#thomas/a1

[hcnnibal]

How would Thomas be as a partner if he were to keep people/guys around long enough?

thomas is a great partner 🥰 always so kind and considerate. he loves taking care of people

[sterling-starlight]

Brother Mine

My first ttte fic written in about two decades and it's Gresley Brother angst because of course it is . I am not immune to what Mattel robbed from us when it comes to The Great Race, and like many others have decided to replace Canon with my Superior Canon. Anyway let's a go

He had known something was terribly, terribly wrong when he caught sight of Gordon’s face, flushed red as he ran beside him. But Gordon, his proud, stubborn, dearest brother had pulled ahead in stark defiance of Scotsman’s concern, unconcerned with the strip of metal that tore itself free, spiraling through the air and cutting into Scotsman’s face just above his right eye. 

If only it had ended there. 

“Gordon!”

Scotsman’s cry ripped itself raggedly from his tubes as he watched, frustratingly, infuriatingly, heart-crushingly powerless as his brother exploded. His boiler ballooned outwards, straining against the casing. A muted, bwoom slammed against the air like thunder, so close that Scotsman could feel it rattle his teeth and tubes and pistons. Superheated air slammed into him with enough force to almost knock him back, and hot enough to scorch even his metallic skin and evaporate the tears in his eyes. He remained firmly upright on the rails, although the impact reverberated painfully throughout his entire body.  He rushed to the steaming wreck that was his brother, his own damages be damned. “GORDON!!”

“Jesus,” His Fireman breathed out in a hoarse whisper. “Do you think his crew managed to get out alive?” 

“We don't even know if the engine is still alive.” His Driver returned grimly, slowing Scotsman to a much more controlled stop, something Scotsman would have to thank him for later..  He didn't want to continue this… this farce of a race anymore, and he would have fought if man and machine weren't of the same mind.   It would have gone against everything that had been -literally and metaphorically- hammered into him since the day he was built. Obey his crew. Follow the orders of the humans who gave him life. Represent the Gresley Legacy the way He expected. Open defiance -especially fighting over controls- was indignity of the highest caliber. But maybe such a barbaric disregard for The Law would have woken Gordon up, the sheer audacity dragging him back to consciousness explicitly to scold Scotsman like he was still that bright-eyed young engine, newly steamed up boundlessly excited. It would have been preferable to this. 

Dread clogged up his tubes and coated the inside of his boilers like sludge as he looked over his brother. Steam billowed up almost lazily from between the cracks in his streamlined casing, warped and bent out of shape from the heat and pressure. More plates had since been blown off, but there weren’t any visible tubes. That fact  offered very little comfort as Scotsman’s eyes lingered on a bulge right above his running board.  His previous Driver had let him watch movies once or twice, and he had seen films where humans desperately held their innards in with their arms. If Gordon’s streamlined casing came off, would everything come spilling out the way they did in those movies?  It was a ridiculous thought (if he was going to burst, he was going to burst. Such flimsy, pathetic streamlining wouldn't have stopped it), but it stuck in his smokebox like someone had jammed a rock in there. 

On the track on his other side, Spencer chugged forward, grinding to a near halt as his eyes scanned over Gordon. A cavalcade of emotions flashed across the Silver Jubilee’s face -horror  and shock and something that could have been sorrow, but it passed too quickly. The A4 gave Scotsman a look before tearing his gaze away from the brothers, focusing on the rails as he bolted down the line. 

Driver and Fireman climbed out of his cab, Fireman deftly walking across his running board and coming to a stop by Scotsman's smokebox.  He rested a comforting hand against the metal and gave a weak smile. 

“Michael, go down the track and see if you can't find the crew,” Driver called. “I’m going to try and get a closer look.” Under his breath, although Scotsman could hear as clearly as a bell, he added: “God willing I don't find a pair of flash-fried corpses.” Fireman -Michael- gave Scotsman another firm pat against his smokebox before climbing down and jogging in the opposite direction. 

“....How bad is it?” Scotsman hedged after what felt like an eternity. Driver scratched his beard with a sigh. 

