Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

 It rained last night.

The humidity makes it difficult to grab a decent breath. His side throbs and his lungs scream, but he doesn't slow his stride. His eyes have long since adjusted to the cloying darkness of the night. He runs along the shore, shoes sinking into the sand with every step.

He stumbles. Chokes on a breath. Then regains his pace and keeps going.

Running. There's something almost therapeutic about it; in the way he can focus on his burning lungs and aching legs. It's something to occupy his mind other than his thoughts. Thoughts which start out innocent enough, but almost always turn on him, eventually.

Because he’s starting to heal. He's starting to forget, his mind attempting to shield him from the trauma.

Which leg was the one with the limp? It was the right… right? No, no it was definitely the left.

He stumbles again. This time, he falls. The sand cushions his fall, but in a way that sickens him in its familiarity.

Sand. Sand everywhere.

Always fucking sand. He's tired of it.

Get up, keep going. Keep going, his mind urges.

“I can't,” he rasps.

You can. Get up.

He swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper.

A husky laugh rises in his throat like bile.

He moves to push himself up. His arms shake from the strain, and his old bullet wound makes itself known with a sharp lance of pain through his torso.

“I can't!” he screams. “Don't you get that?”

What did his laugh sound like? Don't you remember? Which leg had the limp? He's gone he's gone he's gone he's g

Get up. Keep going.

I can’t!”

He can't, but he does. He staggers to his feet, hands trembling, and runs.

He runs until the sky starts to brighten. Until Minho comes looking for him, as he does every morning.

“You stupid shank,” Minho says, eyes bright with concern, and drags him back to reality. To responsibilities. To a life that seems to slowly be losing its meaning.

Every day is the same, but the hollow feeling in Thomas’s chest doesn't leave, no matter how much he tries to run from it.

He's starting to forget.

And it's breaking him. Piece by piece.

He rarely sleeps.

He tries to run from that, too. Tonight it decides to finally catch up to him.

He's exhausted himself to the point where dreams evade him.

When he wakes up, it's dark.

Something is different, a voice whispers in the back of his mind. The too-soft cot beneath him is hard and unyielding. His back aches and his neck twinges.

Did I fall on the floor last night?

The normally warm, often muggy air is replaced with a chill that seeps into his very bones.

He inhales, and the smell of metal and dust and oil floods his lungs.

Something is different.

His eyes seem to refuse to adjust to the dim lighting.

He sits up. Holds his hand in front of his face. If he squints, he can just make out his fingers wiggling.

Something is different.

He gropes at the ground beneath him, ready to push himself to his feet. His fingers curl around the cool metal grate, small holes giving him grip.

Something is wrong.

The cage jolts then begins to move. It steadily picks up speed, a whirr to accompany the acceleration.

“What?” he whispers.

Get out.

“Where am I?”

It's a dream it's a dream it's a dream it's

Okay, so wake up, for fuck’s sake!

The whirring gets louder. He's going up. Fast. Too fast.

All at once, the Box jerks to a halt.

“No. No no no.”

He's had dreams like this before.

There are always two common themes: that he never sees Newt, and that he wakes up.

A sliver of light slashes through the darkness. It widens, and he has to shield his eyes from the piercing brightness of it.

He pulls his arm away before his eyes fully adjust, and the light burns, makes his eyes water. Figures loom above him, pressing in on all sides and craning their heads down to get a good look.

His head spins with the familiarity of it all.

Congrats. You've finally lost it completely, he thinks.

He stares, shocked into silence as the murmurs begin to pick up in volume.

“Go get him,” someone calls out.

And then Gally drops down into the Box with him, making it rattle. He leers at Thomas, face smeared with dirt and eyes glittering.

“Day one, Greenie. Rise ‘n shine.” His breath smells absolutely rancid.

“You seriously need to-”

Gally grabs him by the lapels of his shirt and yanks him up, out of the Box. He hits the dirt, hard.

And it hurts.

You can't feel pain in dreams, can you?

The thought is fleeting, and he struggles to stand, his legs nearly buckling beneath him.

His scans the crowd of Gladers.

His eyes find Chuck and linger. He rips his gaze away and finds Alby. Gally. Frypan. Everyone. The ones he saved and the ones he failed. All except Newt.

“Where-” he starts, but he chokes on his sentence, emotion threatening to overwhelm him.

See? He's not here. It's a dream, you'll wake up at any moment now.

“Welcome to the Glade,” Alby says, but it barely even registers in Thomas's mind.

And it's the same. It's all exactly the same. Except for Newt.

He's not here.

Hopelessness curls around his chest like a vice.

You're dreaming, it's just a dream.

It can't be. It's too real. There's no way.

“Look at the Greenie. Looks like he's about to pass out,” Gally says, snickering.

That's not what he said the first time, is it?

“I can't remember,” Thomas says, and he surprises himself by speaking the words instead of just thinking them. His eyes dart over to Alby.

“It's normal. Same thing with all of us,” Alby says, “your name, though. That'll come back in a few days. It's the one thing they let us keep.”

And that's when Thomas notices the difference. He hasn't been thrown in the Slammer, and yet he's having the same conversation he'd had with Alby.

You're changing things already.

Is that such a bad thing? It's a dream anyway, what does it matter?

Thomas's throat threatens to close up on him. “What’s happening?”

Alby smiles. “All right, everyone, back to work! You can pester the Greenbean later.”

The Gladers slowly disperse back to their jobs. Thomas’s gaze falls on Chuck and he watches the boy all the way back to the Homestead.

“-you get me?”

Thomas blinks and forces himself to look away from the crooked building. “Uh. What?”

Alby shakes his head. “You'd better listen, shuck-face, cuz I'm not gonna repeat myself a third time.”

Thomas nods.

Alby seems satisfied enough, for he starts talking again, gesturing around the Glade.

“We eat here. Sleep here. Grow our own food, build our own shelter. Whatever we need, the Box provides. The rest is up to us.”

It's the same. It's exactly the same.

“The Box,” Thomas deadpans. Dreams are never this vivid.

Alby gives him an odd look. “Yeah. They send it up every month with fresh supplies and a new Greenie. This month, that’s you. Congratulations.”

Thomas blinks. He looks around for some sort of error, hoping for something to jump out, to make it more obvious that this, in fact, is not real.

The blood drains from Thomas's face, and his breath catches.

Newt is grinning.

“Hey, you alright, Alby?” he says, and Thomas doesn't have to try to remember what his voice sounds like anymore because he's here and alive.

Thomas stares. Logically, it doesn't add up. What Thomas is visibly seeing versus his own thoughts, it doesn't make sense.

This...this can't be real ...right? There's no way. Right?

Alby laughs. “Greenbean, meet Newt.”

“You alright there, Greenie? Look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost,” Newt says, and he laughs at his own joke, offering a hand for Thomas to shake.

I have, he thinks, and a choked noise escapes him.

“You...you’re…” alive.

Newt lowers his hand and a concerned frown slowly creeps onto his face.

And Thomas has to do something. Something, because Newt is worried and Alby is starting to look suspicious, and maybe it's not a dream.

Newt speaks up again, voice hesitant. “Hey Alby, I'm gonna take him to the Med-jacks. Have him lay down before he passes out or something.”

Then there's a hand against Thomas's lower back, guiding him in the direction of the Med-shack, and Thomas's mind is a shitstorm of thoughts and questions.

You can save him.

It's not real.

This is different, it's different, you're changing things. Stop changing things.

He doesn't have to die. None of them do.

“It's not real, none of this is real. You're dreaming, Thomas, it's just a dream,” he mumbles to himself, because he's starting to hope, and if he wakes up from this, he thinks he'll shatter completely.

“You've remembered your name already?” Newt says, and he sounds impressed. “Usually it takes a few days.”

“Wh...what?”

Newt continues, but his palm against his back is a spot of warmth seeping through his shirt, and Thomas finds himself so focused on it that he misses Newt’s words entirely.

He's been doing that a lot, especially with Minho, blanking out to the point where he misses entire conversations.

Focus, idiot.

“What?” he says again, praying that Newt will repeat himself, if only so that Thomas can hear his voice.

“You sure you're okay, Thomas?”

All at once, Thomas can distinctly remember the scuffle, the way the knife plunged into Newt’s chest, the way blood seeped onto Thomas's hands, the way Newt paused, whispered “Tommy”, about to say more, but then collapsed.

The way he died, right there on the cold, filthy ground, and it had been no one’s fault but Thomas's, in so many ways.

I could've saved you.

Thomas squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment, takes a steadying breath, and opens them again.

Even without looking at him, Thomas can feel Newt’s gaze, and Newt begins to slow his pace. Thomas does too. He has to force himself to look over, to meet Newt’s eyes.

His expression is set, an odd mix of seriousness and pity that Thomas can't recall seeing before.

“I can promise you right now, this is real. You're not dreaming. I know it seems bad, so bad you almost wish you were dreamin’, but it gets better, I promise. First Day was scary for all of us. But I can tell you're strong. You'll be alright.”

And Thomas knows he doesn't have a choice. “I know.”

Newt eyes him. “There's somethin’ different about you, Greenie. You're not like the others.”

Thomas shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. “So. This is real.”

“Yeah, pretty bloody real.”

“Okay,” Thomas says, and he begins thinking.

Newt drags Thomas to his arrival bonfire, despite Thomas's protests.

“It's for you, Greenie. Of course you have to go. No fussin’, come on.”

Thomas frowns but allows Newt to steer him in the direction of the large fire and crowd of boys. Newt pushes him down to sit, then removes his hand from Thomas's shoulder.

“You stay here. I'm gonna go get us some drinks.”

“Sure,” Thomas says, and he cranes his head over his shoulder to watch Newt approach Frypan with a beaming smile.

Thomas's eyes drift around the bonfire, resting on each Glader, the ones he can name and the ones he can't.

His heart pangs for all of them, named and nameless.

Thomas's gaze finds Chuck. The boy is settled near the fire, knife in one hand and a chunk of wood in the other.

A hollow feeling spreads through his chest when he realizes that he hasn't spoken to Chuck yet. Rather than go with Chuck to set up his hammock, Thomas had gone with Newt to the Med-shack. And, along with that, Thomas avoided his not-so-friendly encounter with Gally by the Doors.

In all honesty, Thomas had completely forgotten about it up until now.

You need to start thinking about things. Start prioritizing, he admonishes, then stands.

He has to fix it and talk to Chuck.

Thomas walks over and settles down beside him. Chuck glances up, then looks back down at his figurine, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“That looks really good,” Thomas says, by way of starting a conversation. Once again, Chuck glances up, though this time he looks surprised.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” he says. Then looks Thomas over. “You're the new Greenie.”

“Yep.”

Chuck’s frown deepens. “You sure don't act like a Greenie.”

Now it's Thomas's turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

Chuck shrugs, and he returns to his carving. “I don't know… You just seem really calm for all of this.”

Thomas almost represses his laugh, then decides to let it loose anyway. “Trust me, man, I'm not calm. At all.”

Chuck gives a small laugh of his own, a smile curving his lips. “Well, you're doing better than I did, anyway. I was the Greenie before you.”

“I kn-”

A laugh rings out, cutting Thomas off. A wave of relief crashes through him.

Think before you speak, or you're gonna ruin this whole thing.

There's no guarantee that this is even real, it doesn't matter what I say.

“Bloody hell, Thomas, you don't listen too well, do you?” Newt shakes his head with another small laugh. “We’re gonna have to fix that.”

Thomas looks up at Newt and snorts. “Sure.”

Newt pops his hip out, arms folded across his chest. The familiar pose makes Thomas's heart ache.

“I suppose I'll take it easy on ya, First Day ‘n all. I see you've met Chuckie.”

“Yeah,” Thomas says, and directs a smile in Chuck’s direction. “He's a pretty cool dude.”

Chuck beams, and Newt settles down on Thomas's other side, taking a long pull of his drink.

“You're cool, too. Y’know, for a Newbie,” Chuck says, and his following laugh holds a tone of uncertainty, as though he's worried Thomas will take offense to the joke.

“Thanks, Chuck,” Thomas says sarcastically. “Way to make a Greenie feel welcome.”

Chuck smiles goofily.

Thomas turns to look at Newt, only to see that he's already staring at him, gaze scrutinizing.

Newt shakes his head and takes another gulp of his drink. “Ya know, I know I said it before, but there's somethin’ different about you.”

Thomas glances back at Chuck, who's nodding in agreement.

“It's awesome,” Chuck states. “You're so much nicer than the rest of these shanks.”

Newt’s curious gaze morphs into a look of mock offense, and he leans across Thomas to swat Chuck on the arm.

Thomas barely refrains from tensing at the close proximity, and soon enough Newt is leaning away, leaving a small gap between them.

The gap is small, but to Thomas, it's universes and stars and galaxies all rolled into one. It's a living, breathing entity that Thomas can feel with every inhale and exhale.

“Here,” Newt says suddenly, shoving the jar at Thomas. “Put some hair on your chest.”

Thomas eyes the brown liquid suspiciously, almost tasting the bitterness already. Still, both Chuck and Newt are looking at him, expecting, so Thomas takes a drink.

He grimaces, but this time he manages to swallow it, refusing to embarrass himself already.

He hands the jar back to Newt.

Newt looks at him. Then Chuck. Then back to Thomas.

He shakes his head, sets the jar on the ground, and reaches down to rub his ankle. “You're somethin’ else.”

The bitter taste of the alcohol lingers on the back of his tongue like bile, and suddenly Thomas feels sick.

This is when he's supposed to start asking questions about the Maze.

They sit in a blanket of silence, despite the whooping cheers and drunken shouts of the other celebrating Gladers. A few minutes pass before Chuck pockets the figurine and the knife and he stands, walking off in Frypan’s direction.

Thomas is done screwing stuff up. At least this way he'll have an excuse for having this knowledge later.

“So what's out there?” he asks, voice little more than a rasp, and he gestures towards the looming wall nearest to them.

If Thomas didn't know Newt as well as he does, he would've missed the way Newt’s eyes flash, the way his fingers pause and hover over his ankle for just a moment before returning to their ministrations.

“We call it the Maze,” Newt says, a tone of hesitation entering his voice.

“Is that the way out?” Thomas asks, hoping to push the conversation to an end sooner.

Newt blinks in surprise. “Yeah, actually. We've got Runners who've been mapping it for years trying to find the exit. Haven't had much luck.”

