Chapter 1: The Beginning Of The End

A/N: Please note, this will have spoilers for TDC. This fic will primarily be Thominewt, but will have occasional Thominho, Newtmas, and Minewt.

He could still vividly remember how electricity had sparked and traversed through every one of his nerves, crushing his bones, squeezing and constricting his chest until he couldn't breathe. The way white hot agony had multiplied in tenfold and had flooded his veins, as more voltage was pumped into his bloodstream. How panic had settled into his lungs as he had heaved and quivered in desperation. How his body had convulsed and writhed uncontrollably as electricity had possessed him, making him succumb to its toxic, overbearing, assertive will. He remembered how he had screamed at Thomas to go, screaming at the brunette until his throat was raw, screaming until he couldn't. He hadn't forgotten how raw and hurt Thomas' voice was as he had been dragged onto that ship, how the brunette cried his name in desperate anguish, how Thomas had fought against the arms holding him back.

Minho didn't regret it. Never would he ever regret sacrificing himself. It didn't matter what hell WCKD put him through, he would do it all again in a heartbeat, as long as it meant his pack was safe. That Thomas and Newt were safe.

How long had it been?

He had lost the ability to tell. Time wasn't linear anymore. It moved like water, rushing, pouring, stilling to a stop for some immeasurable amount of time before it started moving again. He wasn't sure what day it was, because he wasn't sure if it was. He wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't.

His hands shook, tremored, and he wondered if it was from nerve damage or anxiety. The train was a suffocating kind of quiet, full of panicked breathing from those that slept and those that didn't. It didn't matter if they were asleep or awake, nightmares were all they knew.

There was a loud crash, and Minho flinched but didn't otherwise react. He was so used to feeling nothing, and everything at once, everything else was just a dull hazy in-between. This was no different. It was probably just Cranks, their bones cracking and crushing under the weight of the train cars, too overrun by the virus to realize that—as far as Minho was concerned—the train walls were practically impenetrable.

He flinches again, this time more violently as he hears another almost deafening crash and the undeniable sound of gunfire, the shear force of whatever it was, shaking and rattling the entire frame of the train car.

Minho gritted his teeth as his body was abruptly thrown forward, his head colliding harshly with the seat in front of him. He winced and cursed under his breath, trying to ignore the pain that resonated and pulsed up his spine and into his temples with every pounding heartbeat. Had the train stopped?

He glances at the smooth, windowless metal, brows furrowed slightly. Not Cranks, he concluded. He pressed his ear against the cold metal, brows scrunching further as he faintly heard something that wasn't the rattle of the wheels grinding against the tracks, but rather, something that was beyond his metal cage.

He strained to hear it over the near deafening, roaring of the blood in his ears. His eyes were flitting wildly about trying to decipher what it was, unable to tell anymore what was reality and what were his nightmares, trying to find something, anything, to focus on. It was getting louder, clearer, more distinct. Human. Familiar. His pupils dilated in recognition, and his muscles tensed as his heart thrashed wildly about in his ribcage.

Thomas.

Minho suddenly blinked. Once. Twice. The train seemed to move around him, like it was on a different plane of existence. Suddenly there was only Thomas. His voice echoed, carrying itself across the metal, echoing through every train cart.

"Minho!" Thomas' voice called, getting louder and clearer as he approached.

Something in Minho's chest shifted, something important, like his lungs or his heart. He suddenly began tugging at the handcuffs as hard as he could, feeling the metal slash against his already tender skin. There were scars there, he knew, but they didn't seem fresh. He hadn't fought against the handcuffs in awhile.

"Thomas!" Minho yelled in return, and his throat ached from the force of it, raw from all the screaming. His voice was too quiet, barely audible above the sound of the others, but no matter how loud he tried to scream, his wounded voicebox just wouldn't comply.

With his shackles, he was bound and he could barely move, but that didn't stop him from trying. With what little he could move his legs, he kicked desperately at the side of the metal. Despite how much it hurt having sharp pains trace up his wrists, he jerked and fought against the chains that claimed him. He continued to cry out, despite his tender vocal cords that betrayed him. More than anything, he wanted to be found.

"Thomas!" He tried again, kicking and trying to pound his bruised, still-chained, hands harshly against the thin, but all too thick, train walls. The action sent tremors through his bones, shaking his weak, thin frame at the effort. He fought. He fought to be heard, fought to be noticed, fought to be broken free, fought to be reunited.