“He’s still too hot to get a good look, but from where I’m standing? His cab is fucked, and God only knows what his boiler looks like under that casing.” He took off his cap to rake his fingers through his thick, curly black hair. “We won't know how bad it is until some engineers take a look at him. It could be just as bad as it looks, it could not be as bad as it looks.” Driver sighed and kicked a chunk of ballast.  “I just don’t know, Old Boy. As a small mercy I didn't see anything that looked like a body, so his crew must have managed to jump out.” 

Scotsman let out a relieved sigh. Small mercies indeed. There had been enough tragedy for the day.   After a few moments the two of them heard another engine. Spencer was carefully reversing  towards them, a single carriage coupled up to him. He still couldn't look Scotsman in the eye as he came to a stop beside him. One of the windows opened, and a severe-looking woman with mousy brown hair stuck her head out- the head nurse of the on-site medical team.

“Where are NWR No.4’s crew?” She asked. 

“Not in the cab, thank Christ. I sent my Fireman down the line to find them. They should be easy enough to spot, provided they’re still in their uniforms,” Driver replied.   

Spencer puffed away shortly after, leaving a single person behind. The Fat Controller walked over to Gordon, hat clutched in a white-knuckled grip. When Scotsman had first met The Fat Controller, he was reminded of Alan Pegler. Alan didn't have the same head for business, and had dreams much larger than what his wallet could accommodate, but both were charismatic gentlemen who deeply loved railways and their engines.  The favorable comparison turned to ash as Scotsman watched The Fat Controller trundle towards his brother. Someone ordered Gordon to be streamlined (and not even properly into an A4. Mallard had grown insufferable in her age, and Spencer had the most biffable face ever molded, but neither of them had exploded while going at speed, now had they?), or at least convinced Gordon that it was what he wanted. There was only one man on all of Sodor who had that kind of power, and it was the man who had the audacity to look mournful.  

“Why did you do it?” Scotsman asked, the venom in his voice potent enough to make both human men jump. “Make him get such … piss poor streamlining work done?” Smoke and embers hissed through his teeth as he glared down at the guilty party. 

“He asked to be-” The Fat Controller began in a voice smaller than a child’s. 

“Bullshit.” Scotsman fired back, spitting cinders onto the ballast. If Driver reprimanded him for his crassness, it fell on deaf ears. “I haven't seen my brother in decades, and even I know he would have never agreed to this. If you wanted him to be faster, you could have rebuilt him into an A3, like the rest of our A1 siblings. At least then he would have retained some dignity.”  The Fat Controller looked up at him, mouth flopping open and closed pathetically. He heaved a sigh and all but shriveled up under the intensity of the engine’s glare. 

“... You're right. I have no excuse.” He admitted. He struggled to look towards Gordon's slack, unmoving face, recoiling further into himself at the express engine’s corpse-like stillness. “My pride very well might have-” 

“Do not finish that thought.” Scotsman hissed. Saying it out loud would make it real. It would make Gordon's face crumble to ashes and rust and he’d be well and truly gone.  

“Alright, alright,” Driver interjected, standing between the engine and the Controller, hands held up. “Being angry and wallowing in self pity won't fix this. Scotsman, let's go back to the showgrounds, turn around, and come back so we can pull him to a workshop. You, er- um-” 

“Stephen Hatt.” 

“Right. Stephen. You probably need to make a few calls, aye? Come along with us.” 

The Fat Controller kept looking at Gordon. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not leave him alone.” 