“‘Runners’?” Thomas echoes.

Newt nods, eyes fixed on his leg. “Yep. The only shanks brave enough and fast enough to go out there. It's dangerous, not just anyone is up to it. Only Runners are allowed in the Maze. Which means you'd do well to stay away from it.”

“Oh,” Thomas says. A beat of silence passes. “Okay.”

Newt glances at him. “No more questions?”

“Not...not really, no.”

“...Good that.”

The gap between them feels larger than ever. Not only is it physical, Thomas feels the emotional gap as well. More than anything, Thomas wants to bridge that gap, to press his shoulder against Newt’s and listen to his stories from before Thomas ever showed up in the Glade, the way they used to. He wants that hollow feeling in his chest to go away.

Thomas looks at Newt.

Because he is Newt, but he's not Thomas's Newt, and Thomas can hardly bear to even think about it. He has so many memories of them—various moments over the six months they spent trying to save Minho pop into his head—but this version of Newt hasn't experienced any of it. It's as if it's been erased, and Thomas doesn't think he can fix it.

This isn't his Newt.

This might as well be a stranger.

“Well.” Newt clears his throat. “I suppose I ought to go introduce you to everyone.”

He pushes himself up and offers Thomas a hand. “C’mon.”

Instead of protesting, Thomas follows without complaint.

Newt introduces him to the Builders, to Winston, to Clint and Jeff, to Ben and Minho and the rest of the Runners, and whoever else they pass by.

Thomas repeats the names—new and old—in his head on a loop, and he makes no comment about wanting to be a Runner.

Gally staggers into him and almost knocks him off his feet anyway.

Thomas steps into the wrestling ring with dread sinking in his stomach like a ball of lead.

Let Gally win, let Gally win, let Gally win.

Thomas thinks they could be friends this time around. Having Gally’s friendship could be the very thing that would save Chuck’s life. So Thomas is bound and determined to make it happen. Even if that means humiliating himself and losing.

His plan to lose goes to shit the second Gally charges at him. Thomas's instincts take over and, instead of allowing himself to be bowled over, he side-steps, and Gally stumbles as he slows himself down. The Gladers around them whoop and shout.

Gally runs at him again. Thomas dodges again. He finds himself winning without meaning to.

Then, lying on the ground, Gally kicks Thomas’s feet out from under him.

Thomas doesn't have time to catch his fall before the side of his head hits the ground, much like before. A white-hot flare of pain ricochets through his head.

A pained noise pulls from his throat, and instead of his name flashing in his mind, his head just pounds. He pushes himself up, wincing.

“You okay, Greenie?”

“Stop calling me Greenie. It’s Thomas,” he snaps unthinkingly. Then clamps his mouth shut.

Silence reigns.

Then Alby cheers, and the tense silence fades into something forgotten as Thomas is shoved to the center of a mass of screaming boys, holding their drinks to the sky in some sort of odd toast.

Thomas refuses a second drink, his head still throbbing from the blow.

Long fingers curl around his wrist and pull him through the crowd, weaving through the drunken Gladers.

Once they reach the edge of the group, they stop.

“Ya sure you're alright? You hit your head pretty bloody hard.”

Of course it's Newt. It's always Newt.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Thomas says. Then thinks for a moment.

He raises a hand to the back of his head and exaggerates a grimace of pain. “I mean, it might be a good idea for me to go to bed.”

“Of course,” Newt agrees. “I'll show you your hammock.”

He doesn't sleep. His insomnia from the Safe Haven seems to have carried over, along with his memories.

But his strength. His endurance. His scars. Nothing physical made the transfer like his mind and mental state did.

He is—his body is—exactly the same as the first time. And it scares him to death.

Your memories, you've got those, he reminds himself. That'll have to be enough.

Thomas lays on his hammock, the gentle rocking motion making tired, fogging his thoughts over with the pull of sleep.

So he sits up, swings his legs over the side of the hammock, and makes his way towards the Deadheads, hoping the walk will clear his mind a bit.

“I can save him,” he whispers. “I can.”

And he could. If he plays his cards right.

Then that small voice in the back of his head decides to pipe up.

But what about everyone else?

Thomas pauses. I can save them, too.

If you start changing everything, the voice murmurs, you might not even have the chance to save him. If you had to choose between Chuck or Newt, who would it be?

And that's what brings him to his knees, muffling his sobs with his hand and fighting the scream that bubbles up in his throat.

That's the moment he knows for certain that it isn't a dream. Because no dream feels like this.

You can't save everyone. You have to choose.

I can't.

Then they both die, all of them do. Again.

I can change it.

You can't change what's already happened.

It hasn't happened yet.

You have to choose.

I'm not gonna choose who lives and who dies. Thomas knows his choice. And suddenly his sole purpose in life is getting his friends out of this hell alive. All of them.

Even if that means he himself dies instead.

For Newt, for Minho, for Chuck, for Gally, for Alby, Winston, Frypan, hell, even Teresa, Thomas would die a hundred times over.

Teresa comes up soon. What are you gonna do?

The thought comes from nowhere, striking Thomas so hard that the tears stop and his mind spins.

He thinks. He thinks and thinks and thinks but in the end, he still can't decide whether to forgive her or not. So many people died at the Right Arm because of her.

Regardless of whether he forgives her, he knows he doesn't trust her. Will probably never trust her again.

But he needs her. Because although Thomas's life force is the cure, he doesn't know how to access it. He can bleed for Newt and the rest of humanity as much as he'd like, but it means nothing unless Teresa or Mary can distill it into a proper serum.

And for Mary to stay alive long enough for that to happen, Thomas needs to get through to Teresa.

All at once, Thomas's thoughts hit a wall. A decision that he can't make heads or tails of.

If you want to convince Teresa not to betray you, you have to tell her. Tell her everything.

But the more rational part of his argues that telling anyone would be a hazard, a risk that Thomas doesn't know if he can take. Not if it means more death.

No one else deserves to die because of him.

What am I supposed to do?

Thomas is mere seconds from vocalizing the words, some sort of pathetic prayer, when the sound of rustling footsteps catches his ear.

He scrambles to his feet and darts for the cover of a large tree, peering out and squinting to get a look at the Glader causing all of the noise.

Thomas quickly realizes that it's not one Glader, but two.

Both of them are attempting to be sneaky, shushing each other and muffling their laughs as they trek further through the trees.

Thomas is intrigued. This is new.

The two Gladers stop, and Thomas can just make out their dark shapes.

“Shh, you're gonna get us caught again.”

Thomas doesn't recognize the voice.

“Last time was all your fault, Ben,” says the second Glader, and there's a voice that Thomas couldn't forget if he tried.

But Gally sounds different. Thomas has never heard Gally sound happy, but he thinks that's the emotion in his voice.

Gally? Ben and Gally? What are they doing out here?

Thomas’s question is answered when Gally is cut off mid-sentence by Ben kissing him.

Thomas thinks he probably could've stomped through the Deadheads screaming and the two of them wouldn't have noticed his presence. He’s quiet on the way back to his hammock anyway, not wanting to wake any of the others.

He drags his blankets out of the hammock and arranges them on the ground. Though less comfortable, it's stable.

And if Thomas needs anything right now, it's stability.

Thomas lays down, and spends the rest of the night brainstorming how to keep Ben alive this time.

By the time the sun begins its ascent, Thomas has a rough outline of a plan, one so ridiculous that he might actually be Banished for it. And a backup plan, but the actual chances of it working are slim to none.

But the only other option is to tell Newt and Alby that this has all happened before. Thomas is fairly certain he'd only get locked in the Slammer for his troubles. Maybe even Banished, if they think he's working for WCKD.

Gally’s gonna kill me, Thomas thinks. The thought brings a smile to his face.

“What’re you smiling about? Better question: why are you on the ground?”

Alby sounds faintly amused, and Thomas sits up, his joints popping.

“Couldn't sleep,” Thomas answers with something akin to a shrug, and Alby nods.

“That'll happen,” he says, and he sounds more understanding about it than Thomas had been expecting. “But we all pull our own weight around here. So you'd better sleep nice and good tonight, cuz you're gonna be helpin’ out around here just like everyone else.”

There it is.

“Got it,” Thomas replies, and he shoves himself to his feet. He runs over his plan in his head.

“Hey, Alby?”

Alby breathes out something close to a sigh. “Yes?”

“When do the Runners leave?”

Suddenly, Alby looks much more invested in the conversation. He frowns deeply. “How do you know about the Runners? I never explained the jobs to you yesterday.”

For a brief flash of a moment, Thomas panics. Then he is struck with the realization that he doesn't even have to lie.

“Newt was telling me about it at the bonfire.” Thomas had been hoping that repeating that talk would pay off. He seems to be in luck.

Alby nods, slowly, and the quizzical looks eases up. “They should be getting ready to go right about now, actually.”

Shit. That's not enough time.

“Can I go talk to them first?”

The confused expression returns, accompanied this time by faint agitation. “Greenie, they've gotta do their job. Don't need you getting in the way.”

“Right. No, you're totally right,” Thomas says. He shakes his head for good measure. “Sorry.”

“It's fine. Now, come on, got somethin’ to show you.”

Alby leads him to the wall, talking the whole time, explaining the three rules of the Glade, which he didn't have the time to explain the day before. Thomas doesn't bother listening, instead opting to keep a close eye on the closed Doors nearest to the Homestead, the ones that Ben and Minho should be exiting soon enough.

This isn't gonna work, Thomas realizes. I've got to get away from Alby.

“Hey, Alby?”

Alby stops, gives him a dirty look. Thomas must've interrupted him.

“I, uh…” Think, Thomas, think. He runs his hand through his hair, and his fingers brush over the knot on his head, tender to the touch. “I hit my head pretty hard last night at the fire. And I- I'm kinda feeling a bit sick.”

Thomas is beginning to feel sick, not because he hit his head, but because his Plan A is already not looking too good.

Alby looks him over. “You do look like crap,” he muses. “Newt took you to the Med-shack yesterday. Remember where that is?”

Thomas nods. Please don't come with me, please don't come with me...

“Good. Head over there. Clint should be awake, he’ll check you out.” Then Alby’s waving him off. “We can do this later. I've got stuff to do. I'll come find you around lunch. When you're done with the Med-jacks, go find Newt. He’ll start tryin’ you out for jobs.”

Thomas forces himself to walk, not run, to the Med-shack. Once he's out of Alby’s line of sight, he breaks into a sprint, racing to the Map Room.

Except there's no one there.

Which means-

The rumbling screech of the Doors sliding open slices through the air like the blade of a knife.

“Fuck.”

He runs back to the main clearing, but he already knows he's too late. Sure enough, when he turns to look at the Doors, they're wide open, and there's no one standing in front of them.

Thomas missed his chance.

“Plan B, then,” he mutters.

A scratching, shuffling noise gets his attention. He turns around, only to see one of WCKD’s little spies—a beetle blade—clinging to the trunk of the tree behind him.

And that's when Thomas realizes, I can't tell anyone about this. Because then WCKD will find out. Then any upper-hand I've got will be gone.

So Thomas can't mention the time travel thing. To anyone.

I'll just have to wait until we get to the Facility. The Scorch at the latest.

“Thomas? What’re you doin’ standing around?”

Thomas shuts his eyes for a brief moment. Takes in a deep, shaky breath.

Was Newt on top of me like this last time? It's like everywhere I freaking turn, he's there. I can't get away from him.

And as much as Thomas had missed that smile, every time he sees him it's like a knife stabbing him in the chest.

How adequate, Thomas thinks grimly, turning to face the second-in-command.

“I was, uh...just coming back from the Med-shack. Alby-”

“The Med-shack?” Newt says, brow furrowing cutely. “What for?”

“My head. It was just hurting a bit, but I'm fine now.” No use in making him unnecessarily concerned, especially with the stress that would be thrown onto him in a few hours.

Teresa's coming up soon.

The rest of the Glade is starting to wake up.

“Whatever you say, shank,” Newt shrugs. “Get your name on the wall, then?”

“Not yet,” Thomas answers, “Alby said he'd grab me at lunch and have me do it. But he told me to find you and that you’d help me see what job works out.”

Newt cocks his head to the side, expression thoughtful. “Then, I suppose we can start testing ya. Come on, mate.”

Thomas follows him over to the Gardens, where Newt stops and greets Zart, who's already hard at work.

“This is Zart. He's the Keeper of the Track-Hoes,” Newt explains.

“Got him starting with us today?” Zart asks, glancing up from the soil.

“Don't think he'd do too well with the Slicers or the Sloppers,” Newt shrugs and Zart mumbles something of an agreement.

Newt approaches one of the many tall trellises made of thick branches and launches into a long, detailed explanation.

Thomas focuses more on the sound of his voice than the actual words.

“Well?” Newt prompts, and Thomas jolts, looking up from the ground.

Newt laughs. “Grab a shovel, shank, and get to work.”

The next few hours pass with light conversation and a few sarcastic remarks on Newt’s part.

Thomas finds it shockingly easy to fall back into the groove of things.

Lunch comes and goes, and Thomas etches his name into the wall, right beneath Minho’s. He returns the knife to Alby and walks back over to the Gardens.

The sun bears down on them. Thomas rolls his sleeves. Newt shucks off his overshirt and ties it around his waist.

Has anyone ever tried climbing to the top? The words linger in Thomas's mind, but he refuses to utter them.

“Hey, Newt?”

Newt hums and glances over at him, quirking an eyebrow.

Thomas hesitates momentarily, trying to figure out how to phrase his words. He has to get the idea in Newt’s head now, or else his plan to keep Ben from being Banished might not work.

“So you've got the rules, right? Well, what happens if someone breaks one of them?”

Newt frowns. “You'd better not be plannin’ on it.”

“No, of course not!” Thomas says hastily. “I was just wondering how you reinforce them.”

“The shanks who break the rules get punished.”

Thomas lets out a long breath. “Right, but how?”

“They get...sent out into the Maze.” Newt shifts uncomfortably, and he suddenly refuses to meet Thomas's eye. “And...no one’s ever survived a night in the Maze. We call it a Banishing. Only ever done it twice.”

Thomas processes the words carefully. He looks at his hands. “Why? Why not give them a second chance?”

Because if Thomas deserves a second chance to fix all of his mistakes, surely Ben deserves a second chance at life.

Newt doesn't reply, and when Thomas looks back over at him, he sees that Newt has completely stopped working, staring unseeingly at the ground.