Thomas' voice was so close, yet at the same time so far away. Newt and Thomas, his everything, they were there. Minho knew they were, they had to be. They were right here, he could feel it in his blood—in his veins. For the briefest moment, he felt warm, and something burned and ignited in his chest. Maybe it was passion, or maybe it was foolish optimism, he couldn't tell. With renewed vigor, he screamed it out over and over again, fists banging against the hard metal with reckless abandon, his shoulder ramming up against the adjacent wall. "Thomas! Thomas! THOMAS!"

"This one!" Thomas says, relief soaking into his voice.

Minho collapses against the train wall with an exhausted wheeze, Thomas' name still a mutter on his lips. Thomas hears him. Thomas is going to get him out of here.

For a fraction of a second, Minho's chest feels light and his bated, ragged breath is suddenly stilled and bearable. The sensation flooding his lungs and his heart is warm and empowering, something—hope—fluttering in his chest like a million butterflies. He was going to be saved, broken from these chains, freed from WCKD's twisted game and it's corrupt concept of salvation.

Minho heard more gunfire, closer this time, loud and echoing. Someone screamed, and then there was the unmistakable sound of someone hitting the dirt with a loud thud. He wonders when he got so used to that sound that he could recognize it through metal walls and underneath the loud rattle of bullets flying blindly. He didn't let the thought stay though, it only lingered for a brief moment before he remembered this wasn't a dream, that this was real and Thomas was actually on the other side getting shot at.

"Thomas! Thomas, are you okay?" Minho called through the wall. He had forgotten how much concern hurt. How much the feeling could tear a hole in his stomach and his lungs, making his breath wheeze around every syllable. Heavy footsteps clunked almost aggressively above him, thudding overhead on the roof of the car.

"Newt, how are you doing?" Thomas called, anxiety laced in his tone as he reloaded his gun for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last thirty seconds. He ducked behind the train car as bullets sliced through the air towards him. He stole a glance at the blond, watching as luminous, reddish-orange sparks spewed and corroded off of the metal. Shaking his head and cursing under his breath, he almost instantly dropped to his stomach as another spray of bullets surged past him. Frantic, he then went back to focusing on attaching the metal chains and clamps across the top of the train car to secure it.

They were running out of time.

"Don't rush me." The blond replied back, a dull hint of annoyance and irritation evident in his tone. Thomas knew he was going as fast as he could, but WCKD's soldiers were getting closer, and Thomas' nerves fizzled with anxiety. They had to hurry if they wanted to save Minho. Thomas spared another look down to Newt.

Newt was inches away from the wall, bullets flying just millimeters from him, body tense as he focused on breaking Minho out instead of ducking for relative cover. Sparks flickered in front of his face, and every once in awhile they seemed to catch on his goggles and handkerchief, narrowly missing the expanse of bare skin that rested between. And as Thomas watched, he seemed to get even closer to the sparks, struggling to find an in-between where he wouldn't get shot and he could break the metal, but no such space existed, as the flames caught at the edges of his gloves and he was forced to retreat further into the line of fire.

Thomas winced when a bullet narrowly missed Newt's side, whizzing past so close that the fabric of his jacket fluttered as the bullet hit the side of the train, leaving behind a small dent before ricocheting into the ground, less than an inch from Newt's foot. Newt was too exposed where he was, it was a wonder he hadn't gotten shot by now. "Newt! Get up here!"

"Almost done." Newt called back, and Thomas tried not to think of how many bullets would come close to Newt in that almost.

Thomas had to focus. His hands still shook though, as he laid cover fire for Newt. As he tried to aim through the sand in his eyes and the blinding sun. The gun recoils with every shot, sending the shells back in his direction, and he wonders when he stopped flinching at them.

A smile of triumph graced Newt's lips as the clasp shuddered, sparks and heat finally piercing through the metal lock, sending the bolt to the ground with a satisfying clunk, kicking up dust with its impact.

Too caught up in his own thoughts as he drowned in satisfaction and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, he barely registered that someone was yelling at him to go. His breath hitched as a bullet whirred by his face, right in front of his eyes, just narrowly missing him by a few mere millimeters. His heart leaping out his chest, he frantically clambered up the rickety and unsteady ladder, unconsciously holding his breath the whole way up. The way the rusted metal groaned and creaked under his weight with each step, he was near certain it was going to give and collapse on him at any given moment.