“...Okay.” Driver walked back to Scotsman and climbed into the cab. “Cool your fire,” He commented, re-raking the coals before coaxing the engine forward.  He thundered down the line as fast as Driver would allow, forcing out every thought that twisted its way into his smokebox and roiled through his boiler that wasn’t “Get Gordon somewhere safe.”   He roared into the showgrounds and came to a screeching stop on the nearest turntable,  staring coldly at the operator as Driver explained the situation. “Flying Scotsman, whit in th' world happened?” The North Western Railway’s Sterling Single called out to him as she puffed towards the turntable. “We heard an explosion oan th' racetrack, whaur is?-” With a sharp click Scotsman’s smoke deflectors came forward, blocking the old engine from view as the turntable finally got him facing the right way.  He sped off, heedless of the Sterling whistling after him. “Easy, easy.” Driver coaxed, rubbing small circles into the outside of Scotsman’s cab. “We’ll get him somewhere safe.” When Scotsman returned to Gordon, he hadn’t woken up. His face was just as slack as he had last seen, his brows still twisted in agony. Now that they were both on the same track, however, Scotsman could hear low, shallow breaths puffing from his smokebox. Still breathing, thank God, or The Lady, or whichever deity had been overlooking this tragedy. The Fat Controller was sitting on the sides, head buried in his hands. He could stay there forever as far as Scotsman was concerned. Unfortunately, Driver insisted that he ride in his cab once Gordon was securely coupled. The drive back to the showgrounds was considerably slower than the rush to get there. Every so often something metallic would clatter onto the rails that Scotsman hoped and prayed and pleaded was just more of that horrible casing, and not his brother falling apart. He could hear each rattle and groan of metal that came from Gordon's body, each one screeching against his nerves like wheels trying to work through years of rust and grime. The tubes directly behind his smokebox felt as though they had been twisted into a tight knot. Breathing made it worse, like he was inhaling shards of glass and dirt rather than clean air, but he had to keep going. He had to keep breathing. Keep breathing, keep breathing, keep breathing. When the sun rose tomorrow morning, he might be the only Gresley who still was.

As Scotsman puffed onto the showgrounds, a sharp gasp assaulted his senses. “Holy shit, Gordon!” It sounded like that little red tender engine that had been one of Sodor’s two entries in the Best Decorated Engine Parade. His horrified cry alerted his fellow North Westerners, who swarmed around Scotsman like starving carnivores circling a carcass. “What happened?!” “Wis he th' explosion we heard?!” “He’s… he’s not dead, is he…?” 

   Scotsman ground his teeth so hard he tasted metal shavings. It took every ounce of dignity and self restraint learned over decades of service for him to not snap at the school of piranhas following after him. To not shoot cinders from his funnel and bellow fire from his mouth in a display of the infamous Gresley Engine Temper so grand, so raw and animalistic in it's fury, it would send these smaller engines scampering away like rabbits. But such an explosive show of emotion would rattle Gordon, possible cause him to crumble apart entirely. Scotsman swallowed down the rancor burning just as hotly as the coal in his firebox and pressed on.   The organizers of The Great Railway Show had the wherewithal to host the event not terribly far away from Crewe. Scotsman puffed inside carefully, his attention immediately drawn to the tank engine suspended above the workshop floor with some cranes. He recognized him as the little tank engine he had spoken with at Sodor’s Big Station, the alleged E2 with the proportions of a Jinty; Thomas, was it? Whatever his name, the poor lad had definitely seen better days, paintwork scratched to high heaven, boiler dented and buffers bent. His wheels had been removed, and Scotsman sucked in a breath at the sight of the deep cracks across his frame and chassis. When Thomas’s gaze shifted from Flying Scotsman to Gordon, his eyes flooded over with tears. “I was too late…” He choked out. “V-Victor told me about his safety valve, and I- and I- and I tried to get here as fast as I could to warn him. My Driver told me not to, but I tried to jump the bridge because I didn’t get there before it started raising, but  then I- but then- I damaged myself so badly I couldn’t move and now- now Gordon’s…!” He gulped in a mouthful of air and wailed. “I’m so sorry!”  Scotsman wasn’t sure which of the two Thomas was apologizing to, but his howling shot through his boiler like a bullet from a rifle. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Scotsman attempted in what he hoped was a soothing tone (if Great Northern were here, she would know exactly what to say. But she was gone. All that was left was Flying Scotsman the Showboat).  “Even if you did get there in time, what would you have done?” “I… I don’t know…” Thomas sniffed. “Driven onto Gordon’s track so he couldn’t go?” “Do you honestly think that would have stopped him?” Scotsman slowly eased Gordon into an open spot on the workshop floor. “Didn’t he once pull you halfway across your island while you were coupled to his train?” “How did…? You’ve read the books about our railway?” “The daughter of my first private owner, Penny, loves the books written about you all.” The barest hint of a smile crossed Scotsman’s face. “When I was resting for the winter in Texas, all the way in America, she’d come into my shed each and every night to read me those stories.” He hummed fondly, although the joy was quickly snuffed out as the workman shooed him away from Gordon so they could assess the damage. He looked up at the little tank engine. “I also know my brother.  Unfortunately parking yourself in his way wouldn’t have been enough to stop him.” Thomas sniffed again, blinking away a fresh wave of tears from his eyes.  “...Do you think he’ll be okay?” Yes.

