wegotarunner | Day One, Greenie.

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[Thomas arrives on the deck of the ship with a look of weariness not only on his features, but one that's settled into his shoulders. Chuck's carving is still clutched tightly in his hand. There's still blood on his clothes. On his hands. His face is streaked with dirt and sweat and blood from a cut above his eye and another on his cheek.

So this is the Barge.

He looks up at the sky with wide eyes, momentarily distracted by the sight and forgetting the events of the last few hours. But only momentarily. He blinks himself out of his dazed stupor and rubs a hand over his face. It takes him a moment to get his bearings. The first thing he needs to do is find his room, and take a long, hot shower. Change his clothes. Get something to eat. It's been hours since he last ate anything and his stomach isn't happy about it.

And then he's going to explore the Barge, find out where everything is. Figure out what to do from there. He's sure there's a lot to learn about this place, about the people he's now sharing space with. He's not completely thrilled about having to meet a whole slew of new people. People who won't know him, who will probably treat him like an outsider. Like he's not to be trusted.

Truthfully, he's still not sure should be. He remembers Newt's words. That who he used to be doesn't matter, it's who he is now that counts. And he can't save them if he focuses on things he can't do anything about. He has to stay focused.

For Newt. For Minho. For Teresa. For Alby. Ben. Even for Gally.

But most of all, for Chuck.]

[Video]

[Thomas appears on screen looking better than he had only an hour ago for those who ran into him on the way from the deck to his room. He's cleaned up, all the blood and sweat and dirt gone from his skin. The cut above his eye and the one on his cheek are still there but they look a little less angry now. He also looks a little hesitant, like he's not sure about this.]

Someone said I should introduce myself.

I'm Thomas.

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[He's been on the Barge about two and a half months and he still rejects the idea that he should be around people, that he ought to take any time to get to any of them. He's content to be as isolated as possible, holing up in his cabin. But he can't stay in there forever. Sometimes he needs to leave for more than just the basic necessities. He just needs to be away from it, from the memories.]

[The deck is one of the few places Philip can ever be found, but he likes it better than anywhere else on the Barge. It's not artificial like the Enclosure, but it's just as open. When he gets there and spots Thomas, he thinks for a brief second it's the other boy who had been so eager to be as helpful as possible. But upon a second glance, he notices something subtly different about this one in the way he stands and carries himself. At the very least it wouldn't be how...he thinks his name is Stiles would look covered in that much blood and grime. Philip believes Stiles would break under those kind of circumstances.]

[It's only because it's not Stiles that he says anything as he takes a seat at one of the benches.]

You should probably head down to the infirmary.

[He doesn't have the option of breaking. People are counting on him and he can't let them down again. He turns toward the sound of the new voice, not sure what to think about an older man being there. Everyone else he's run into so far has been fairly young. He notes the eye patch over the man's right eye, but says nothing about it.

It makes him wonder, again, what caused Newt's limp. He shakes the thought off and draws in a breath.]

That's what everyone keeps telling me.

[He's not great at listening.]

[People always notice the eyepatch. They glance at it briefly and do everything they can not to look at it again to avoid being rude, or they stare at it and try to make their gawking look like good eye contact. Either way, they have questions about it. It's obvious. But none of them say anything about it. After a while, nobody notices it or thinks anything of it.]

Well then sorry to be repetitious, [he says with a slight smile. His head tips to one side as he regards Thomas a little more thoughtfully.] That blood isn't yours, is it?

[He looks down at his clothes and his breath hitches just slightly before he shakes his head.]

No. No, it isn't mine.

[Thomas looks over at him once more.]

Someone was shot.

[He's not sure why he blurts it out, but he does, and it's too late to take it back. He waits for the inevitable questions the older man will have now.]

[Philip zeroes in on that reaction immediately; the way his breath hitches and the way he just blurts out the words without thinking. It's not the reaction of someone who put someone down that needed putting down. It's different.]

Friend of yours?

[Friend or family. It's one or the other. Or perhaps the same.]

Yeah. Yeah, a good friend. My best friend.

[For him it's the same, really. His friends are the only family he even knows.]

[Philip nods slowly.]

Is that why you're here?

Part of it.

[His voice is quiet.]

He's not the only one who died because of me. There were others.

[The guilt is obvious, but Philip doesn't think the boy is trying to cover it up any. He doesn't have much to give Thomas though by way of consolation because guilt is an obsolete emotion for Philip. It's not that he doesn't feel it or understand it, but he's given it up. There's no point in dwelling on it. Dwelling is what gets you killed. It makes even less sense to dwell on it now that he's dead, but this boy obviously survived at the expense of another. He makes small hum of acknowledgement.]

So you're here for all of them. That's noble of you.

[And hopelessly foolish if you ask Philip, but he's not here to criticize.]

[It isn't noble. Not really. It's just what's right. He lets out a breath and looks down, shaking his head.]

Sorry. I didn't even ask. What's your name?

Philip.

[He doesn't ask what his name is, not out of rudeness, but because he expects Thomas will provide it.]

Thomas.

[He nods at Phillip slightly.]

[He gives a curt nod in return.]

How old are you?

[He hesitates.]

Sixteen. I think.

[That earns a raised eyebrow.]

You think?

I don't exactly remember. But my friend said I looked sixteen.

[Philip can't help but naturally wonder what the hell kind of world this kid could come from in which he has to be told his age by someone else. But he stifles the urge to ask and tells himself that he really doesn't want to actually know.]

Seems about right, [he says, instead.]

[He nods a little at that.]

I feel older than that.

[His voice is quiet, but tired. He wonders if all sixteen year olds feel like this.]

Don't mistake feeling for being.

[There are more than enough teenagers running around this Barge that believe feel is the same as being. Philip would rather they don't have one more.]

[Thomas considers that for a moment, then nods.]

Yeah, that's good advice. Thank you.

[He shakes his head at the "thank you."]

You should go get yourself cleaned up.

[He isn't wrong. Thomas glances down at his clothes and hands and then back to Phillip before nodding.]

Yeah. I'll see you around.

[Philip gives Thomas a small nod of acknowledgement and lets him be on his way.]

Day One, Greenie.

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