“Hey, Greenie?” Zart says, and wipes his brow, smearing dirt across his forehead. He remains oblivious to Newt’s sudden silence. “Do me a favor?”

Thomas doesn't look away from Newt, even as he replies. “What do you need?”

Zart pushes an empty, dirty bucket towards him. “Go get us some more fertilizer?”

Thomas pauses.

Shit.

Chapter Text

The woods is somehow more ominous in the day than it had been at night.

Of course, that could be because Thomas is hyper-aware that he's going to be attacked any minute.

He steps into the small clearing that marks the graveyard. Either the Sloppers aren't keeping up with maintenance, or everyone avoids the place, because the crosses are all in various stages of brokenness. One, in particular, catches his eye.

The name George is carved deep into the rotting wood.

His blood runs cold.

Brenda had a brother named George.

But there's no way it could be the same boy, right?

But, somehow, Thomas knows it is. And he feels an overwhelming wave of guilt crash over him for not realizing it sooner.

And while Thomas didn't go back far enough to get the opportunity to save him, he still feels like it's his fault.

Feels like everything’s his fault.

The clumsy footsteps coupled with harsh, heavy breaths make Thomas pause. He straightens up from his crouch and turns around.

Thomas looks at Ben with a pained bitterness, taking in the veins warping his appearance and the dark, crazed eyes.

He's stung, but he looks like he's got the Flare.

“Ben, listen to me,” Thomas says urgently, “I know you think this is my fault, and you—”

Ben screams and launches himself at Thomas. Thomas pivots and begins to run, flying through the trees without even a glance behind him.

Despite Thomas's speed, Ben catches up. Though Thomas supposes he shouldn't be surprised, he absolutely is when Ben tackles him from behind and sends both of them rolling down a small hill.

He staggers to his feet and holds his hands out placatingly. “Ben, listen, you need to calm down and let me explain—”

Ben is on his feet and throwing himself at Thomas in a flash.

Thomas runs, trying to think strategically but finding himself unable to think at all over his own rasping breaths.

The trees begin to thin, and Thomas can spot the Gardens. He shouts, knowing that Newt will come to his aid as soon as he breaks from the tree line.

Ben’s fingers catch the hem of Thomas's shirt and both of them crash to the ground. Thomas kicks at him, but Ben hardly responds to the blows, screaming and fighting to get his fingers around Thomas's throat.

The impact of the shovel against the side of Ben’s face makes Thomas wince, and he scrambles to his feet, still heaving for breath.

“Ben, what are you doing?” Newt hisses.

“What happened?”

Thomas looks up from where various Gladers—Newt included—have Ben pinned to the grass. Alby is staring at him, expression twisted in confusion.

“I… I don’t…” Thomas looks around, hoping for an answer to come to him. He can’t blame Ben. That would guarantee the boy a Banishment.

“What happened?” Alby asks again, anger seeping into his tone. Thomas doesn’t answer. Alby shakes his head and looks down at Ben, brow furrowed.

“I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Ben dissolves into sobs, and Thomas can’t stand the devastated look on Gally’s face.

Alby’s frown deepens. “Someone lift his shirt.”

Gally does.

“He’s been stung.”

“In the middle of the day?”

They stare at the blackened veins in silence.

Thomas shifts, glancing around the shell-shocked Gladers. “It was my fault.”

Newt looks up, incredulous. “Your fault?”

“That he attacked me, I mean,” Thomas hastens.

“How the bloody hell was it your fault?”

“I…” And, for the life of him, Thomas can’t think of an answer.

“Greenie, I’ll talk with you later. Go wait at the Med-shack.” Alby gestures to Ben, expression troubled. “C’mon, let’s put him in the Pit.”

Thomas can hear Ben’s screams and cries all the way across the Glade. He sits outside the Med-shack. Chuck silently joins him and continues working on his figurine.

Thomas is grateful for the company.

Two sets of footsteps approach and Thomas looks up to see Clint and Jeff locked in a hushed conversation.

Clint smiles at him. “You just keep getting into trouble, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “So, you hurt?”

“I think I'm fine.”

“Let me see,” Clint says, and tugs Thomas arm out to inspect a shallow cut. Clint hums. “We might have to amputate.”

Thomas furrows his brow.

Jeff laughs. “You always want to amputate.”

Alby and Newt show up after another five minutes, though they don’t speak, allowing Clint and Jeff to work in silence.

“Well,” Jeff finally says, “you’ll live.”

Clint wraps the cut and waves him off. “Alby, he’s all yours.”

Chuck glances up from his carving for the first time, and Thomas notes the way his brows are pinched in worry.

Alby looks at him, eyes searching. He simply says, “Explain.”

And god, how Thomas wants to. Wants to explain everything that’s going on. But he can’t.

“Alby,” he says, “what’s gonna happen to him?”

“He broke one of the few rules we have,” Alby states.

Thomas makes a noise of protest. “He was stung! He obviously wasn’t in control of himself. He’s never hurt someone before, has he?”

“No, but—”

“Exactly,” Thomas interrupts, gesturing frantically. “So, you can’t—”

“Greenie, cut it out,” Newt snaps. “Stop interrupting, just listen. We do things a certain way for a reason.”

“But he attacked me. So shouldn’t I be the one that gets a say in his punishment?”

Alby shakes his head. "I don't have time for this klunk," he mutters, then walks off.

Thomas, Newt, and Chuck watch him go.

“Listen, Thomas,” Newt finally says, turning back to him, “the rules are one of the only things keepin’ this place afloat. And you wanna break ‘em? For a guy that attacked you for no reason?”

Thomas snaps his head over to Newt. “Who said it was for no reason?”

Newt scowls. “Well, I’m gonna assume that unless you actually decide to tell us what bloody happened, shuck-face.”

“You can’t Banish him,” Thomas says. “Keep him in the Pit, I don’t care. But you can’t Banish him.”

The look on Newt’s face darkens. “And what if he tries to attack you again?”

Thomas hesitates. I just need more time.

“If he tries to do it again, then fine. But at least give him a chance.”

“Why do you care so much?” Newt asks, his expression easing into something soft and confused.

“Just…trust me, okay?”

Newt stares at him.

“Um…” Chuck hesitates. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Thomas. Shouldn’t we at least give him a second chance? It’s not like he’s...well, sane.”

“Bloody fucking hell.” Newt rakes a hand through his hair. “You do realize there’s no cure, right?”

The words are said with such a certainty that it steals the breath from Thomas’s lungs. Newt continues, oblivious.

“There’s no cure for what Ben has. We’ve had boys get stung before. We let Ben out of the Pit, he’ll just attack someone else.”

Thomas swallows. There is a cure. And Ben can get it this time because I don’t have to sting myself for memories.

“No,” he manages. “You don’t know that.”

Newt mutters something under his breath.

“What?” Thomas asks, leaning closer. Newt snaps.

“I do know that! I’ve seen it happen!”

“Just trust me? Please?” Thomas begs. He doesn’t know how else to convince him. “I promise, there’s still a chance for him.”

Newt’s eyes narrow. “You can’t promise something like that.”

Thomas clenches his jaw.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I just did,” he says.

A raspy scoff escapes Newt’s parted lips and the anger visibly fades. Newt closes his eyes, and for half a second, Thomas catches a haunted brokenness shadowing his face. Then Newt blinks, and sets his mouth in a firm line, all signs of vulnerability gone.

“You know what? Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if someone gets hurt, it’s on your head, not mine.”

“I get it,” Thomas nods, and he feels like he can finally breathe for the first time since he’s shown back up here. “Thanks, Newt.”

Newt scowls. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Chuck pipes up for the second time as Newt walks off toward the Homestead.

“That’s weird.”

Thomas tears his eyes away from Newt’s hitching stride to look at Chuck. “What’s weird?”

Chuck shrugs and returns to his carving, concentrating much harder than necessary. “Nothing, just…. Newt probably wouldn’t have agreed to that if anyone else had suggested it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thomas asks, frowning.

Chuck shrugs again. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just interesting.”

Part of Thomas wants to pester him, to ask what he’s getting at, but then he spots Gally approaching.

Gally looks angry—but, in his defense, Gally always looks angry—and Thomas really isn’t ready to deal with him just yet.

A muscle in Thomas's thigh tenses, urging him to stand and appear less cowardly. He doesn't move, just waits for Gally to come stomping over.

“What the hell, Greenie,” he snaps, stopping a few feet away with a deep glower on his face. “What the hell was that?”

“Woah, hey, what're you blaming me for?” Thomas says, tilting his head up to meet Gally’s glare.

“Ben wouldn't attack you for no reason. He wouldn't hurt anyone. Stung or not. And the entire way to the Pit, guess what he's screaming?”

Thomas thinks he knows.

“He’s screaming: ‘I saw him. He did this.’ All sorts of crazy stuff. And I…. He—” Gally’s chest heaves and he chokes on his words. Thomas is shocked by the sight of tears in Gally’s eyes.

“Hey, Gally—”

“No,” he rasps, and he glares through his tears. “Just... don't.”

Gally turns, heading in the direction of the Doors. For a brief, concerning moment, Thomas thinks he’s going to go out into the Maze, but then Gally veers off towards the Pit.

Thomas rubs his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

And it’s not over yet. You’ve got until tomorrow night before the Doors shut to find an excuse to go into the Maze and kill a Griever. We’ll need the key to get the door open, and if Minho and Alby don’t go, then they won’t come back late, and I won’t have a reason to go running in.

“Fuck,” he swears softly. How am I going to solve this one?

The answer presents itself in the oddest of ways.

Thomas had been woken by Ben’s screams early in the morning, mingling with the grinding screech of the Doors opening. As such, he’d watched the Runners go out. Which is why, on his way over to Newt and Chuck, he nearly drops his lunch tray at the sight of Minho racing back through the Doors as if he's being chased, red-faced and wheezing. Minho braces his hands on his knees and bends over, his panting audible even from this distance.

Thomas stares for a moment, then turns and sets his food on the table, appetite long gone.

“Thomas, what…” Newt begins, but then he spots Minho as well.

Thomas doesn’t wait for Newt to get up. He races over to Minho, setting a hand on his shoulder and leaning down.

“You okay, man?” he asks.

Minho coughs and waves him off, shrugging Thomas’s hand from his shoulder. He speaks between rasping breaths. “Yeah, fine.... Do me a favor...and go get Alby, would ya?”

“Minho, what the bloody hell are you doing back?” Newt asks, slowing to a stop a few feet away.

The Runner doesn’t answer. The minutes creep, and slowly, Minho catches his breath, straightening up.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Look, just go get Alby. I don’t feel like explaining this twice.”

Thomas turns to go, only to see the man in question running over, Chuck not too far behind. Chuck must’ve seen and gone straight to Alby. Smart kid.

“What’s going on?” Alby says, eyes flickering back and forth between Minho and Thomas and Newt. “What happened?”

Minho leans back against the wall of the Maze, smirking.

“I found a dead one.”

Alby frowns. “A dead what? Griever?”

Minho’s smirk evolves into a sly grin, teeth flashing. “Yep.”

Newt looks bewildered, but Thomas can’t help but be insanely curious. This was certainly a new development, and Thomas wants to know what triggered it.

“What do you mean?” he asks, and he can feel Alby’s gaze burning into him.

“I found a dead one,” Minho repeats. He wipes his forehead again. “Figured I’d come let you know instead of trying to mess with it first.”

“Smart move,” Alby agrees. “You ready to head back in there? Or do you wanna wait ‘til tomorrow? Your call.”

Minho takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, nodding. He cracks his neck. “Let’s go now. I want as much time to check this thing out as possible. It might not even be there tomorrow.”

Alby mutters something of an agreement and turns to Newt. “You’re in charge ‘til I get back.”

“Be careful,” Newt says, not even attempting to hide the worry in his voice. “Both of you.”

Minho claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it. Probably a few hours before dinner, even. It’s not like we’re planning to have a slumber party with the thing.”

Newt doesn’t even crack a smile.

“We’ll be fine,” Alby agrees. “See you in a bit.”

With that, Alby turns and jogs through the Doors. Minho gives Newt a mock salute. He looks at Thomas and winks. Then runs into the Maze.

Between the three of them, the silence is thick and pressing. Newt clears his throat.

“Well,” he says, voice shaking just slightly, “we’d better go eat, then back to work.”

As they walk back, Chuck leans over to Thomas and whispers, “I wonder what killed it.”

Me too, man. Me too.

They settle down at the table, and Thomas picks at his food, still not particularly hungry. He rests his left hand in his lap and bounces his knee.

He tries not to think about the sense of foreboding that cloaks him like a shadow.

But the feeling follows him around the rest of the day, no matter how hard he tries to shake it. If anything, it gets worse.

Something bad is going to happen. Something bad is going to happen.

Dinner comes and goes. They return to work.

Something bad is going to happen.

One glance at Newt’s face shows that he’s thinking the same thing.

The rest of the Runners return in sets of two, as is custom.

A half an hour creeps by. Time itself feels as if it has slowed to a sluggish crawl. The Glade has plunged into a somber silence.

Thomas chops at the base of the tree trunk. Newt does, too.

Chuck carves.

Time passes.

Abruptly, Newt stops in the middle of his task and drops his machete, not uttering a single word as he stands and walks over to the Doors, joining a small group of Gladers already there.

Thomas exchanges a look with Chuck and the two of them follow wordlessly. Newt slips up to the front. Thomas and Chuck follow.

More and more boys join them. The Gladers pack together tightly, the boys in the back trying to see over the heads of the boys in the front, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of some sort of movement.

“They should’ve been back hours ago,” Gally murmurs, crouched down next to Chuck. Thomas is beside Newt, close enough that he feels the way Newt tenses.

“They’ll make it,” Thomas says, but the reassurance falls flat. Gally gives him a dirty look. Newt releases a shaky breath.

“Doors will be closin’ any minute now,” Newt says, voice oddly hollow.

Come on, come on, come on…

“There!” Chuck cries, taking a small step forward and pointing into the long corridor. Gally grabs Chuck’s arm and pulls him back.

Thomas stares at the hunched form of Minho, heaving Alby’s limp body along behind him. The Gladers explode, yelling words of encouragement and for Minho to hurry.

I have to time it, he thinks.

A sharp squeal escapes the gears along the Doors. They begin closing in, a low rumbling sound.

The Gladers’ screams get louder. But even then, Thomas catches Newt’s horrified whisper.

“They’re not gonna make it.”