No.

Maybe?

If he does wake up, there’s no guarantee he’ll be able to run again. Being forced into preservation as a static display would kill him just as surely as any boiler explosion.

Lady, Anyone,  please. If you’re listening, please don’t take my big brother. He's all I have left! Save him like you saved me, please!!

Scotsman gave Thomas a winning smile. “Of course he will be.” Thomas didn’t look entirely convinced, but seemed willing to take anything he could. Scotsman eased himself into a siding, firmly telling Driver that he’d be staying at Crewe for the night. He didn’t get much sleep, and  in the brief moments he was able to dream, he returned to the yard at Doncaster, stargazing with Great Northern and joining in her teasing of Solario, while Gordon and Sir Frederick watched from a respectable distance, bemused at their sibling’s antics.  

[the-time-lord-oracle]

Thomas' derailment in Thomas gets Bumped was based on a real accident. On June 5th 1950, LNER A1 class No. 60153 was hauling a Newcastle-King's Cross express when she was derailed at Tollerton due to track that had distorted in the summer heat. Thankfully, no one was killed, but nine passengers and 60153's driver and fireman were injured, though they all made full recoveries. Thomas' mishap was rather less severe, as he remained upright, but the root cause was exactly the same. I used to think that track distorting due to heat would be impossible in the British climate, but it turns out that it did actually happen.

[maxwellscorner]

I had something planned for 4/4 but couldn't finish as usual 🤧 have a little piece, I'll finish it eventually

[nelllia]

It's been a while since I drew with charcoal

LNER A1 Gresley Pacific, the class Gordon is based on

[hoisnyshenanigans]

New oneshot just dropped! (…it’s 12k words long)

Tales from the Nene

[hazel-of-sodor]

Presenting the LBSCR A1/A1x terriers! in 30 liveries.

Here is a list of the liveries and locos. They will be listed left to right, top to bottom.

1. Stepney in 1960s preservation/RWS condition IEG

-preserved irl

2. Kemptown in Original IEG (or close to it)

-She was sold to a colliery and preserved in the 70s

3. Martello in Southern Olive

-preserved irl

4. Abigail (Wandle) in AF&JR Blue

- @angryskarloey 's OC, see their fics for info

5. Freshwater in FYN Green

-preserved irl

6. Deptford in NER Green

-sold to a factory, survived the factory being bombed in 1915, was sold to the NER to replace a 'destroyed' E1 (Thomas in my AU), sold to the NWR in 1923

7. Minories in NWR Blue

-sold to the NWR in 1933

8. Carisbrooke in Southern Machalite

-bought for a Musuem in 1959

9. Nicola (Piccadilly) in AFJR Blue

-See @angryskarloey

10. Beulah in DWR Black, 2-4-0 condition

-purchased by the DWR in 1934, expirementally rebuilt back into a 2-4-0

11. Thomas (fictional addition) in NWR (rebuilt) Blue

-fictional addition to the class, just to have Thomas as a terrier

12. Cheapside in LB&SCR Umber with white lining

-purchased in 1951 at scrap price by Suddery Rail Museum after withdrawl due to broken crank axle, restored and serves as pilot at musuem. Livery was proven to be historically inaccurate, but She prefers it, so was allowed to keep it.