Thomas watched, bitter anxiety shaking him and tracing up every crevice of his bones, as bullet after bullet ricocheted off the metal ladder, each one just barely missing Newt. A small bit of tension unclenched in his heart as Newt stumbled and crawled onto the top of the train car alongside him. Though, this feeling was only temporary, dissipating and disintegrating almost as suddenly as it had washed over him. They weren't exactly off of thin ice yet, he realized.

"Where the hell are they?!" Newt hissed as he cocked his gun and took aim, providing some cover fire for the rest of their team to climb up the, less than stable, ladder.

Thomas couldn't tell if it was more so anger in the blond's voice, or if it was just harsh paranoia with a hint of fear. Thomas hated the way his voice trembled as he replied to Newt, too much uncertainty in his tone for his liking. "I don't know." He answered honestly, hoping it didn't come across as weakly as it had felt on his lips. He gritted his teeth, unable to help it as perilous scenarios ran rampant in his head. There were so many things that could go wrong. What they were attempting was dangerous and risky, especially considering they were already indefinitely high up on WCKD's most wanted list. They had come so far, and it had taken months to reach this point, failure wasn't an option now. There was little room for error; If one team got captured or failed to deliver, their whole plan would go up in flames and everything, everything they'd worked so hard for to get to this point, would've been for nothing.

He knew Brenda was generally extremely reliable, and that she always held true to her words. He knew that she always pulled through, even when the best of plans backfired horrendously on them. He should've had undeniable trust in her, and her team by now, but his faith couldn't help but falter. As each precious second ticked by, he couldn't help but get fidgety and nervous, his stomach tying and twisting itself into knots, as paranoia and an endless amount of 'What if's' plagued his mind and clouded it in haze. What if they had been captured? What if they had been caught in the crossfire and shot? What if they had never made it to the rendezvous point set up with the ambush? What if-

His heart suddenly sank and plummeted into his stomach, his blood running cold, as his insides turned to icy mush. They were done for. With WCKD's soldiers nearing the base of their designated train car and the overhead electric whir and hum of a WCKD ship, fear briefly flickered through him. However, that fear quickly fizzled out and was replaced with a spark of hope, the taste and promise of success already budding on his tastebuds. He let out a triumphant cry as he watched the metal seams of the bottom of the ship split open, a hook filtering through the opening and descending towards them.

With renewed vigor, passion burning like a wildfire deep within their souls, their hearts were given a quick jumpstart, igniting into a fiery inferno of reclaimed zeal, like a match to gasoline. Newt and Thomas frantically jumped, arms fully extended as they reached and clawed to get the metal clasp in their hands.

Thomas' fingers brushed against the metal, once, twice, before he finally grasped it. He used all his strength to tug it down, and Newt quickly secured the hook to the train car. They were done faster than expected, leaving Thomas gesturing wildly at the ship, half panicking as the seconds ticked by like hours. It seemed like forever before the ship finally lifted, the chain groaning under the weight of the train car, and for the briefest of moments Thomas worries that it is too heavy. It was an irrational fear, he knew, but that didn't stop him from flinching every time the chain moved.

The container finally lifted off the base of the train with a sharp jerk, and Thomas instinctively grabbed Newt's jacket to keep the blond from sliding from his place. The action was unnecessary, for Newt had both hands wrapped around the chain to keep him from moving, but neither took the time to comment on it. The container quickly balanced itself out, and Thomas didn't waste time, quickly raising his gun and letting off a few unaimed shots toward the enemy.

The container eventually raised out of the line of fire, and into relative safety, and it's Newt that finally realizes that they did it. He laughs, more breathless and lighthearted than Thomas has heard in months, and the feeling is contagious. His lungs seem to fill with this oxygen, this air, that he had been starved of for months. They did it. They saved Minho, and now the three of them would be reunited again.

But then why does his stomach still ache like something is missing? That something is wrong. That somehow he screwed up again, and Minho wasn't there.

He tries to quell his anxiety by dropping back down onto his stomach, landing on the top of the container with a loud thud, and pressing his ear against the metal. Newt immediately understands what he's doing, and quickly does the same, dropping to his stomach with a much quieter noise.