Newt grabs his hand. Thomas lets him. He leans forward, eying the Doors, which seem to be increasing speed.

Minho loses his grip on Alby and both of them hit the ground.

Come on, come on, come on…

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, squeezing Newt’s hand once before letting go. He wants to say more. He runs into the Maze instead.

He feels Newt’s fingers grasp at the back of his shirt.

He hears Chuck scream, “Thomas, no!”

And he slips through the gap, staggering forward from his momentum.

The Doors seal behind him, an echoing crunch, a grinding sound that could’ve easily been his bones. Thomas shudders at the thought.

“You stupid fucking shank. Why would you…. Stupid. Well, good job, anyway. You just killed yourself.”

Thomas frowns at Minho. He approaches, eying Alby cautiously.

“What happened to him?” he asks, searching for an injury.

There. On the side of his head. A raised lump, the area around it bloodied.

Just like last time.

“He got stung,” Minho says, his words followed by a hacking cough.

Maybe some things just have to happen. Regardless of what I do to change them.

The idea does not sit comfortably with Thomas.

So, with slight difficulty, he shrugs it off.

“Let me guess: Griever wasn't dead?” Thomas says.

“Oh, it was dead. Its little buddy sure wasn’t, though. We weren’t expecting a live one to be with it.” Minho wipes at his forehead, leaving behind a streak of dirt. “Doesn't matter anymore. We’ll all be Griever chow in a few hours. Maybe less.”

“Don't think like that,” Thomas says, near pleading. The sun is setting and they need to get Alby up the wall, before they run out of time.

“Why? It's the truth. We're already dead.”

“We don't have to be,” Thomas points out.

Minho laughs. It's a croaking, rusty sound. He drops his head down between his knees, making no attempt whatsoever to get up. “Greenie, do you know anything ? No one survives a night in the Maze.”

Thomas closes his eyes briefly. “Okay. What about Alby?”

Minho grunts. “What about him?”

“We can't just leave him here!” Thomas says in exasperation, throwing his arms out.

“Why not?”

Thomas regrets his next words before he even utters them.

“Think about Newt.”

Minho raises his head. His eyes narrow. As Thomas had expected, Minho stands, leaning against the wall to help support his exhausted body.

“‘Think about Newt’?” Minho echoes. He scoffs, then fumes silently, shaking his head. “You don't know anything. Okay? You don't know me and you sure as hell don't know Newt.”

Thomas begs to differ, but knows better than to vocalize such things. Especially now, when night is falling and time is waning.

“Just…. Don't you think it'd be better to at least give him a chance to live?”

Minho presses his lips together and stares at Alby’s prone form. Then looks up at Thomas, gaze calculating.

“What did you have in mind?”

“The wall,” Thomas replies quickly. “We get some ivy around him, pull him up there as high as we can.”

Minho nods, slowly. “Okay…. But the second a Griever comes around that corner, you two are on your own.”

“Deal.” I managed just fine last time, this shouldn't be much different.

The process of hauling Alby up the wall is much more difficult than Thomas recalls it being. Perhaps in part to his lack of focus, and perhaps in part to...well, his lack of focus.

He’s caught up in trying to remember exactly which twists and turns he took to evade the Griever and end up with Minho last time, but it’s impossible to recall such specifics after so many months.

A piercing, screeching whirr reaches them down the corridor. Thomas and Minho lock eyes.

“Good luck, Greenie.”

“Minho, wait—”

But it's too late. Minho releases his grip on the vine and Thomas is yanked forward, feet losing traction on the ground. He digs in, the vine burning into his palms and his shoulders straining.

“Minho!”

Thomas looks over his shoulder to catch the Runner sprinting around the corner, without even a glance back.

Another warbling screech rings through the air. Closer this time.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit—

“Shit shit shit shit,” he mutters under his breath, bracing himself and pulling the vine back down with all the strength he can muster. He swings himself into a small gap underneath the wall, hidden by the overhanging ivy.

He finishes tying the vine off just as the Griever enters the corridor. Thomas closes his eyes and listens.

click click whirrrrr

click whirrr click click click

The sounds halt for a brief second, and Thomas holds his breath.

But then they continue, fading as the Griever leaves.

At least I didn't cut it as close this time.

He slides out of his makeshift hiding space, pushing himself up.

Thomas takes a deep breath, and he turns back to look at the huge, looming Doors. The only thing keeping him cut off from the Gladers. From Chuck. From Newt.

He shakes his head to clear it.

And he runs.

His body relaxes into the familiar thrum of his heart and slap of his feet against the smooth stone floor. An hour passes without even a glimpse of a Griever. It gets dark.

Another hour passes, to Thomas’s rough estimation. He hasn’t seen Minho, either.

He’s probably fine.

A shriek of a Griever slices through the silence, bouncing off the walls like mad laughter. Thomas stops.

And nearly gets tackled by Minho, running so fast he looks almost to be flying. Minho slows down just enough to grab Thomas’s wrist, then starts hauling ass once more.

Thomas looks past Minho and spots the Griever not far behind.

“Run!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In the darkness, it’s impossible to tell where in the Maze they even are. Minho might know, but Thomas sure as hell doesn’t, so he only hopes that Minho takes him the same route as the first time.

He does.

“Come on, follow me!” Minho shouts, not that Thomas has much of a choice with the death-grip on his wrist. “This section’s closing, come on. We can lose it down here.”

Thomas rips his arm from Minho’s grasp but continues running, purposely falling behind. Minho doesn’t look back until he reaches the end of the corridor. He stumbles to a halt.

The left wall of the corridor groans, then begins closing in.

“Thomas, what are you waiting for? Get out of there!”

The Griever screams, and Thomas turns to see as it rounds the last corner.

Come on… come on.

The Griever steps.

Stops.

Steps.

Thomas waits, ignoring Minho’s yells.

To Thomas’s dismay, the Griever doesn’t rush at him.

It steps.

And stops.

And steps.

So Thomas waits.

He waits.

He waits….

He waits too long.

Thomas turns back to the closing section, prepared to put on a burst of speed and crush the Griever between the compressing walls, only to see the gap is much smaller than he expected.

I won’t make it.

Minho seems to realize this at the same time Thomas does.

“Go around it and meet me! Take two lefts, a right, a left—”

But he’s cut off by the rumbling bang of the walls closing together.

The Griever roars behind him.

Thomas runs.

Another Griever joins in the chase at some point.

He alternates, running and getting far enough ahead to lose them, then hiding, be it behind a curtain of vines or around the corner of another wall, in the shadows.

And somehow, somehow, he makes it to morning. Part of him wonders if that’s thanks to WCKD. He just hopes that Minho had the same luck.

The Grievers leave him alone as soon as the darkness begins to ease up, replaced by a steadily growing light. The one that had been pursuing him just...disappears.

When there’s enough light to see the numbers on the walls, Thomas finds himself to be in Section Four. He doesn’t know shit about the rotations of Section Four.

His hands shake and his mind is glazed over with exhaustion.

He perks up at the rumble of the Doors opening.

It takes him far too long to find his way to them, and he doesn’t come across a Runner the whole way. The sun is high in the sky and it’s probably around noon before Thomas recognizes some of the wider hallways and the patterns of the ivy.

He turns another corner, shoulder smacking against the wall from turning too soon, and stops. He stares at the Glade.

Chuck leaps up from his post in front of the Doors, his face paling.

“Holy shit," Chuck whispers. "Guys, he’s back!”

“Hey Chuck,” Thomas says, smiles, and promptly loses consciousness.

Chapter Text

His head is pounding horribly.

“Holy shit, you're awake already?”

Thomas blinks and turns his head. Newt looms over him, surprise evident in the twitch of his left brow.

“How long was I out?” Thomas asks, and he winces at the soreness of his throat, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

“Not long enough,” comes Clint’s resounding voice, clearly attempting to scold, but failing to do so. “You really should go back to sleep.”

“How long?” Thomas persists. Please say she hasn't shown up yet...

“Only an hour or so. It's just about time for lunch, actually,” Clint informs.

Thomas relaxes, a wave of relief washing over him. The ache in his head dulls slightly.

“You plannin’ on going back to sleep?”

Thomas hums at the question, squinting at Newt. “Don't think so.”

Newt nods as if expecting this. He then turns to Clint, and Thomas catches a small flash of an eye-roll directed at him.

“Of course bloody not,” Newt says. “Clint, go bring him some food then, yeah?”

Thomas makes a noise of protest. “I'm fine, I can do it myself.”

Newt laughs. Actually laughs.

Thomas would be downright insulted, if he isn't too busy focusing on the way Newt’s face lights up, that concerned frown leaving for just a moment and replaced with a toothy grin and bright eyes, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.

Happiness.

“Oh, you're too funny,” Newt cackles, eyes still brimming with mirth. “You just survived a night in the Maze. And you expect me to let you out of that bed within the next lifetime?”

“I'm fine,” Thomas grumbles.

“And I,” Newt smirks, “don't care.”

“That's not even fair,” Thomas mutters, but he can't even keep the exasperated smile off his face. He turns, legs dangling over the edge of the bed.

Newt takes a seat in a chair next to Thomas’s bedside.

Clint makes some comment about leaving. Thomas doesn't bother to listen to it, caught up in the way that Newt leans just the slightest bit forward, brown eyes locked on Thomas’s. The brightness of those eyes hardens just the tiniest bit, overcome with something more serious.

“Listen here,” Newt says, and he pokes Thomas's chest with a finger. “I want to make it clear that what you did? It's not gonna be without consequences. You did break our number one rule.”

“But–”

“But listen, I’m not done. You broke our number one rule,” Newt continues. A small, almost hesitant smile graces his lips. “And for that, I have to thank you, Tommy.”

The old nickname strikes Thomas like a hammer between the ribs, and his breath catches as the memory crashes over him.

“Please. Please, Tommy. Please…”

A flash of dark, soulless eyes.

Black veins crawling up a pale throat.

Face twisted in rage.

Screaming.

Screaming, screaming, screaming.

Thank you for being my friend.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He reaches, unthinkingly, for the only thing Newt left him. But the necklace is gone.

It's gone.

Fingers curl around his wrists, slowly, gently, pulling his hands away from the collar of his shirt.

A breath rushes from his lungs.

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” Thomas rasps, blinking rapidly against the sudden onslaught of tears. “I just wasn't expecting.... I’m fine.”

Newt says nothing.

He only takes one of Thomas's shaking hands between his own, squeezes gently, and waits for the trembling to subside.

Then he takes Thomas's other hand and repeats the process.

Finally, Newt meets his eyes. Thomas sees the unspoken question there.

And he caves.

“Listen, I need to tell you something,” he begins.

Newt waits, patiently silent.

Thomas is just wondering where to start when a heavy, purposeful knock thuds against the closed door. Why had Clint deemed it necessary to shut the door on his way out?

Irritation flits across Newt’s face. He releases Thomas's hand.

“Come in,” he announces, and he turns away from Thomas.

Clint elbows the door open, and Thomas looks into the hall, realizing for the first time that he is definitely not in the Med-shack.

“Why am I in the Homestead?” he asks, his gaze moving towards the tray of food in Clint’s hands.

“Wanted you to get as much sleep as possible,” Clint explains. “Jeff’s got his hands full with Alby right now, and he's been screamin’ ever since we dragged him back here.”

Thomas perks up. “You found Alby?”

And then.

“What about Minho? Is he back? Is he okay?”

Newt raises a hand placatingly. “Minho’s just fine. In fact, he was just waiting on the other side of the Doors when they opened. He showed us Alby and asked about you. Well, you weren't back. So we just assumed…. Anyway, Minho was pretty upset about it.”

“Then Chuck started screaming bloody murder,” Clint cuts in, setting the tray of food in Thomas's lap. “He started yelling and everyone came running. And there you are, laying on the ground, looking dead as could be. So we lugged you in here, cleaned you up, and told everyone to leave you alone until you were rested enough.”

“How is Alby, by the way?” Newt asks, turning to Clint.

“He’s doing rough. You’re definitely gonna have to lead the Gathering,” Clint says.

Thomas bites into his sandwich and listens in silence as Clint and Newt’s conversation diverges.

“Have you heard from Glenn?” Clint questions.

“Not in a little while,” comes Newt’s reply. “But I do know that Minho’s spoken to him and the rest of the Runners about it. They don’t really want to head back out, not for a few days, at least. Not that I can really blame ‘em, after last night.”

Newt glances at him. Thomas smiles sheepishly.

“Anyways,” Newt continues, rolling his eyes, “Clint, you want to go get everyone together for the Gathering? Ya know, since this shank refuses to get some more rest.”

“Hey,” Thomas protests, “I’m right here.”

Clint laughs. “I’ve got it.”

Newt quirks an eyebrow at Thomas. “Oh, so now you want to sleep.”

“Be back in ten,” Clint says, and he ducks out of the room.

“I didn’t say that,” Thomas protests. “It’s just that you were talking about me as if I wasn’t even here.”

“Aww, did I hurt your feelings?” Newt says mockingly. “Want me to hold your hand? Kiss it all better, maybe?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I’m good, thanks.”

Newt grins, folding his arms across his chest. “You sure? It’s a one-time offer, you know.”

“I’m good,” Thomas repeats with a laugh. He sets his tray of half-eaten food on the sheets beside him and slides off the bed. For the first time since waking up, he feels the effects from last night. His entire lower body hurts, from his thighs to the arches of his feet.

“I’m so sore,” he complains.

“Well, I’d offer to give you a massage, but, as I said, it was a one-time offer. Guess you lost your chance,” Newt says, and he attempts to keep a straight face.

“I’ll just ask Clint,” Thomas says pointedly. “Hey, Clint, would you…”

Clint isn’t in the room. Thomas looks around, blinking.

“He left? When did he leave?”

Newt just laughs.

“C’mon, then. We should head down to the Council Hall before everyone else gets here. Don’t want to keep ‘em waiting,” he says.

Thomas gestures toward the door. “Lead the way.”

He follows Newt down the rickety flight of stairs and into the large main room.

The room is bright, highlighted with the occasional sharp knife of sunlight that has managed to find its way through the gaps in the crudely-made roof.

Gally is already there, in the company of Winston, Minho, Fry, and Zart. Minho spots Thomas and immediately his face breaks out into a wide grin.

“Hey, it’s the man of the hour!” he declares. “How you feelin’, Greenie?”

“Tired,” Thomas answers truthfully. “Sore.”