13. Brighton Works in Brighton Pilot livery

-Stolen by Caomhnóir in 1963, later restored by the Bluebell

14. Portishead in GWR Shirtbutton Green

-disappeared from Swindon in 1950, reappeared at the KESR in 1978

15. Ashted in WC&PR Green

-sold into industry, bounced around the NCB till the 80s, then purchased by the KESR in 1976

16. Fenchurch in LBSCR Umber

-Preserved irl

17. Bodiam (Popular) in KESR Blue 18. Sutton in Worn Grey

-Preserved irl

19. Waddon in SE&CR condition post-war Green

-Preserved irl

20. Boxhill in LBSCR 2-4-0 Condition IEG

-Preserved irl

21. Whitechappel in BR Lined Black

-Preserved irl

22. Clapham in LSWR Mint

-bought for spares for Kemptown. Purchased alongside kemptown and rebuilt in the 80s

23. Knowle in Southern Black

-Preserved irl

24. Newport in Isle of Wight Central Railway Red

-Preserved irl

25. Leadenhall in New Haven Harbor Co.

-purchased by the New Haven Harbor Co. to work alongside Fenchurch. Preserved direct from British Railways in 1962

26. Millwall In DWR rebuilt condition

Purchased by the DWR in 1934. Due to her boiler being little better than scrap condition, she was fited with a DWR D1 type boiler.

27. Zephyr (Wapping) in streamlined condition

-striped for parts to repair Popular in 1938, but her frames were saved by an eccentric Railway director, who loved the terriers. Rebuilt as his personal engine and given cosmetic streamlining, she was purchased from BR following his retirement, was stored in a dedicated room in his home until his death in the 80s, when she was donated to the Bluebell as per his will.

28. Earlswood in DWR 0-4-2 condition

-purchased by the DWR in 1949, experimentally rebuilt as an 0-4-2

29. Tooting in C&HR Blue

-Purchased by the C&HR in 1901 for service on a coastal branchline, which she still runs to this day.

30. Brixton in Caledonian Blue

-sold to a colliery in 1935, purchased by the Caledonian preservation Society in 64 to serve as a shunter in their works.

*collapses*

[starlxxo]

The tmr fans that love newt and hate teresa (or vice versa) JUST DONT GET IT. Newt and Teresa are the best characters in the books I’m so srs. Followed closely by minho. NEWT AND TERESA BEST FRIEND AGENDA IS REAL!!! ITS REAL!!!!!

[nataliescatorccio]

"Me, being the A1 Virgo, is like the child actor perfectionist, frantically trying to get all of the information in my brain."ELLA PURNELL for Interview Magazine April 2024 Photographed by Thomas Whiteside

[ask-the-shr-crew]

MEET THE CREW

#1 - Driver of our number one 0-6-0T side tank engine, Thomas Billington!

#2 - Driver of our number two mixed traffic K2 engine, and longest employed driver, Edward Pettigrew!

#3 - Driver of our number three mixed traffic 4-6-0 Stanier 5MT, Henry Klein!

#4 - Driver of our number four 4-6-2 Gresley Class A1, Gordon Gresley!

#5 - Driver of our number five mixed traffic 0-6-0 Class 28, James Hughes!

Here at the Sodor Heritage Railway, we value locomotive education for Railway Fans and casual fans alike! Don’t be afraid to ask any of our drivers anything you’d like! Whether it be about the railway itself, or even their personal lives!

[hcnnibal]

Ang.... Angels and Thomas three-way........ The suffering the hate of it all

i want this so so so so so so bad but i know it would never get committee approval

tessellate is the closest we’ll get to canon thomas/a1/a2

[mwolf0epsilon]

I have this funny image of the great race being kind of like a dog show, but for mimics, and they go around the arena with the mimics on these harnesses. And poor Gordon, he gets halfway around the arena before rolling over and dying.

Meanwhile mimic Thomas shows up to perform even though he has a twisted ankle from his accident and is still in one of those soft pillow cones they use for rabbits.

Your assessment over the Great Race's events being more like a dog show are correct. Railway Shows are basically just bigger more elitist dog or cat shows with very specific categories aimed at specific kinds of mimics.

The reason for Gordon to be pulled out of the race, however, has more to do with the fact his body started violently rejecting the sudden modifications he was subjected to.

You see, mimics have a very special organ called a vesicula magica which seems to be the key to all their strange abilities (although no one has been able to make heads or tails of how it works). Gordon seems to have a considerably weaker vesicula magica which means his flexibility for "modifications" is near-nonexistent. He needs to take supplements when he goes to the Steamworks specifically so that he doesn't reject any veterinary care that involves feeding him parts that were designed with the A1 specifications to mend broken bones or vitamin deficiencies that resemble broken down parts in locomotives.

