the stomach. Cuddling Y/N, when she puts her head on my chest. I pass out before I can even locate where I was hit.