Minho gives an over-exaggerated sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good. Makes me feel better about myself. At least we know you’re a little bit human.”

Newt snorts. Thomas turns towards the sound.

Newt has positioned himself so that his upper body is caught in a ray of light, turning his blond hair into a glowing white halo, the ends dipped in gold. His eyes are no longer a deep, almost black color, but a warm brown about four shades lighter. It somehow makes his gaze even more intense.

Thomas adverts his gaze, thinks desperately for something else to focus on. Something more important.

We have a limited amount of time. If the timing is right, Teresa should be showing up in the middle of the meeting.

Of that, Thomas is almost certain. The details are foggy. It's been a long time.

Thomas feels incredibly old.

The Gladers filter into the Council Hall in small groups, steadily filling the room to its capacity.

Newt picks at his nails. Thomas tries to put a name to each face in the crowd of boys, and he finds himself struggling.

“Alright, you lot,” Newt calls, and the quiet murmurs of conversation dwindle. “The Gathering is now in session.”

Thomas doesn't even have to look to know when Newt rolls his eyes.

“Things are changing,” Gally begins, stepping forward. “There's no denying that. First, Ben gets stung in broad daylight. And then Alby.”

Thomas isn't swimming in déjà vu, he's drowning in it.

But then Gally stops. His eyes fall on Thomas.

“I think our Greenie here has something to do with all of this. He violated our rules by going into the Maze.”

“He saved Alby,” Frypan cuts in. “I don't think y'all should just ignore that.”

A distant scream rips through the low murmurs of the Council Hall, silencing the Gladers.

Ben.

Gally’s brow furrows, but it's a different Glader that speaks, one that Thomas doesn’t know the name of.

“Hey, I know it's not really what we're talking about right now, but...it kind of is. Why haven't we Banished Ben?” he asks. Everyone looks to Newt, including Thomas. The Glader hesitates, then continues. “I mean, it’s not something we’ve ever done before. When someone breaks the rules, it’s always been an automatic Banishment. And now the Greenie has done it too, and we’re not going to Banish him either?”

“Slim it, Aidan,” Minho says, scowling into the crowd of boys. “You’re not the leader here.”

“No, he’s got a right to ask,” Newt says. He rubs his hands together. “Listen, it’s been three years since we’ve been sent up here. I know we’re pretty strict in our ways and all, but Alby and I agreed that maybe it was time to try something new.”

Newt doesn’t mention that the whole thing was Thomas’s idea, for which Thomas is immensely grateful.

“Now,” Newt says, clearing his throat, “onto the problem at hand? Minho, you were there with him. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” Minho tilts his head in thought. “I think the shank saved Alby’s life. He survived a night in the Maze. I say we make him a Runner.”

“A Runner,” Gally states. Then scoffs. “Minho, you survived out there too!”

Minho takes an abrupt step towards Gally. “Listen here, slinthead, I’ve been here three years. I know the Maze like the back of my shuck hand. Thomas? That was his first time ever out there. Clearly he has what it takes to–”

The sudden wailing of the Greenie alarm cuts Minho off. Thomas’s stomach drops at the sound. The Gladers exchange confused looks.

Newt looks at Thomas, then hurries outside. Thomas hastens after him, but Chuck grabs his arm before he can catch up.

“The Box, it’s coming back up,” Chuck says, gaping over at the clearing.

“It shouldn’t be,” Minho says as he squeezes past. Thomas looks down at Chuck, who seems frozen to the ground.

“Come on,” he urges, and he pulls Chuck towards the Box and the gathering crowd of eager boys.

Thomas pushes to the front of the crowd, bringing Chuck with him.

The alarm finally silences. Newt and Gally grab at either side of the Box doors and heft them open. Newt jumps down.

“Newt, what do you see?” Frypan calls.

The clamor rises as the boys attempt to shout over each other.

Newt straightens, silencing them all.

Thomas just stares down at her slack face, throat tightening against the sudden feeling of sickness rising in his stomach.

“It’s a girl,” Newt says, voice soft, yet echoing the confusion on the faces of the Gladers. “I think she’s dead.”

“What’s in her hand?” Gally prompts, nodding towards the note.

Thomas mouths the words just as Newt reads them.

“‘She’s the last one… ever.’” He looks up, baffled. “Well, what the hell does that mean?”

Time slows to a sluggish crawl.

Her eyes flutter open, a piercing blue that cuts right through him.

Her chest heaves.

“Thomas…” she rasps, and her eyes drift shut.

Thomas sucks in a breath and looks up, and time resumes it’s accelerated pulse.

The Gladers are, of course, staring at him.

Gally keeps the snarky comments to himself this go around.

Everything feels just off-kilter enough for Thomas to notice it, but not know what to do about it. He hardly registers the hand on his arm as Newt orders a few Gladers to grab her and take her to the Med-shack. As the crowd begins to disperse, Minho guides him over to the Med-shack. Thomas feels as if his body is on autopilot, disconnected from him. His thoughts playing on the same loop of watching Teresa’s eyes open.

“Thomas?”

He blinks and the dreamlike feeling leaves, reality crashing back over him. He looks over to see Clint and Jeff hovering above Teresa’s prone form. Someone grabs Thomas’s shoulder and shakes him.

“Dude, you good?” Minho asks. Thomas frowns at him, shrugging his hand off.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says, gaze jumping from Teresa to Minho, to Newt hanging back in the doorway. Newt’s face is steely, betraying nothing.

Minho frowns.

Newt nudges his way towards the bed. He gestures to her. “Jeff, what’s the matter with her? Why won’t she wake up?”

Jeff raises his hands defensively. “Hey man, I got my job the same way you did.”

Finally, Newt looks at him. His gaze is flinty, calculating.

“Do you recognize her?” he asks.

Thomas’s hands are starting to shake. He shoves them into his pockets and his breath hitches. “No.”

Newt’s eyebrow slants upward. “Really?” he says in obvious disbelief. “Because she sure seemed to recognize you.”

Thomas opens his mouth, but his false confidence breaks and all that escapes is a choked whimper of sound. Even he can hear how pathetic it sounds.

Thomas turns around and shoves past Minho. He ducks outside, pace quickening with each step.

He doesn't make it far before someone is grabbing him by the shoulder, fingers digging into his skin, and turning him around.

Newt’s eyes are hard.

“Come with me.” His voice is cold and brooks no room for argument.

Thomas turns around and begins walking back toward the Doors.

The hand clasps around his shoulder a second time, but the hard grip loosens almost immediately. A light touch trails down his arm, so gentle that Thomas falters, pausing mid-stride.

The fingers curl around his wrist, and Newt’s grip tightens to the point of pain.

“Come with me. Right now.”

He doesn't even give Thomas a chance to speak before pulling him away from the front of the Med-shack and towards the Deadheads.

Newt weaves through the undergrowth and over fallen branches with a gracefulness that Thomas can't match, and each time Thomas stumbles, Newt’s fingers tighten around his wrist and he pulls him along.

At the brisk pace they're going, they get to the far corner of the Deadheads—where the walls meet—in less than ten minutes. Despite it being around mid-day, the trees block out much of the sunlight, making it a fair bit darker in the secluded little area.

Newt stops. His hold on Thomas's wrist doesn't falter.

Thomas furrows his brow and hesitates. “...Newt, what the hell are you–”

Newt whirls around on him so quickly that Thomas doesn't even think to move. His fingers curl around the fabric of Thomas's shirt and he shoves him back against the wall.

Newt stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowing in anger.

Thomas’s mind blanks, frozen in shock.

“Listen, Tommy, and listen closely,” Newt says, and his voice has a barely perceptible tremble to it. “There's something different about you, I could tell that much from the get-go. And truth be told, I don't care whether you worked with the Creators or not. Because that was before.”

Newt gets closer, somehow, and jabs a finger in his face. His eyes glint with something dangerous. “But this is now. And if any of my boys get hurt because of you and your idiocy, you'll have me to bloody answer to. You get me?”

Thomas swallows, throat suddenly dry. He has only been on the receiving end of Newt’s anger like this once before. When Newt had the Flare.

“Yeah, okay,” Thomas says, eyes locked with Newt’s. It's because of this intense concentration that he notices the way Newt’s jaw clenches and his eyes narrows almost imperceptibly.

“And as for the girl–”

“I get it, okay?” Thomas says, heart in his throat. Somehow it always comes back to Teresa.

Why?

“Oh, do you?” Newt says in mock surprise.

“Newt–”

“No, I mean, you get it, right Thomas? So obviously there's nothing else that needs to be said.”

“Newt, I–”

“Bloody hell, it's not like–”

“Stop!” Thomas shouts. His resolve splinters as his voice cracks and collapses in on itself, suddenly akin to the small, vulnerable plead of a child. “Please, just stop.”

Newt falters. His expression softens, as does his grip on Thomas’s shirt. He takes a small step back, leaves crackling under the soles of his shoes.

“Look, I’m just…” Thomas takes a breath, exhaling shakily. “I’m just overwhelmed right now, I’m sorry.”

Newt shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry. You haven’t done anything to harm us. I suppose I’m just worried about Alby, is all.”

A long silence fills the empty space between them. A slight frown creases Newt’s brow.

“Hey, you said you wanted to tell me something? This morning?” Newt prompts.

Thomas glances at the trees nearest to them. While he doesn’t see the beetle blades, he knows they’re there.

“I can’t,” Thomas finally says, and the half-hopeful look on Newt’s face vanishes. “I’m sorry.”

Newt sighs heavily. “No, it’s alright. We’d better be gettin’ back, anyhow. I’m sure Minho’s tearin’ it up out there looking for us.”

“Probably,” Thomas agrees.

The begin the slow walk back to the Homestead, Newt leading and Thomas following behind.

He thinks back to Teresa, lying unconscious in the Med-shack. He thinks about the dead Griever that Minho found, and the key inside it.

“Hey, Newt?” he says hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got to go back out there.”

Newt stops so abruptly that Thomas bumps into him. He takes a hasty step back, and Newt turns around, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Excuse me?”

Thomas gnaws his bottom lip and tries to put together a decent way of explanation. “Look…. You said that no one’s ever seen a Griever and lived to tell about it, right?”

Newt nods stiffly.

“Well,” Thomas continues, “the one Minho found is still out there, completely untouched. There’s got to be something there worth looking at.”

“You don’t even know where the bloody thing is!” Newt argues. “And besides, who says it means anything? It could just be the Creators tryin’ to screw with our heads.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Thomas says.

Newt sighs and presses his thumbs against his temples. “You’re quite the headache, Tommy.”

Thomas opens his mouth, but Newt shushes him.

“But, you’re right. It wouldn’t make sense not to go check things out. I don’t want you going alone, though. Take Minho with ya. And a few others, if they’re willing. And I want you back well-before sundown.”

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

Thomas flips the key over in his hands, the lettering barely visible in the fading light. He reflects back on the past few hours.

Minho led them to the dead Griever without a problem. The meeting afterwards with Newt also went well.

Except Newt hadn’t asked about Teresa. A small change, perhaps, but surely an important one?

Honestly, Thomas could make a list of different ways his actions (even tiny ones) could potentially lead to endless consequences, good or bad; but there were endless possibilities, and the point would be moot.

The only other difference is the number on the key; instead of Section 7, it’s Section 2.

And, for whatever reason, Gally hadn't argued that Thomas deserved punishment, even when Newt finalized the decision of making Thomas a Runner. So instead of spending a night in the Pit, he lays comfortably in his hammock, a light breeze rocking him to and fro.

“Hey, Thomas.”

Speaking of Gally…

“Yeah?” Thomas asks, and his gaze flicks up to the somber figure standing just at the foot of the hammock.

“Listen, I don't want you thinking that what you did was right. Going into the Maze is against one of the few rules we have.”

Thomas sits up, quizzical. “Then why didn't you say anything? You could've suggested that I get punished and I'm pretty sure Newt would have agreed with you.”

Gally shifts, the discomfort on his face obvious even in the dim light. The expression becomes pained.

“You kept Ben from being Banished. I know he's not really right in the head right now, but you kept him alive.” Gally shakes his head, and his expression smooths over into his usual look of stern disapproval.

“So, we’re even. Don't expect any more favors from me,” he snaps. He gives a half-hearted scowl and he turns to walk away.

Thomas lays back and fights the odd urge to smile. He finds that sleep comes to him with a strange, comforting ease.

He's up well before the sun. Well before the Doors have even opened. He tries his hardest to fall back to sleep, but his body downright refuses. Ben’s hoarse screams stopped sometime in the night, and the eerie silence makes Thomas feel like he’s being suffocated.

So he swings himself up and to his feet, leaving the key in his hammock. He rolls his head around, cracking his neck and relieving some of the tension.

Eyes still adjusting to the dim morning, he kneels down and feels for his shoes. He finds them, pulls them on, and laces them up.

He stands, humming a low tune he remembers hearing from Newt before everything went to hell on their mission to get Minho back.

He still has no clue where Newt heard it, and he doesn’t remember enough of the words to actually vocalize it, but humming works. It makes things almost seem normal.

Not that anything has ever been normal with Thomas involved.

He doesn’t think about what he’s doing until he’s already in the Med-shack, staring down at Teresa’s prone form. His vision has adjusted enough that he can see outlines and silhouettes, and she lies still on the bed, motionless as a corpse.

He wonders whether she’s actually asleep or faking it. 

He wonders if he should just sneak the vials out of her pocket now and go administer them. It would give Ben more time to recover. And Alby.

Then he remembers the beetle blades, and he knows it’s not worth the risk. If WCKD sees him, they’ll immediately know something’s up.  But could they see him in the darkness?

Probably. And they’re probably suspicious already.

Despite his best efforts, Thomas hasn’t been very subtle.

The floorboards creak behind him. He turns and knocks away the person’s hand just as they try to grab his shoulder. He snags ahold of their shirt and slams them back against the wall. The small building almost seems to shudder with the impact.

The Glader wheezes, the breath knocked from his lungs. Thomas struggles to make out who it is, his pumping adrenaline making it even more difficult. Then the Glader speaks and Thomas knows exactly who it is.

“What...the bloody…. hell, Greenie,” he hisses. Thomas releases him and backtracks the moment Newt regains his breath.

“I didn’t know it was you,” Thomas explains.

“What, so if it were anyone else, you’d have done it?” Newt quips. He snorts and shakes his head lightly. “You’re quite the oddball.”