Gordon was essentially sent to race without having had any of these supplements, and the ordeal was... Well it involved a lot more flesh wriggling and blood spewing out of orifices than you'd be comfortable thinking about... It also caused the other mimics racing to actually abandon the race and scatter in a panic (which is not great since they were all at service size and they caused a bit of destruction trying to get away from the scene).

It was BAD. Scandal levels of bad.

You're spot on about Thomas tho. He was competing on three legs and with a cone, while his fur was incredibly patchy from both having to be shaved to give him treatment and also having had to have thick dry paint cut off of him.

He did not care the slightest tho, he wanted to participate and he got exactly that! Even if Vinnie attacking Philip helped to cut that brief moment of glory short. Either way he still got a lot of praise for his valiant efforts.

[kazumist]

EPISODE 29 ✿ ABOUT TIME

YOU + ME = LOVE — A DILUC SMAU

masterlist / prev ep / next ep / timestamps don't matter

extra notes.

diluc, does in fact, listen to taylor. and youre losing me reminds him of his stupidity from 7 years ago hence his response to childe

their personalities never changed even when they turned into adults btw #childatheart

ms. independent is the mc (aka reader) for childe's story which will be the next smau :D the name for kaeya's will be a surprise when we reach thoma's maybe or childe's if ever

taglist (closed): @ryuryuryuyurboat @g4bbyyy @kizakiss @quackimilktea @mochiboo123 @thystarsshine @cerisescherries @jamieexistss @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 @aethion @dottoreworld-page @naishite @sleepyeri @staaarhin @eroxotckv @kiyiiaarchived @fallenssun @lolmeowing @dorryx @astolary @kissingkzuha @axerrri @a1-ic3 @lottierulez @livelaughlovekuni @sorcerersseestars @whipped-for-fictionals @morganadorodo @briluvspnk @venderretta @xiaosoneandonly @angeilix @morgyyyyyyy @kazioli @the-massive-simp @qtange @tiredjxnna @yuminako @acheronie @sn1perz @akitokisser @siu-ssi @artri-ad @hyeinszn @saeskiss @bubblegum-angelquartz @boomie-123 @moni11032 @sandwichmyonetruelove @cherrybb-ily @itztaki @dontmindtheevie @hotgirlshit5 [1/2]

[maxwellscorner]

🚂💚 Fancy Green Engines and their fancy Smoke Reflectors 🍏 💨

Wanted to test how I'd add types of smoke reflectors into my humanized (?) mecha (?) designs of engines, so I used as test subjects our dearest Flying Scotsman, Southern's Lord Nelson and LNER's Tornado

[jayde-jots]

Swap AU!

So I may have gotten inspired by @gold-dust599 to finally make my own swap au of ttte.

I shifted things up, like their engine bases, so they're not identical swaps of each other's engines, like Thomas being an A1 and vice versa. So let me ramble about these two. First- Gorin Gresley. A GNR N2 class, Gordie—as he's been taken to being called by the other engines—is a rather self-centered person. He often boasts that without his efforts, the larger engines would have to fetch their own trains, though the joke is often on him since most of the larger engines prefer to fetch their own trains anyway. This does make him come across as hypocritical as well however when he gets caught snoozing in between assembling trains, which the others tend to call him out on and even tease him for with none of them being as notorious as Thompson. Speaking of Thompson- Tom as he's called by the others, is an LB&SCR H2 class and as such, is the mainline's express engine, he has a great deal of pride in his work so much so that he'll typically shunt his own coaches. Tom is the most consistent in teaching Gordie a lesson for whenever his boasting becomes insufferable, often whistling to startle the tank engine awake from his naps and he even at one point pulled him behind the express to show him how much harder he and the others work. He even goes as far as to refer to him as Gigi when he's talking particularly loud which annoys the littler engine to no end. That being said, they are actually good friends. Keeping up an alliance with each other that often results in them piggybacking off of the other. Tom will sometimes carry Gordie to the yard if he's tired to wake up, and in return, Gordie will take to shunting Tom's train. If Tom goes to have a rest in the yard, Gordie will often hand him a canteen of fresh coffee. Small things. I'll get to coloring these guys in along with a detailed list of their personality traits later, for now I wanna stew with these two and think up of things they'd do.

