When Newt woke up again, it was to voices flickering in through the vent to his left. The dark was back, but it was a welcome comfort. If he couldn't see, then he couldn't see the room he was trapped in. Couldn't see the stain on the roof that looked like the rabbit, or was it a bear? He couldn't remember. Couldn't see the same bed and the same table and chair he sat in every day, couldn't see the same four walls and floor and ceiling, a drab grey that choked him and made him long for a burst of colour.

Copper hair, a flash of green eyes.

Black hair, laughing dark eyes.

Brown hair, serious blue eyes.

Blonde hair, innocent brown eyes.

The colour of his friends' personalities and smiles and useless commentary.

The colour of home.

A foreign concept, now. One he could barely remember.

But the dark was welcome. The dark was distracting. It helped ease the fact that he had lost count of the days since he had been separated from everyone else. Was it days? A week? A month, even? The fact that he didn't know didn't scare him as much as he thought it should. That fact in itself was terrifying.

The voices were back again.

"Everything is ready, Doctor Paige."

"Is he?"

"No, subject A5 remains in the holding facility. I was instructed to wait for your approval before we transferred him for preparation."

Preparation, Newt thought idly. Transferred. Perhaps they were taking him somewhere else. Somewhere where the dark wasn't so distracting and the walls weren't so grey.

Maybe there would be colour there.

"Get him ready as soon as possible, then. The others have already been prepped and are ready to be sent up."

"Of course, doctor Paige."

Sent up? Newt frowned, rolling over in his bed. Sent up where?

Then he realised. It was as if someone had taken ice cold water and dumped it over his head, shocking his nerves.

The Maze.

They were sending him up to the maze. Which meant they were going to erase his memories.

Panic beyond panic sank in, fear like he had never known before consuming him, drowning him. He didn't want to forget his entire life, the people who meant the world to him. They consumed his every waking thought, dreams of seeing them again, god he hadn't seen them in months, and now he wouldn't. Wouldn't get to see them again, any of them, or even get to say goodbye.

Heart in his throat, Newt bolted upright, fingers clutching at his throat. He couldn't breathe. The world around him was splintering, cracking, cleaving in two, and he could do nothing but lean against that damn grey wall and wait for his life to end.

Because that's what they were doing. By wiping his memories, taking away the thought of anyone and everything that he loved, they were killing the part of him that made him him.

He wondered bleakly if he'd ever get it back. If he'd ever recognise himself again.

Then he realised there would be nothing to recognise.

Sitting cross-legged on the brick-like bed in the dark in the corner of his room, Newt felt paralyzed, and could do nothing but wait for the light when the door would open.

It took longer than he thought it would.

When the door creaked open and the light fell on him, he felt as if his body was made of lead, as if he was an immovable anchor weighed down by pure terror. But they picked him up as if he were nothing, gloved hands sliding under his arms and hauling him to his feet, legs dragging uselessly behind him. Newt only blinked back to his senses when they were in the corridor and the harsh white overhead lights began to blind him.

His room was behind him now. He missed it. Wanted to go back.

Why couldn't he go back?

Static was blaring in his ears, filling his head with fuzz. The guards weren't talking, but he wouldn't have been able to hear them if they were. They rounded the corner, into a new wing of the facility, and Newt felt bile rise in his throat as the last of what he recognised faded away as they entered the out of bounds medical wing. His hands began to shake.

Minho's face flashed in the forefront of his mind, his smile so wide it stretched his cheeks and slitted his eyes. Then he was frowning, screaming at him to fight.

Fight back, damnit, fight!

Fight for what? Newt thought blearily. What life did he have here?

They're gonna take everything, Newt! Fight back! DO SOMETHING!

Minho was screaming now, begging, but it wasn't Minho at all, it was him, his voice shredding itself against the white walls as he thrashed against the guards' tight grip. When did he start screaming?

They passed an open doorway, the room inside illuminated with harsh white lamps and blue tinged monitors, and he didn't know what was beyond it but all Newt could see was salvation. The guards had loosened their grip, clearly unworried due to his lack of action, the fools, so Newt waited until they were directly beside the doorway before he let his entire body weight drop. Startled by the sudden dead-weight, the guard to his right swore, stopping in his tracks. Newt didn't hesitate before he slammed the heel of his shoe against his kneecap.

The guard cursed and doubled over right as the other one pounced. Newt dodged it, barely, grabbing the back of the guard's neck in a tight grip and forcing it forward until it collided with the wall with a sickening thud, not enough to injure, just enough to daze. Just enough for him to get away.

He didn't hesitate before running.

Running was all he knew now, all he was. His feet pounded against the stone floor, the walls a frantic blur of white around him. The guards were screaming now, yelling curses as they came after him, getting closer and closer. But Newt was in the room, away from them, and the door slammed behind him. It didn't lock, as far as he could see, but the heavy table beside him blocked the handle well enough.

Eyes scanning the tables in front of him, his gaze landed on the mess of papers and frantically scribbled notes strewn across the surfaces. He reached for a pen and a blank piece of paper, an idea forming in the back of his mind.

Eventually, the door gave way to the pounding fists of the guards, right as Newt crammed the piece of paper into the open top of his necklace. The words rested against his pounding heart, right where they belonged. Rough hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him to a stand. Something hot and electric jammed into his side. It paralysed him, thudding through his veins. The guard pulled the taser away, and Newt didn't fight as his body slumped to the ground. The scream caught in his throat, unable to be let out.

Trapped. Just like him.

He was strapped to a table. How did he get here? Wrists pinned down, secured to the cold metal below him. He couldn't feel his legs. Why couldn't he feel his legs? Where was he? There was a needle approaching, closer and closer. It pierced his skin, making him scream. Fire licked through his veins.

Newt's body arched on the table, back cracking under the strain of this thrashing. Was that him screaming? His vision started to blur, black and blue, shapes swirling and changing in front of him.

Where was he?

There were bubbles in his brain. Someone with black hair and blue eyes. He didn't know them. But he did, and then he didn't. The memory was gone. Popping in his mind.

A flash of copper and greenish blue. Who was she? She faded away, and Newt clung to her with the last vestiges of his sanity. Horror filled him as he forgot her, but then he couldn't remember what he forgot. Who was she? Was there even a she?

Where was he?

Blonde hair, brown eyes, a sister, a stranger.

Black dots danced in his vision. In and out. Back and forth. There was a doctor, or someone, white mask and coat. Right in front of him. And then they were gone. Who was gone? No one was, he was alone. Wasn't he?

He was screaming. Or someone was. He couldn't tell. Everything was fading, black and white, who was he? The needle was back. Something sharp jabbing into his arm. White peppered his vision.

Remember.

A desperate thought, unreachable, danced just beyond his vision. And then it vanished, and he was alone.

Newt's stomach churned, but he couldn't notice that. Couldn't notice anything. What was his name? He didn't know. He didn't care.

Something heavy slammed into his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs, and then the blackness won over. The last thing he knew was a gentle voice whispering in his ear.

"Remember, Newt. WICKED is good."