“Don’t I know it,” Thomas mutters. Newt grins and slaps him on the back. He thinks Thomas is joking.

Newt goes silent for a moment. There’s a familiar striking sound of a match, and suddenly the room blooms with soft, flickering orange light. Newt is holding a small lantern.

“Gonna have a bruise on my back now, from how hard you shoved me into the wall. The handle of that machete dug right into my shoulder blade. Need to learn your own strength, Tommy,” Newt teases, undoing the strap of the satchel that holds the machete against his back and slipping the whole pack off. He rubs at his shoulder with the hand not holding the lamp. “So believe it or not, but I didn’t actually come here to frighten the pants off of you.”

“No, really?”

“That level of snark is just unnecessary.”

“I’ve been spending too much time with Minho, apparently,” Thomas replies. He leans against the wall, in the same spot he’d pinned Newt not five minutes before. “Why are you awake? And better yet, how’d you know I was in here?”

“Wasn’t sleepin’, and I saw someone sneak in here. Checked your hammock and I knew it was you.” Newt tilts his head slightly and drops his hand from his shoulder. “You were gonna tell me something the other day in the Homestead, remember?”

Thomas tenses. After a long, silent moment, he shifts so that he’s no longer leaning but instead standing at his full height, a vain attempt at pretending he’s in control of the conversation.

“Yeah, I don’t…. Could I just put a raincheck on that whole thing? I will tell you eventually, I promise, just...not right now.”

Newt visibly deflates, everything drooping from the look on his face to his posture. “Oh…. Well, alright, then.”

Thomas leaps to explain himself. “It’s just,” he glances to his left at a beetle blade perching on the wall, “I want a little more privacy. Just between you and me, you know?”

Newt snorts, but he no longer seems so disappointed. “Tommy, you will never have privacy so long as you’re in the Glade. Those little buggers watch us even in the bathroom.”

Thomas just shrugs, not knowing how to reply.

“But I understand,” Newt continues. “Tell me when you’re ready, yeah?”

“I will,” Thomas assures, and he gives Newt an awkward pat on the shoulder. Newt shuffles his feet, and when Thomas looks into his eyes, he sees that his expression is troubled.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas asks.

Newt hesitates, his eyes flitting from Thomas to Teresa, lying still and cold as a statue on the bed.

“Why are you in here, Tommy?” Newt starts slowly. “Even the Runners aren’t up yet at this hour. Why are you awake? And why are you here, with her?”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t really know. It’s kinda just where my feet carried me.”

Not necessarily a lie, but certainly not the full truth.

He continues. “She obviously knew who I was, so I wanted to see if maybe I’d recognize her up close.”

“And?” Newt says, eyebrows raising expectantly.

Thomas is the one hesitating now. He isn’t sure just how much to reveal. He starts carefully. “Well, I don’t...really know. It’s hard to explain."

Newt perks up. “Well bloody try, at least. If you know who she is, you might be able to get some answers out of her when she wakes up.”

“She looks familiar but not enough to spark any memories or anything. I just feel like I know her.”

Thomas.

He jerks back as if he’s been slapped, his eyes now locked on her face. She hasn’t moved. Her mouth hasn’t moved. So how is it that he heard his name in her voice?

A hand clasps on his shoulder and Thomas jolts, the shock of hearing Teresa still coursing through him.

“You alright, mate?” Newt sounds concerned.

“You didn’t hear that?” Thomas asks, finally tearing his gaze away from Teresa to look at Newt.

Newt furrows his brow. “Hear what?”

Great, I’m going crazy now, Thomas thinks grimly.

You can hear me? Good, that means it works.

Newt steps in front of him, blocking his view of the bed and the seemingly unconscious girl on it. His eyes are bright with worry and confusion.

“Thomas, what’s going on? What did you hear?”

“S-something outside. Must’ve just been one of the other Gladers or something,” he says. He’ll keep this new development to himself, for now.

Newt frowns. “It’s five in the bloody morning. Are you sure?”

“Yes.” If Thomas nods a little too briskly to get his point across, Newt doesn’t comment on it.

Thomas rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’m gonna head out. Being in here’s giving me a headache.”

He isn’t lying about that. He doesn’t know if it’s because of Teresa talking to him in his mind or what, but his head is pounding.

Newt follows him outside.

Thomas allows his feet to carry him, not sure where he’s going and not really caring.

Then he finds himself staring up at the treehouse. He climbs the ladder slowly, deep in thought.

This is where she comes when she wakes up. Whenever that may be, Thomas is willing to wait. Once he reaches the platform, he scoots over to the furthest corner, well out of sight from anyone on the ground.

Newt pokes his head through the hole leading up to the platform, and the rest of his body follows. He sits beside Thomas. He stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles, left over the right. He blows out the flame in the lantern and sets it beside him.

Both of them look off to the small bit of Glade they can see whilst sitting. The day begins to dawn as the sun rises. The Doors rumble open, but neither of them comment on it.

“You good, mate?” Newt asks. Thomas glances at him, but Newt’s eyes remain forward. 

“It’s peaceful up here. This place is fucked, man.”

Newt looks at him then.

“Language, Tommy,” he admonishes, but there’s humor in his voice.

Thomas snorts. “Yeah, as if you or Minho haven’t said worse.”

This elicits a grin from Newt. He adjusts, folding his right leg up against his chest and resting his chin on his knee.

The pose reminds Thomas suddenly and intensely of the old Newt and a very specific conversation they once had in the Scorch.

They were resting for the night, and Newt and Minho had been assigned to keep watch. Thomas, unable to sleep, joined them. The fire in front of him and Newt by his side kept him warm.

“Whatcha think, Tommy? Am I pretty yet?” Newt gave a lopsided smile, his tattered scarf draped across his shoulders like a shawl.

Thomas laughed, placing a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound. Teresa, Frypan, Aris, and Winston were asleep. For once, Winston was silent, not whimpering or groaning in pain from his injuries.

“Yes, you’re the closest thing to a beautiful girl that Thomas has ever seen,” Minho said, sparing them only a small glance before returning his gaze to the night sky. He lay across from them, on the opposite side of the fire.

“Oh definitely,” Thomas agreed.

There was a long moment of silence, then Minho spoke.

“It makes you think, doesn’t it?” he said softly. Thomas looked to him, to ask what he meant, but Minho’s eyes continued to explore the smooth landscape of the sky. “There’s so many places out there that we haven’t been to. Places we’ll never be.”

Newt pulled his right leg up and rested his head on his knee. He looked into the fire.

“I wonder if there’s anywhere out there for us. I wonder if Alby and Chuck are there, and all the others,” Newt murmured. Thomas stared at Newt. He couldn’t think of the right way to reply, so he stayed silent. Minho said nothing and continued to trace shapes into the stars.

The only response Newt received was the crackling of the fire.

“Hey, Tommy?”

Thomas blinks, and for just a second he thinks he can actually hear the hissing and popping of the flames. Then he looks at Newt, who is staring at him.

“What?” Thomas says, and he wipes his mouth. “Something on my face?”

“No, was just wondering when you planned on coming back, is all.”

“‘Coming back’?” Thomas repeats, bewildered.

Newt shrugs. “You’ve been off in your own little world there for quite a while. What were you thinkin’ about?”

“You,” Thomas says before he can help it. Newt quirks an eyebrow.

“What exactly about me has you thinking so hard?”

Thomas scratches the back of his head. “Well, uh, you’re...interesting.”

Newt is grinning now. “Oh yeah?”

Thomas begins to nod when he hears a sudden commotion. He stands, increasing his view of the Glade, and his stomach lurches when he sees a group of Gladers racing towards them.

When had everyone woken up?

“The girl, she’s headed for the treehouse!” Thomas hears Gally shout to someone. “She’s got Newt’s machete!”

“Where?” Newt says, and he’s quick to get to his feet, moving to take a step forward. Thomas grabs his shirt and pulls him back a bit harsher than he’d intended.

Newt gives him a dirty look.

“She’ll see you,” Thomas says in a low voice. “Then she won’t come up.”

“You want her up here? When she’s got a weapon? You don’t know what she’s capable of,” Newt hisses, disbelief and slight panic written in the wideness of his eyes and curl of his lips.

“We can catch her off guard this way,” Thomas assures quietly. He hears Teresa’s laboured breaths and the creak of the ladder as she begins her ascent.

He holds a finger to his lips to indicate silence and ushers Newt into the far corner, behind Thomas. Newt glares daggers at him, but he goes where Thomas wants him. 

“Be careful,” Newt whispers, his breath warm against the side of Thomas’s neck. Thomas ignores the way his body shudders in response and he takes a small step forward, trying to get just close enough to grab the machete from her once she makes it up the ladder, but far enough that she can’t see him.

He sees her hands come up to the platform, gearing to pull the rest of her body up. He lunges forward and steps on the blade of the machete, yanking it away from her and sending it skidding backwards. Teresa looks up, her eyes wide with alarm.

Before she can withdraw her hands and start back down the ladder, where the other Gladers are waiting anyway, Thomas grabs her wrists and pulls her the rest of the way up. She’s much lighter than he’d been expecting.

She makes a high-pitched scream of a sound, but it sounds like one of anger more than anything else.

“Let go of me!” she shrieks, twisting her arms out of Thomas’s grip and retreating into the corner furthest from him and Newt. Her face is flushed red.

“Might be best if we all calm down, hm?” Newt says, moving forward to be by Thomas’s side. The machete is in his hand, but he holds it down to his side in the least threatening way possible. He speaks gently, as if trying to calm a spooked animal.

But Teresa isn’t spooked; she’s pissed, if her expression is anything to go by.

“‘Calm down’,” she parrots, scoffing. “You take my only means of self defense when I’m in an unknown place surrounded by boys I don’t know and you tell me to calm down?”

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Newt assures.

“You were saying my name in your sleep,” Thomas says suddenly, butting forward. “Who are you? How do you know me?”

I’m just as clueless as you are.

Thomas takes an abrupt, stuttering step backwards, knocking into Newt’s shoulder. He hardly notices Newt’s exclamation of surprise, monitoring Teresa’s face for a shift in expression. Her anger has faded a little.

“How do you do that?” Thomas asks, a suppressed tremor in his voice.

“Do what?” Newt sounds annoyed and very confused.

It just takes a little practice. I can teach you, if you want, she says to him, and her mouth doesn’t even twitch.

“No. I want you to stop,” Thomas demands. “I want you out of my head.”

Why? What’s in your head that shouldn’t be?

None of your damn business, Teresa! he thinks, gritting his teeth to keep from shouting the words at her.

The sudden look of surprise on her face makes his anger falter. But what makes his anger plunge into distress is that he can’t just see her surprise; he can feel it. It lingers like a presence in the back of his head and gives him a sharp, intense feeling of vertigo.

You catch on fast, she replies.

He shakes his head to clear it, but it just makes the dizziness increase tenfold. He stumbles back, right into Newt’s chest, and he hears the hollow thunk of the machete dropping to the ground as Newt raises his hands to hold Thomas steady.

“Shuck, Tommy,” Newt mutters. “What’s bloody wrong with ya?”

Teresa is concerned. Thomas can feel the emotion just as if it were his own.

“Get out of my head,” he says pleadingly, and he looks up at Teresa. “Get out of my head.”

And she does. Her presence vanishes, and it no longer feels as if his brain is going to explode from being too full. Almost instantly the dizziness fades.

Newt seems to realize this and slowly eases up his support. Thomas rights himself. Newt’s hands fall from his sides.

Thomas points at Teresa, and from this close, he can see the way her body is shaking, the paleness of her cheeks.

It doesn’t deter him. “No more doing that. Ever. Okay?”

“I didn’t–”

“No,” he says. “No more of that.”

She purses her lips. Then she nods, slowly. “Alright.”

The climb back down is awkward, more so with all the boys at the bottom watching them. Thomas goes first, then Teresa, and finally Newt. As he descends, Teresa’s foot clubs the side of his head hard enough to make his ears ring.

“Sorry,” she says down to him, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Thomas reaches the bottom rung of the ladder and hops off, backing up to let Teresa down. She turns, and her eyes lock onto Thomas.

She’s mad at him. Or perhaps mad at herself. It’s difficult to tell.

Newt jumps the last three rungs and hits the ground, his bad leg buckling. He rights himself quickly, before Thomas can reach out to help him. He gives Thomas a fleeting and unreadable look.

“Alright. Gally, put the girl in the Slammer. I don’t want her taking off again, especially into the Maze.”

Gally moves to grab Teresa’s arm and she jerks away from him, scowling at Newt. “I have a name, you know.”

Newt smiles at her. “Well since you haven’t enlightened us on what that is, darling, I’m afraid I can’t use it.”

In all the time he has known him, Thomas has never heard Newt sound so artificially nice. His tone is mockingly sweet, and even Minho gives Newt a surprised look upon hearing it.

Teresa’s scowl deepens and she looks ready to lunge at him, but Gally is quick to begin dragging her off in the direction of the Pit. Thomas moves to follow.

A hand smacks into his chest and stops him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Minho asks, giving him a look of disbelief.

“I want to ask her some stuff. See what she knows,” Thomas explains. Minho shakes his head.

“Leave that to Newt. He’s the one in charge right now. With the chaos this morning with the girl, we’re late. I couldn't find you this morning, and if you’re wanting to be a Runner, then you have to have responsibility and the right mindset.” Minho gestures to the Deadheads. Thomas knows he’s referring to the Map Room. “Come with me. Gotta get you a little bit educated before we head out there.”

“Minho, wait,” Newt cuts in. “I have some questions for the Greenie.”

“Which one?” Minho says with a snort.

“Not the girl, I mean Tommy here.”

“Can it wait?” Minho asks. “You know mapping the Maze takes priority here.”

Newt’s expression darkens significantly.

“Yeah, sure ‘takes priority’ when it’s already completely mapped,” Newt hisses under his breath, and the bitterness catches Thomas off-guard.

“Have to keep up appearances or people will panic. Even more than they are now,” Minho answers lowly. He raises his voice then, looking to the small group of boys who remain at the scene. “Alright, back to work, you freeloaders!”

“Since when are you the boss,” challenges the kid who spoke up during the Gathering. The one who asked why they hadn’t Banished Ben.

Aidan, Thomas remembers.

Minho scowls and moves to step up to the boy, but Newt holds up a hand and approaches instead.

Newt towers over the boy. “Cut the shit. I am sick and tired of the attitude with you, and if you can’t learn to respect authority, we might have a bloody problem. Good that?”