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

Meeting Thomas when you work at W.I.C.K.E.D

You hadn’t chosen WCKD. Not really.

They offered you a place when the world had gone dark, when the Flare burned cities from the inside out and nowhere else felt safe. You were smart. Efficient. Good at following rules. They told you it mattered. That your work could help find a cure.

But lately, it just felt like survival painted in excuses.

The compound was quiet that night—sterile and cold, all steel and glass. You’d stayed late reviewing vitals for test subjects when a red warning light flickered across your tablet.

Cell breach. Sector 4. Priority One.

You grabbed your ID badge and ran.

WCKD security moved fast, but not fast enough. By the time you got there, two guards were unconscious and a third was holding his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers.

You pressed against the wall, breath held—just in time to see him.

Thomas.

The infamous one. The Runner. Subject A1.

He didn’t see you right away. He was focused—dangerously so—as he rifled through a drawer near the observation room, searching for something, jaw tight with determination.

And then he looked up.

Right at you.

Your heart stopped.

He froze too, chest heaving, gaze calculating.

No gun. No threats.

Just a moment of suspended air where you were both waiting—trying to decide who the other person really was.

You raised your hands slowly. “I’m not security.”

Thomas didn’t lower his guard. “You work for WCKD.”

You nodded, heartbeat pounding. “Yeah. But I’m not here to stop you.”

He stared at you like he didn’t quite believe that yet. You could see the weight of everything in his eyes—exhaustion, fury, loss. He didn’t trust anyone. Why should he?

“Why are you here, then?” he asked, voice low.

You looked down at the folder in your hand—the one with Subject B17’s name at the top. A boy barely older than you when this all started. Another experiment. Another life treated like a statistic.

“I read everything,” you said. “The bloodwork, the stress tests, the escape attempts. I’ve watched it all. I just…” You looked back at him. “I didn’t think I’d ever meet one of you.”

He didn’t move.

“And now that you have?”

You stepped forward—carefully. “I don’t think you’re the enemy.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Most people in this place think I am.”

“I’m not most people.”

A pause.

Then, slowly, he put the folder he’d been holding back down. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You gonna sound an alarm?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Silence stretched.

“Why not?” he asked.

You hesitated, then answered honestly: “Because whatever WCKD started out as… it isn’t that anymore. And maybe I was too scared to admit it until you walked in here.”

Thomas’s gaze softened—just barely. Enough that you could see the cracks in the armor he wore around his heart.

“Can you get out of here?” he asked. “Or are you trapped, too?”

That question hit harder than you expected.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. “But if you’re going… maybe I could help.”

You didn’t wait for him to agree. You stepped over the unconscious guard, opened the door to the side corridor, and motioned.

“This way,” you whispered. “Most of security is rerouted to the main entrance. They won’t expect you to double back through Med-Labs.”

He looked at you again, like he was trying to read everything about you in a second. Then he nodded once.

You ran.

Through the sterile halls, past checkpoints, avoiding cameras. Every second you were with him felt surreal—like something in your life had just been shaken loose.

At the final hallway, just before the service exit, you stopped.

“This is as far as I can go,” you told him.

He turned, brow furrowed. “You’re not coming?”

“If I leave now, they’ll know I helped. But if I stay—play dumb—I can keep feeding intel. Help others.”

Thomas was silent for a moment. Then he stepped closer. Not threatening. Just close.

“You sure you’re not just scared to leave?”

You looked up at him. “I’m sure I want to do what’s right.”

He nodded slowly.

Then, to your surprise, he stepped even closer—just enough that you could feel the warmth of him. His hand brushed yours, fingers curling briefly around your knuckles.

“You already did,” he said softly.

It was fleeting. Barely a touch. But enough.

Enough to make your chest ache as he turned and disappeared through the door.

The alarm blared ten minutes later.