The Huntress Descent

The Labyrinth: Chapter Sixteen

The boy seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic beat. Standing there, I expected to see a skeletal body of a person that was on the verge of death, not someone who looked like they would wake up at any second. From the look of him, he must have been round my age or older. He wasn't young, the sharpness of his cheeks with no fullness to them. His hair was dark and cut short. Colour perked his cheeks instead of a deathly pale. A gash jagged along his face, standing out against his olive skin.

Clint bent over the body, dropping water into the coma-boy a few drips at a time. A bowl rested on the bedside table holding the remains of his lunch – soup. It seemed that they were doing everything in their power to keep this boy alive.

"Clint," Newt said, grabbing the attention of the Med-jack. "He still alive?"

"Yeah," he answered. "He's doing fine, though he does talk in his sleep. We reckon he'll come out of it soon."

It felt strange talking about the boy possibly waking up and being fine. Talking to people around him. I would reckon everyone had forgotten about him over the few days since he turned up, I certainly had.

"Have you been writin' down every word?" Newt enquired. Clint nodded.

"Most of it's hard to understand. But yeah, we have."

Newt pointed at a notepad. "Give me an example."

"Well, he mutters the same thing he said when he was pulled out of the Box, about things changing. A few things about the Creators and how 'it all has to end'. And, uh ..." Clint looked at Thomas, not wanting to continue unless he was out of the room.

"It's okay – they can hear whatever I hear," Newt assured him.

"It's him I'm not okay with," Clint mumbled, but continued anyway in a louder voice. "Well ... it's hard to make out, but he uses their names a lot. More of Thomas's."

Thomas whitened at this, his face scrunching up in an act of displeasure. He didn't take it very well. There seemed to be countless references to him (I got a couple of mentions) that all ended in the same way. The look on his face gave away entirely what he was thinking. How did he know this boy?

My question: how did he know me?

"Thanks, Clint" Newt said in what sounded like a dismissal. "Get a full report of that, okay?"

"Will do." The Med-jack nodded at both of them and left the room.

"Pull up a chair," Newt said as he sat on the edge of the bed. Newt grabbed one for me whilst Thomas took the other one from the desk and placed it to where the boy's head lay. He leant in and studied his face.

"What's he doing?" I hissed at Newt who had placed himself behind me.

Newt shrugged his shoulders. "Anything ring a bell?" Newt asked him. "Anything at all?"

Thomas didn't response, instead he kept looking at the boy to trigger any sort of memory. It was hard to forget a face like his. I noticed the way Thomas looked at him, in a way a brothers look at each other (blood related or not). It lasted for only an instant before his memory wipe snatched it away.

I, on the other hand, had nothing. The only person that I admitted to even recognising was Thomas. And that was dreams. This guy. Nothing. Seeing both the coma-boy and Thomas in the same room spelled bad trouble for me. It didn't seem right seeing them there together.

"I do know him," Thomas whispered as he leant back on his chair.

"What? Who is he?" Newt snapped.

"No idea. But something clicked – I know him from somewhere." Thomas rubbed his eyes in frustration. "I'm trying, so shut up."