Thomas blinks in surprise. Aidan huffs, then nods and slinks away. Thomas hears him muttering to a friend as they go back to their post.

“All I do is point out the truth and I get yelled at for it,” he says. Then he’s out of earshot, and Thomas almost feels a bit of sympathy for him.

Minho sighs and looks at Newt. “Look, if you want to follow us to the Map Room, go ahead. You can ask your questions on the way.”

Still, Newt hesitates. Minho rolls his eyes.

“Oh okay, I get it. Private conversation.” He jerks his head towards the Deadheads. “You know where I’ll be. Get the Greenie there within the hour.”

Newt nods, taking Minho’s orders with a willingness that made Thomas wonder why Minho had never risen higher in the ranks than just Keeper of the Runners.

“Come on, then,” Newt says, and he grabs Thomas’s arm. He drags him to the far corner of the Deadheads, taking a far loop around the Map Room as to not see Minho. Newt stops when they reach where the walls meet in that dark, secluded corner of the Deadheads, and he releases Thomas’s arm. Thomas remembers when Newt yelled at him back here. Was that really just yesterday?

It feels like a lifetime ago.

“You’ve got some explainin’ to do, Thomas,” Newt says, folding his arms across his chest.

“Excuse me?”

A muscle in Newt’s jaw tightens. “You and the girl. What was all that about?”

“All what?” Thomas asks, getting a little frustrated himself.

“The whole ‘get out of my head’ thing?” Newt looks exasperated. “What, are you two bloody psychic or some klunk?”

“Apparently,” Thomas mutters. Newt remains silent. He’s waiting for a proper answer.

Thomas sighs and rubs at his eyes. He has no choice but to tell Newt the truth, at least about the telepathy. Newt had heard everything, so any lie would be unbelievable.

But would it be as unbelievable as the truth? Thomas isn’t so sure about that.

“Remember when I heard that thing in the Med-shack earlier?”

Newt dips his head in a small nod and motions for him to go on.

Thomas shuffles, ducking his head to avoid Newt’s intense gaze. “I heard her. She was talking to me in my mind.”

“Alright.”

Thomas looks up, blinking. Newt’s expression is neutral, if a bit curious. But he shows no sign of doubtfulness.

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” Thomas says. “Why?”

“Tommy, we had our memories erased and we’re trapped in a giant maze that changes every night. Telepathy isn’t too terribly far-fetched.” Newt tilts his head slightly. “You think it was the Creators’ idea?”

“I mean, what else could it be?” Thomas says. “I just wonder if they can monitor it. Like if they know what she’s saying to me.” 

“What did she say to you?” Newt questions.

“Just my name and stuff. She told me she could teach me how to do it; guess they let her remember that much.” Thomas stops there, not including Teresa’s comment about what is in his head that shouldn’t be. That would raise even more questions.

Newt’s voice drops to a quieter volume. “D’ya think she’s with ‘em? The Creators, I mean. Do you think she’s working with ‘em?”

“No, I–” Then he stops and actually considers it. Is Teresa in on it all? Thomas wants to say no, because she got her memories restored at the Scorch Facility, right?

Except he can’t prove that. He never even thought to question it. She could’ve had her memories since the beginning the first time around and Thomas had had no idea whatsoever.

But he doesn’t know. And he tells Newt as much.

“I can’t say. If she is, she’s a good liar,” Thomas points out.

“A very good liar,” Newt agrees, voice distant and thoughtful. He hums. “And you swear you don’t recognize her.”

Thomas shakes his head. “I didn’t say that. I mean, I might. She seems familiar, like I did know her, but… I don’t know. It’s like the world’s worst case of déjà vu, you know?”

Newt nods as if he understands this completely. He shifts so that he is facing Thomas straight-on, their eyes locking. “S’how I was when I first saw you. Coulda sworn I’d seen you before.”

“Me?” Thomas says, surprised. 

“Yes, you. Opened up the Box and there you are. You looked so familiar. And honestly, I was expecting you to take off running. Hell, I was almost sure of it. We get boys like that sometimes. But you’re different from the rest of these shanks.”

Thomas swallows. “Uh, how so?”

“It’s hard to put my finger on, exactly. It’s just like...it’s like you know more than you’re lettin’ on, but…. Shuck, I don’t know, Tommy. It doesn’t seem like you’re a bad person or like you’re working with the Creators. Buggin’ hell, I trust you, and I’ve only known ya for about two days now.”

Newt takes a step forward into Thomas’s space. Thomas freezes instead of stepping back. Not that he would’ve gone far, what with the stone wall behind him. He tilts his head up to maintain Newt’s gaze.

They aren’t quite touching, but they’re so close that their breaths mingle, and Thomas can feel the heat radiating from Newt’s skin.

“Do I know you, Tommy?” he asks softly.

Thomas bows his head to hide the sudden flood of tears in his eyes. He exhales slowly, and his shoulders shake.

“I, I don’t–” He swallows to mask the tremble in his voice. “I don’t know, ’m sorry.”

A warm hand cups the underside of his jaw and gently coaxes his head back up. Thomas’s vision is a slight blur through his tears, but when his eyes meet Newt’s, it’s like he can see clearly for the first time.

“Do you know me, then?” Newt says, his voice that gentle, curious tone that Thomas hasn’t heard in so long.

Thomas blinks furiously in an attempt to rid his eyes of their dampness, but the stubborn tears refuse to go away completely. He wipes as his eyes with his sleeve, stalling but having no reason to. Newt is the most patient man Thomas has ever known. 

But he cannot answer in honesty. Beetle blades are everywhere in the Glade, and WCKD is watching them.

Then Thomas has an idea. Not a plan, per se, but an idea.

Without much thought of the potential results or consequences, he closes the gap between them and snakes his arms around Newt in a tight hug, pressing his face into the junction of Newt’s neck and shoulder.

Newt jerks and only hesitates a moment before returning the embrace with equal force. Thomas lifts his head and presses his lips to Newt’s cheek.

“The second we are away from the people who put us here, I will answer any question you’d like,” Thomas breathes. Then Thomas pulls away, steps backwards and out of Newt’s arms, and he smiles.

“Trust me.”

Chapter Text

Thomas rubs the leather of the harness between his fingers, nearly bowled over by a wave of nostalgia at the feeling. He had liked this harness. He doesn’t remember how he lost it before, but he’s adamant not to lose it this time around.

Just as adamant as he is not to lose Newt this time around. And Chuck. And Teresa. And Winston. And the rest of the Gladers.

Shit, he really has his work cut out for him.

“Ready to go?” Minho asks. 

“Yeah,” Thomas nods, yanked from his thoughts and suddenly bursting with energy.

Minho looks at him and he laughs. “Chill out, shank, it’s not all that exciting. It’s the same stuff every day. Trust me, you’ll get tired of it five minutes in.”

Except that’s not true, not by a long shot. They will find the way out today.

Which reminds him:

“On the way out, I gotta grab the key from my hammock.”

Minho gives him a look like he’s crazy. “The what?”

“The key we got out of the Griever. The mechanism with the ‘two’ on it.”

Minho’s frown deepens. “How do you know it’s a key?”

“I don’t,” Thomas shrugs.

Minho frowns. His voice drops to a whisper so quiet that Thomas almost misses his words. “Do you know somethin’ I don’t?”

“No, of course not. I’m just ready to get out there, you know?” Thomas hesitates, then, expression giving away nothing, he gives a barely perceptible nod. Minho’s eyes glint with something bright. He takes a step back and slugs Thomas on the arm.

“What are we waiting for then?” Minho asks. Thomas snorts and gestures to the door of the Map Room.

“After you,” he says, and when Minho jogs outside, Thomas follows.

“So,” Thomas huffs once they’re a few feet into the Maze, “which section are we exploring?”

“Well, the key-thingy has a two on it, and it was Section 2 that was opened the night before we found the Griever, so why not try and check around Section 2? Since that’s the section the Griever came from. It won't even be opened, but it's worth a shot.”

Minho looks at him, gaze questioning. Thomas just smiles.

“Excellent idea.”

Without preamble, Minho breaks into a sprint, and Thomas hastens to catch up. As Minho adjusts into a manageable pace, Thomas falls in step behind him, though he is careful not to fall too far behind.

The early-morning sun has transitioned to midday sun by the time he and Minho reach the Blades, the inner perimeter of the Maze with the rotating walls.

Thomas remembers barely outrunning them last time. As such, he approaches with caution, eyes locked on the key peeking out of the knapsack on Minho’s back, waiting for it to activate.

Minho slows to a walk as well, looking around in clear confusion. “That’s...weird. This is Section 2. This isn’t supposed to be opened today. It should be closed off.”

Then the key starts beeping.

It starts out faint, but Minho hears it just as clearly as Thomas does, whirling around trying to see it. Thomas pulls the key from Minho’s pack and both of them stare at it. Thomas walks forward, and the beeping becomes minutely louder.

He and Minho exchange mirrored looks of excitement and apprehension.

Thomas takes a few steps forward, and the beeping increases. He grips the key tightly in his sweaty hand.

“Is it getting louder?” Minho asks, voice a near whisper.

“And faster,” Thomas agrees. They continue forward, and the beeps increase in speed and volume until the sound is nothing more than a loud whirr.

Thomas finally pauses, standing in front of a large, gaping hole in the stone wall.

“This is…. I’ve never seen this place before. This wasn’t here before,” Minho says, his voice nervous and hollow as it echoes against the vast expanse of stone. Thomas barely hears it over the whirring of the key.

Thomas steps into the corridor, examining the layout of the passageway. He doesn’t remember it being this long. The walkway seems to go on endlessly, the far wall a good distance ahead of them.

Otherwise, it’s just like before. The stone catwalk leads up to what looks like a solid wall, and either side of said catwalk drops down into an endless void.

Thomas remembers watching a few boys get thrown into that void, and he shudders.

They progress without speaking, the whirr of the key filling the eerie silence.

About three quarters of the way there, Minho scoffs, gesturing forward. “It’s just another dead end.”

His voice booms, ringing out and bouncing back as if the words came from the stone walls themselves, or perhaps from something down in the chasm.

The idea makes him tense, and he doesn’t remember being this high-strung last time around.

“I don’t know…” Thomas mumbles, and right when they stop at the supposed dead end, the key stops whirring with a shrill click, and the wall before them begins rumbling. It slides up, and a row of several other stone walls also rise to reveal a large, perfectly round door that dilates, twisting open with a quiet hiss.

The Griever Hole.

“What the fuck is that?” Minho breathes. His fear is palpable.

Thomas moves towards the hole. Minho inhales sharply and rushes to catch up with him, eyes darting every which way.

Then, several feet away from the Griever Hole, Thomas halts, holding the key far behind him. Last time, the key triggered the Maze to begin changing as if it was night, and Thomas remembers just how much death and destruction befell the Glade as a result. Thomas shuffles backwards, not wanting to take a chance on accidentally activating anything.

He peers into the darkness of the Griever Hole, but it’s impossible to tell how far said darkness goes until they would reach the screen where they would enter the code.

Thomas isn’t sure whether his memory is foggy from the passage of time, but he could’ve sworn the hole was smaller last time.

Minho seems not to notice Thomas’s pause, for he continues forth, stopping only when he’s directly in front of the Griever Hole.

“Minho? What are you doing?” Thomas hisses, a note of urgency entering his voice.

“Look at this,” Minho says, turning to face Thomas and raising his hand. On his fingers in a goopy green slime.

Thomas pulls a disgusted face, and Minho wipes the slime on his pants.

“Grievers,” Minho states, walking away from the Griever Hole and resuming his spot by Thomas’s side. “I think maybe this is where they go during the day.”

“Then let’s get out of here before they realize what we’ve been up to. We’ll come back tomorrow and see what we can find,” Thomas says firmly, and he breathes a sigh of relief when Minho agrees.

The jog back to the Glade is swift and uneventful, and Thomas is positively buzzing with elation.

He didn’t trigger the Maze. Everyone would live to see another day.

Despite the fact that they’ll now be a day behind the first timeline, he’s glad the Grievers’ attack is able to be delayed, or possibly avoided altogether. It means he can actually come up with a plan.

No one is waiting at the Doors when they return to the Glade. Minho looks over at him, and Thomas blinks in surprise when he sees his own excitement reflected back at him through Minho.

“You realize what this means, shank?” Minho whispers gleefully. “We’ve got a way out.”

Thomas slows to a stop halfway through the courtyard and Minho joins him, furrowing his brow.

“Well,” Thomas begins, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead, “do we tell them?”

Minho hesitates, rubbing the leather strap of his harness between his thumb and forefinger. It’s clear he does this often, as the leather there is worn and discolored.

“It’s up to Newt,” Minho finally says, dropping his hand. “Since Alby’s out of commission, it’s his call.”

Teresa and the vials of serum flash strongly in his mind, and he wants to smack himself because somehow, he forgot.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice Thomas’s sudden change in demeanor, and he continues onward to the Map Room, walking at a leisurely pace.

Thomas trudges after him, keen to change into less sweaty clothes before he speaks to Teresa.

Gally and the boy he’s conversing with spot them just before they reach the Deadheads. Gally calls to them, “You two are back early.”

Thomas and Minho stop in unison and allow the two to jog over.

“So,” Gally persists. “Why are you back early?”

“We have to report to Newt before we can tell you about anything,” Minho replies coolly.

Gally frowns, opening his mouth to protest, but Thomas butts in.

“Could you do us a favor, though? If anyone else sees us and asks, tell them it’s because I couldn’t handle the strain of it and I got sick, and Minho had to bring me back.”

Gally quirks an eyebrow, mulling over the idea.

“I still want to know,” he asserts. His voice takes on a slow, joking tone. “But if you insist I make you look completely pathetic, I guess it’s no inconvenience to me.”

Gally looks up, meeting Thomas’s eyes. There are many emotions there, and while Thomas can see a veiled layer of doubt, he doesn’t see even the faintest spark of hatred.

“But you owe me,” Gally finishes seriously. He spins and walks away without another word.

The second Glader snorts, drawing Thomas’s attention. He vaguely recognizes him, something familiar about the impressive height, sweeping blond hair, and broad shoulders.

“He’s going to take that seriously, you know. If there’s one thing Gally’s good at, it’s making people look bad.”

Then Thomas remembers. This was one of the boys who stood by Gally when he tried offering Thomas and Teresa to the Grievers after the Glade had been destroyed.

