𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 {𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐭 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫}

sixty six: the colour of his eyes

A siren wailed in the distance. I tried to remember the point at where it started – I don't recall it sounding at all.

But it was there, loud and directly in my ears so all I could hear was the dangerous howl of an alarm that alerts the other soldiers. Alerts them to say that there are intruders in the building – that we are in the building.

I am not a fan of the alarm.

Thomas would screech at us to hurry up, to stay close to him so we wouldn't get separated and end up dead as we would have no way to protect one another.

He'd fly around corners, dodging the yells of soldiers and the bullets that followed. Newt would pull me into his side, shielding my head from any potential impact.

But it quickly became continuous. We would rush through every corridor, every hallway and every exit that we had access to – but there was nowhere else for us to go. Every possible way to remove ourselves from this situation was cornered off or barricaded.

We were stuck.

Thomas had thrown himself into the West Wing, signally for us to follow him. He didn't notice that Janson was standing at the other end, getting frustrated that he couldn't find us.

But the man turned his head to the right slightly quicker than Thomas had, and he had noticed we were there way before Thomas had clocked it.

Which left me and Newt to drag the boy backwards into another room.

He thrashed angrily, not realising the potential danger he was in. Newt hushed him, pulling the boy along with us as we sprinted down to another dead end.

We all watched in horror as Janson circled our only other exit – the way we came in. His terrifying smirk had returned, one that ignited shock waves through my veins and sent a stinging sensation to my eyes.

"Trapped, are we?" The man said, a sickeningly sweet tone lacing his words.

Thomas looked stunned, as Newt stood there mortified. I stayed completely still, and, instead of panicking or something pointless like that, I began counting.

One. Two. Three.

Newt looked at me like I was going insane. I ignored his odd looks from behind me.

Four and then immediately five. Six, seven and eight.

Janson even seemed perplexed, huffing and drawing his brows together.

Nine. Ten.

Everyone around stood in a state of complete confusion.

Eleventh went at that soldier on the middle floor, and twelfth went into a doctor's leg.

And then there was thirteen.

Janson looked as if he might burst with rage, the two soldiers behind him waiting on his signal to shoot.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Janson hissed, taking a step towards us.

I smiled, broadly and proudly. I added a small laugh, a giggle, maybe. It caused the man to frown.

"What's so funny, princess?" Janson jeered, and it felt as if that was the final straw. 'Princess' felt strange – unkind when used in that sort of tone.

And when he said it, it reminded me why I was laughing.

It was known that the gun in my holster had no ammunition left – it had run out by the time we had freed the other immunes. They landed in people's throats and chest cavities, meaning I had no weapon.