"Minho! Can you hear me?" Thomas calls, and the whole container rumbles with voices. Thomas narrows his eyes, and tries to pick out Minho's voice from all the others. But despite how picking out his voice from a crowd should be easy, secondhand nature, he can't seem to do it. Thomas glances at Newt, hoping for reassurance in the fact Newt had more luck, but Newt's face is pulled into the same troubled expression.

"Maybe… Maybe he's just unconscious…?" Thomas suggests, eyes met with Newt's dark coffee brown ones. He can hear the blind uncertainty in his own voice, the way it came out just barely above a whisper and the way it faltered. He can't even totally believe what he'd said himself, so he definitely knew Newt's faith in the statement wasn't much stronger. More than anything, he wanted the tightness in his chest and the heavy dread, like a cluster of stones settling in his stomach, to just be stupid paranoia. And he desperately wanted this indescribable feeling he was suffocating on, to just be his overactive anxiety.

He wanted to be wrong. He wanted Minho to be down inside that container, safe. Safe from WCKD, safe from gunfire, safe from whatever he had been subjected to over the last few months. He wanted Minho here, with him and Newt. But no matter what he did to try to convince himself otherwise, he couldn't shake the heavy, gut-wrenching feeling in his stomach that lurched and churned violently.

X~X~X

By the time they landed and got everything unhooked, Thomas was already, practically shoving a metal-cutting kit into Newt's hands. His heart was thrumming against his ribcage almost painfully, almost like someone was taking a sledgehammer and pounding away at the barrier of bones. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he gnawed at it, drawing blood, his anxiety clawing and ripping him apart inside. It was agony, watching the sparks fizzle from the metal wall of the container, just ever-so-slightly etching an opening through it. He hadn't even realized he had began holding his breath.

Newt let out a shaky exhale, his own hands trembling as he tried to make a careful, precise cut. But no matter how much he willed them to still, they kept shaking uncontrollably, making the line he was corroding through the metal, jagged. If it weren't for Thomas' somewhat steady hand on his shoulder, he would've been convinced he was having a seizure with how badly his own hands were quivering. The blond's stance was stiff and rigid, his muscles tense as he bore the final cut through the wall. Stepping back out of the way, standing alongside Thomas, he couldn't help but unconsciously grip the brunette's arm. Undeniable fear wracked through him. Newt practically clung to Thomas, clamping onto the brunette's arm like he was his lifeline, his grip firm and tight, near vice-like.

They watched in bitter silence, nerves on end as the first of WCKD's captives filtered through the opening Newt had created. Their eyes flickered frantically over each face, eyes only lingering for a few spare seconds. With each person who passed, Newt's grip on Thomas' arm only got tighter—almost pain inducing.

It only took a glance to see how all these people looked wrong. Their pupils were blown wide, and their faces seemed almost swollen, like they cried so much that tears had saturated into their skin. And they sort of stumbled, feet falling over each other like they couldn't quite control them, and Thomas can't help but think they look as dead as Cranks.

Once the last of the people filter through, Thomas sort of just stands there, as if Minho will appear out of his sheer force of will—even though that hasn't worked in the past nine months. Newt's hand has become this heavy weight on his shoulder, nails digging in past the thin fabric of his t-shirt, each tremor of his hand causing the nails to sink deeper into his skin.

Newt lets out a heavy breath, and it seems to echo into the air around Thomas and him, enclosed in this little space that's just them. The space is different than normal though, the air thick and suffocating, because it's not all of them. They are missing Minho, the space he usually occupies sits stale, and they are all too aware of it.

Newt's hand slowly unravels from Thomas' shoulder, but he doesn't completely remove it. Instead he just snakes it down lower, slender fingers twining themselves around Thomas' wrist for a moment. Newt gives Thomas' wrist a reassuring squeeze, though his hands still shake, and he's seeking comfort just as much as he's giving it.

Then Newt steps forward, shaking his head like it's full of clouds, though Thomas knows it's actually filled with dread. When he steps, it's as if a spell is broken, and they are suddenly shoved back into the real world. Thomas reaches forward, wrapping his hand around the back of Newt's shirt.

"I'll go first." Thomas says, but it sounds more shaky than he intends.

The opening looks dark, dim light flooding in but not reaching more than a few feet. Thomas hands Newt a small flashlight, keeping another for himself. Even though the flashlight is fully lit and battery-operated, Newt still shakes it. It's a nervous habit. They seem to be collecting a lot of those.

