The Inventor

Chapter Twenty Three; "Traitor"

     "Y/n?" He whispered, astonished and maybe even frightful.

     The nag amplified, your breaths audible raspy as the violent intrusive thoughts that were once just thoughts become your reality.

     You whispered something, so quiet he couldn't hear. He leaned forward, tilting his head to hear you, his ear so close to your lips you wonder if he could hear your voice like you could his in the illusions caused by griever venom. You wondered if this was one of them too because everything was beginning to echo.

     "What?" He prompted softly when you didn't respond.

     You inhaled one, horribly scratchy breath and grasped the back of his head to keep him from moving away, "Traitor."

     You slipped a knife from your pocket, feeling the stickiness of the handle that came from griever guts and your own blood, and sunk it into his side.

     He pulled away and screeched, screeched like the grievers did and you laid back on the floor, the knife falling away from your hand as he pressed on the gushing wound. You stared at it, slightly dazed, but smiled. It seemed so dream-like, so euphoric, you felt content now. That nagging feeling had become soft and dossul.

     "Traitor," You muttered again, sounding distant to your own ears as you looked at the sky again. It wasn't blue anymore, it was red, a deep red like crimson blood. You reached up to touch it but your arm refused to move.

     The sweet sound of static filled your ears and you closed your eyes, hearing Newt's voice call at you again, screaming your name and you wondered if it was all going to finally end.

     Dare you say, you even hoped it would.

Present Day
     It should really be noted that you realized how much of a red flag it was that the thought of making a bomb made you disgustingly excited. You reeled yourself in though and did what you do when you got shipments of supplies, sorted.

     Chuck helped you with that, the radio playing some music that was barely audible but it sounded like some guy was playing a banjo.

     This was stuff you recognized but never thought you would get to see in person again, let alone touch. You ogled at it all but Chuck didn't care for it, just tossed it to you. You didn't tell him, or Newt, or anyone what you thought the creators wanted you to make. You kept that but to yourself because you didn't want anyone to take away your new resources.

     To be fair you weren't exactly going off secretly to make a bomb, you would tell your theory to the council, eventually. After you ceed your sorted items away in crates for safe keeping. Chuck liked to point out how you were like a little gremlin, taking any piece of equipment or shiny thing with wires and scuttling off to put it in your cave. You couldn't exactly disagree because you had many shiny things with wires sitting on your shelves. In your defense, they looked really nice in contrast with the wood walls.

Chuck was curled up in a hammock, the clock ticking well past midnight while you skimmed through page after page of books splayed out on the floor beside you. Taking up the space in front of you were piles of wire coils. Second day of sorting was messy but with enough caffeine it could be managed.

You were completely tuned out to everything outside your world of inventions. People had come and gone, setting stuff on tables and telling you things that really went through one ear and out into the next century. The objects or reports they left were put in a junk drawer and might as well have never existed at all to you. What left your sight no longer exists in your mental world, nothing holds permanence.