When Thomas enters the container, he can't help but think it smells like blood. The heavy stench of copper sits in the air like a plague. It doesn't take him long to find out why. There's droplets of blood on the floor, enough in spots that it forms small puddles. The stench is something stronger than that though, Thomas realizes. It's something he smells when walking through the old cities or darkened tunnels, something eerily familiar that he just can't place.

They don't split up, but Thomas checks the seats to the right and Newt to the left. It's a relatively small container, but it's never seemed longer. Thomas leads, though Newt is so close behind that he occasionally knocks into him, treading on the back of his shoes and almost stumbling into him every time. Thomas holds his breath as the scent gets stronger, seeming to overcome the oxygen and leave him choking.

Suddenly, something in his brain clicks, and he recognizes the stench. It's the smell of death.

"Oh…" Newt breaths out behind him, pausing for a moment, eyes hauntingly focused on something, even as it makes his mouth twist in horror. Thomas steps back to see what he is looking at, and then immediately regrets it. There is a kid there, body bent awkwardly in his seat, face hidden from view. The kid is dead, the back of his head wide open, brain a raw, disgusting mush. Thomas feels his stomach violently lurch forward at the sight of slimy larvae, little maggots squirming and burrowing their way through the rippled remains of the organ. Thomas swallows back the vomit that threatens to rise and rip at his esophagus.

His hair is black, a strickenly familiar shade, and Thomas swallows back bile and dread as he reaches toward the body. It can't be Minho, the hair was too long, too fluffy, the skin a couple shades too light. But dread still fills up Thomas' stomach, claws up his intestines and leaves him shaking like a leaf. His hands close around the boy's collar, lifting his head up so he can see the face.

Thomas breathes out a sigh of relief when it isn't Minho's, and feels, more than hears Newt respond the same way. The feeling is quickly replaced with guilt when he sees the glazed, dark eyes. The eyes of a corpse tainting such a young face. Thomas wonders aloud, "Did this happen during the train heist?"

"No. He did that to himself." A voice behind them calls, and Thomas snaps his head around, hand already going for his gun. It's a young girl, couldn't be older than 13, a pair of WCKD's handcuffs still dangling from her wrists. Thomas drops his guard, and watches Newt do the same. "He couldn't take it anymore." The girl adds a bit forlornly.

"When?" Newt asks, sounding horrified.

The girl shrugs, pausing a moment to think about it. "A couple days ago. Maybe."

"And they just left him here?" Thomas hears himself say, devastated. The girl just shrugs indifferently. She doesn't act like it's anything out of the ordinary, and Thomas is suddenly hit with the weight of his failure. Minho is still there. Still in the hands of these horrible people.

If WCKD didn't even have the decency or respect to bury the dead—or at the very least dispose of the corpse, Thomas hated to imagine what horrible, morbid things WCKD was subjecting the living to. That they were subjecting Minho to.

Thomas doesn't have to say it, Newt already knows, but he says it anyway.

"I'm going to fix this. I'm going to bring Minho home."

Newt can't help but think the words seem a little too lonely for his liking. Through everything they'd been through, the Maze, the Trials, and everything else in between, he already knows what's running through Thomas' head. Newt could read Thomas' expression like the back of his own hand, and for as far as Newt was concerned, the brunette may as well of had it painted on his forehead. If Thomas can't convince Vince to run another reconnaissance mission to rescue Minho, the brunette would plan to do it himself. Alone. There was no way in hell Newt was letting Thomas tackle WCKD on his own.

X~X~X

A sulky pout surfaced on Thomas' lips, as he crossed his arms firmly over his chest. Vince had denied his suggestion. Shot the idea down before he had even finished, killing and gutting it instantly, like a Crank presented with fresh blood.

Vince had went on and on about how the safety of the people they did have, was most important, how after what they'd pulled, they couldn't afford to pull the same stunt again. Thomas supposed Vince did make a good point, but rightly, he didn't care. Forget everyone else they had saved, everyone else be damned. Everyone else wasn't Minho.

Even now, Thomas couldn't help but scowl and shoot daggers at Vince as the brawny man stood before everyone and gave a victory speech, throwing a toast of sorts. Fire boiled through his veins as he listened to Vince, his tone celebratory and proud, almost mocking to Thomas. He heard the others around him let out triumphant cheers, laughter echoing all around him, everyone all smiles and cheesy grins. But to Thomas all of this was just dull white noise. He was deprived of the warm feeling of hope that sparked in everyone else, the warm feeling not contagious like it should've been. His chest was hollow, aching and longing for something that was just out of his reach. It was like he was devoid of something vital, like oxygen or water. His heart was corroded and mangled by endless spindly shadows, like demons clawing at his heart, scarring him and seemingly ripping the organ in half, as he drowned and suffocated on his own crippling insecurities.

His heart was a clouded tangle of emotions right now. He wanted to cry, cry out all that he was, let his failure sink in and crush him like the awful cockroach he was. He wanted to scream, scream until his throat was raw from the effort, until his lungs collapsed, until he couldn't. And even though it wasn't Vince's fault, he wanted to punch Vince's stupid face, his knuckles giving a satisfying crack as his fist struck bone.

He absentmindedly swished around the drink in his cup dejectedly, watching the dark ruby liquid ripple and swirl around the edges, nearly spilling over the brim. He knew he should've been happy that they had managed to rescue as many people as they had, but he couldn't bring himself to feel as ecstatic as everyone else. He just couldn't. He couldn't force his lips to upturn into a genuine smile, it was like his features were permanently molded into a frown. He was incomplete, missing a vital piece of himself. He knew there were still more people suffering, more people hurting, more people dying due to WCKD's hands. He was going to stop this, and he was going to get Minho back. If Vince wasn't going to help him, he'd do it himself.

He has no plan, no course of action, not even a semi-solid backup plan. What he's attempting is suicide. But he has to try. If the last nine months taught him anything, it was that he couldn't live without Minho, not any life worth living at least, so he has to do everything he can to save him. He instinctively thinks of telling Newt that he is going after Minho, but Minho is just as important to Newt as he is to Thomas, and Newt would want to help. But the thing is, Thomas can't live without Newt either. And Thomas knows, in the back of his head, that running off like that is only going to get himself killed, or worse, get Newt killed.

So, Thomas made his decision. He'd do it alone.

He watched the flames flicker to and fro, ashes fizzling off of the firewood as it burned, coming off in bright amber flecks. Light dances across his face and warmth traces up his skin as he watches members of the resistance clump around the bonfire.

Standing up, he pulls his bag against him, carrying it at his side as he begins to cautiously stalk off towards where Vince kept the cars. He carefully eyes around him, eyes flitting attentively at every person he passes, his heart clashing like thunder in his ears. He keeps his head bowed low, eyes downcast as he clutches the bag close.

Once he reaches the outskirts of the people gathered around camp, he breaks into a sprint. He runs like his life depends on it, runs like he's in the Maze, runs like he's being chased by Grievers. It's almost second nature now. He runs until his legs burn, until his calves sting, until he has to pause to catch his breath.

Pushing open the door to the garage, he nearly stumbles and falls onto his face as he's met by a shadowy figure. His heart thrums against his ribcage, pupils dilating, and mouth going dry. He can already feel anxiety welling up in his chest, clotting and clumping into boulders that sink into his stomach. "Oh- I- I was just…" Thomas trails off, a flustered, stammering mess. He sighs, exhaling deeply. There was no talking his way out of this one.

Thomas flinches as the headlights on the car suddenly kick on. The second the lights illuminate the figure before him, he realizes, that that scrawny frame and that messy tangle of blond locks is familiar. Newt.

"What were you doing, Thomas?" Newt asks, his tone smug and knowing, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He stood leaning with his back against the passenger door, arms folded firmly over his chest. Newt then shifts, dropping an arm to his side, the other casually spinning something metallic on a key ring around his finger. Whatever it is, it glimmers in the dim lighting, giving a metallic chime as it knocks against the metal of the keyring. "Looking for these?" Newt asks slyly, a smirk coming over his features as he tosses the object to Thomas.

Catching it one handed, Thomas opens his hand to find a set of car keys sitting in the center of his palm.

"What're you waiting for Tommy, the damsel in distress isn't going to rescue himself."

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! This story is co-written with a friend of mine, Leopardfang (So go check her out XD). We are going to continue this fic and make it a multi-chapter. So, if you enjoyed, we appreciate any feedback, so feel free to leave a favorite, follow, and a review.

-TheCandyCravingDemon & Leopardfang