Thomas tries desperately to put a name to his face, but he draws a blank.

“What were you two talking about?” Minho asks, a curious tilt to his head.

The boy shrugs. “Just the girl, and the fact that the Box hasn’t gone back down. He’s worried. We all are.”

“Just don’t be freaking the others out, okay Dan?” Then Minho pauses. “Dude, wait, shouldn’t you be running the Maze right now?”

Dan laughs.

“I thought Glenn or Newt would’ve told you. I changed from Runner to Builder. When the whole thing with Ben happened, I…” Dan trails off, eyes darkening with grief. He clears his throat and smirks, managing to regain his somewhat tongue-in-cheek disposition. “Besides, you’ve got the Greenie to take my place. No biggie.”

“Alright. Just don’t piss Gally off too much,” Minho teases.

“No,” Dan agrees, “Ben would kill if I made his boyfriend mad at his best friend. Anyway, I gotta go.”

Dan looks to Thomas for the first time during the whole exchange. He dips his head. “See ya ‘round, Greenie.”

Then he’s jogging away.

Minho bumps Thomas’s shoulder, chortling. “He’s right, you know. Gally really is an expert at making people look bad.”

“Then I’m just playing to his strengths.” Thomas shrugs. “Besides: it got him to stop asking, didn’t it?”

Minho slings an arm around his shoulders and grins. “Did I ever mention how much I like ya, Greenie? Cuz it clearly bears repeating.”

They make it to the Map Room without further interruption. They turn their backs to each other to undress. Thomas quickly changes into a set of clean clothes (though he makes sure to transfer his harness to his new shirt) and makes for the door.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” Minho calls after him.

“I’m going to talk to Ter– uh, the girl,” he replies, stammering.

“You sure you don’t want to come with me to talk to Newt about what we found?” Minho persists.

“Yeah, ‘m sure,” Thomas says. “See ya later, Min.”

He leans against the door and shuts it behind him, drawing out a long exhale. Then, a grin forming on his face, he pushes off the door and sets a brisk pace in the direction of the Slammer, his pleasant mood seemingly untouchable.

When he reaches the edge of the woods and looks out at the activity throughout the Glade, he finds himself wanting to go find Chuck.

After I talk to Teresa, he decides, continuing out onto the field of grass. Then he could find Newt and Minho and the four of them could discuss potential plans for the next few days.

“How did you know my name was Teresa?”

Thomas trips over his feet at the close proximity of her voice and nearly falls on his face. He catches himself, then whirls around, shocked to find that had just walked right by the makeshift prison, deep in thought.

He takes several steps backwards and sees her looking out at him through the bars of her cell. Her face is guarded, but under that, Thomas can still see her curiosity.

“What do you mean?” he asks, lowering himself down into a crouch.

“When we were talking in our heads,” she explains. “I asked what was in your head that shouldn’t be, and you said it was none of my business. And my name. You said my name.”

She pauses, trapping him under her inscrutable gaze. “How’d you know my name? I never told you.”

Shit, had he done that? He doesn’t remember exactly, but Teresa seems pretty sure of herself, and Thomas doesn’t know how to explain.

When he says nothing, Teresa continues.

“You remember, don’t you?” Her voice takes a tone of urgent excitement. “You remember things from before. You know who I am and who put us here and how to get out!”

“I— You don’t?” he finds himself asking. While it does nothing to defend himself against her claims, Thomas is too confused to care. The first life he’d lived, Teresa had seemed just as clueless as any Greenie who was sent up; but this time, because of the telepathy, Thomas felt like she had to have been sent up with her memories.

It’s the only explanation that makes sense. He figured that WCKD was suspicious of his knowledge, so they sent Teresa up with telepathy and her memories to keep an eye on him and report back. His knowledge was the only thing that could’ve prompted WCKD to give Teresa the ability to communicate with Thomas mentally. Because they want Teresa to spy, to gain Thomas’s trust and see how much he knows.

Or maybe he’s just paranoid and some other outside force made WCKD want them to talk telepathically. Maybe Teresa doesn’t know any more than any other Glader.

Either way, he needs to at least pretend to trust her. All he’s done so far is make her wary and suspicious, and he needs to have her trust if he wants to keep her from reporting to WCKD when they reach the Right Arm.

“Of course I don’t. Why would I, if no one else here does? Why should I be different?” Teresa says.

“Then what makes you think I do?” he counters. “And you are different. As far as I know, no one else here can talk to the others in their freaking minds.”

“You can.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s all I remember. I don’t know why they gave it to us or anything else, I only remember how to use it.”

“I don’t think I can, though. Maybe I can only talk to you if you’re talking to me?” he says, unsure. Because there’s no other way he could be telepathic when he wasn’t last time. WCKD had no way to give him that ability this time around, because by the time WCKD must’ve started getting suspicious, he was already in the Glade and relatively untouchable.

Coming up in the Box is where the second timeline began. Thomas is almost certain.

But what if it isn’t? What if Thomas only remembers it starting from there, and WCKD wiped his memories from before, just like the first time? What if the second timeline began long ago, when he worked with WCKD, and they took the knowledge away from him?

There are so many possibilities, and Thomas doesn’t know what to do. This timeline, despite it (seemingly) beginning like last time, has changed to the point where Thomas feels like he can’t rely on his past knowledge.

Thomas takes a breath, trying to tame the hysteria bubbling up in his chest, and he forces himself back into the conversation.

“…could try it,” Teresa suggests. “Is there anyone here who won’t freak out if I do it on them?”

Thomas thinks for a minute, then shakes his head. “No, we—”

Shit. Newt knows about it. He wouldn’t freak out.

Thomas sighs. “Yeah, yeah I think I know someone who’ll work.”

Coaxing Newt over to the Slammer is a feat in itself. 

I’m busy, he’d said. Minho wants to talk to me. I have things to do. It better be quick. What is this about, anyway?

Thomas had simply promised to explain when they got there.

Which he still hasn’t done.

Newt is seated beside him, legs crossed and an impatient look on his face.

“You gonna tell me what this is all about?” he asks.

Thomas looks at Teresa, giving a small tilt of his head towards Newt. She meets Newt’s eyes.

There is a brief, half-second of silence. Then Newt is yelling, springing to his feet.

“What the bloody buggering fuck is that?” Newt takes a few steps backwards, staring at Teresa with wide eyes. “How did you do that?”

Thomas looks at Teresa, quirking an eyebrow.

“I said ‘hi’,” she explains. Her voice becomes accusatory. “You said he wouldn’t freak out.”

“Excuse me? What the hell are you on about?”

Thomas interjects quickly, before Newt’s shock can morph into anger.

“Remember when I said she was talking in my mind?” Thomas begins. He motions towards Teresa. “We wanted to see if it was just us, or if she could do it with others.”

A frown forms on Newt’s face. “So you thought you’d bring me over here to experiment on me without even tellin’ me what it was about?”

“Would you have let us try it if you knew?” Thomas says pointedly.

Newt is silent for a moment.

“Probably not,” he finally admits. Then he scowls and jabs a finger at Thomas. “Regardless, I’m your leader and it’s my right to know these things. I could throw you in the Slammer with her if I so pleased.”

Thomas, who has known Newt literally since he can remember, knows the threat isn’t genuine.

“You know, your accent gets thicker when you’re flustered,” Thomas comments offhandedly.

Newt’s false bravado vanishes instantly. He opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. A slow blush creeps up his neck.

Thomas grins, and Newt’s blush deepens.

“You’re an arse,” he mutters, and he turns to walk away. Thomas watches him the entire way back to the Homestead.

“So it is just me,” Teresa says, and the sound of her disappointed voice cuts through the pleasant buzz in Thomas’s head.

He turns to her, smile dimming slightly. “Yeah. So, you choose to connect to people? Can you hear their thoughts?”

She shakes her head. “No. I can talk to them, but they have to actually talk back for me to hear them. Like how you did.”

He remembers the eye contact she made with Newt. “Do you have to be looking at them?”

“No, but…. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain,” she hesitates. “It’s like...I can talk to them once I establish some sort of connection. When I spoke to you the first time, it was after I heard your voice. For Newt, it was after I saw him. Just something that connects me to them. I don’t think I could do it with someone I’ve never met.”

Thomas nods slowly, processing the information.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Teresa cuts in. She slips a slender hand into her pocket and, in her palm, are two vials of blue liquid. “I found these on me when that Gally boy put me in here. I think they were with me when I got sent up.”

She sticks her arm through the gap in the bars and allows Thomas to take one of the vials. He turns it over in his hands, holding it up to the light.

This is it. The serum to cure Ben and Alby.

Its resemblance to the cure for the Flare is not lost on Thomas. He thinks back on how Ben looked after he got stung, how he showed so many symptoms that Newt had shown in his final moments.

The venom the Grievers have, it must be some mutated version of the Flare.

Because the actual Flare was incurable, and as far as Thomas knows, it doesn’t make you regain memories.

So that probably means WCKD invented a strain of the Flare that could induce memories, and it could be cured.

And Immunes can catch it, he remembers, thinking back to when he stung himself to get his memories back in the first timeline.

He wonders, with growing apprehension, who WCKD got these vials of serum from.

From the cell beside Teresa’s, Thomas hears a low groan. Ben.

“Tom? You alright?”

He looks at her, finally tearing his gaze from the vial.

“Maybe...maybe this was sent up for a reason,” he says, eyes flicking down to the serum before returning to Teresa. She’s frowning, confused.

“What reason?”

“I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on, but two of our Gladers, Alby and Ben, got stung.”

“By what?” Teresa asks, sounding as though she doesn’t really want to know.

“Grievers. They’re these huge creatures that live out in the Maze. So far, there’s never been a cure for someone who’s been stung,” he explains, feeling increasingly weird because he doesn’t know whether she genuinely doesn’t know this or if she’s feigning innocence.

But Teresa’s eyes widen in horror, and Thomas decides that there is no way she’s that good of an actress. She must truly not know.

“We should try it on them,” he continues. “Because either it works and they recover, or they’ll get Banished and die.”

Newt, predictably, doesn’t trust the idea with a grain of salt. Unlike last time, he is adamant, refusing to budge on the matter.

“We don’t even know what this is. This could be literally anything and your first idea is to bloody inject it into my two sickest boys?”

Thomas shuffles his feet, cowed by the sharpness of Newt’s words.

“Now just wait a second, Newt. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

Thomas looks up. Of all people, he’d been expecting Minho, who is leaning against the support beam in the center of the room, to defend the idea, but not Gally.

He’d seen Thomas leaving the Slammer and silently followed him to the Homestead, eying the vials in Thomas’s hands the whole time. Thomas hadn’t bothered trying to stop him.

Gally seems unaffected by the intensity of the look Newt is shooting him.

“Well, they could die, for starters,” he says flatly, and Gally flinches, clearly thinking of Ben.

“What else is there to do, though?” Thomas says, thinking back to what he’d told Teresa. “It’ll work, or they’ll die anyway. If we don’t use it at all, how long will it be before they get loose and attack some innocent kid? And then we’d have to Banish them.”

God, he makes it sound like they’re dogs. He hates it.

But it seems to get the point across.

Newt shifts his gaze from Gally to Thomas, and his eyes are searching for answers that Thomas can’t give him.

Just trust me, Thomas wants to plead. You’ve trusted me this far.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” Newt grumbles, shifting his gaze to the floor.

Thomas hadn’t realized he’d been looking at him like anything, but he tries to neutralize his expression anyway.

Newt groans. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. Alright, fine. Get Ben. We’ll do it.”

Gally leaves without another word.

“What about Teresa?” Thomas asks.

Newt gives him a dirty look. “What about her?”

“I…” He backs down at the fire in Newt’s eyes. “I…don’t know. Never mind.”

Minho snorts in the background. “You two are ridiculous.”

The three of them stand in silence, the Homestead’s walls filtering out the sounds of the Gladers outside working.

Alby is sobbing softly upstairs. Thomas thinks he probably has been for a while.

He wonders when Clint and Jeff moved him out of the Med-shack, and realizes it was probably when Teresa showed up and had to be taken there. They probably didn’t want Alby and Teresa that close together.

Though for whose safety, Thomas isn’t sure. The Gladers weren’t very trusting of Teresa last time she showed up, either.

“Hey Minho? A little help, please,” comes Gally’s gruff, straining voice. Minho pushes off of the support beam and jogs over to the door. Newt joins them, holding the door open while Minho and Gally maneuver Ben’s limp body inside.

Ben isn’t unconscious, but he’s not freaking out either.

That is, until he spots Thomas.

Then he’s shrieking, kicking Minho in the stomach and easily ripping himself from Gally’s lax grip. Thomas doesn’t even have time to move before Ben is tackling him, sending the pair of them crashing into a wooden chair and making it splinter into pieces under the impact.

Thomas yells as a fiery pain lances up his back, and the vials of serum fly out of his hand.

Ben lands on top of him on the wooden floor. He grabs the straps of Thomas’s harness while Thomas is still trying to regain his breath, and he slams him into the floor.

The pain in his back sharpens.

Thomas wheezes, only just starting to recover from the shock of Ben’s sudden aggression, and when he reaches up to push Ben away, his hands are easily knocked aside.

Then Ben’s ripping one of the daggers from Thomas’s harness, where they’re strapped against his chest.

With a rush of cold fear, Thomas frantically begins speaking, the words rushing together. “Ben, wait, stop, don’t—”

Ben goes to strike down, but Thomas braces his arms against Ben’s, stopping the blade scant inches from his throat.

When he makes eye contact with the stung Glader, he only sees blond hair and bloodshot eyes and black veins and crazed anger and Newt.

He hears screaming but he thinks it’s in his head.

Thomas is pinned under him, and his arms are weakening against Newt’s, who is pushing down with all his might.

Even as the blade starts to pierce the skin of his neck, Thomas is letting his arms drop and his eyes shut.

Because he can’t risk hurting Newt. Never again.

Then Newt, cranked out and positively roaring in fury, is being ripped off of Thomas, and Thomas’s eyes are flying open. He struggles to sit up.

Minho is attempting to wrestle the blade from Newt’s hands, along with…

Thomas pales. His breath, which had already been coming in shallow gasps, stutters and catches in his throat.

Of course Newt isn’t the one who’d attacked him. It was Ben.

Thomas knows this. Knows what he thought he’d seen wasn’t real; a flashback, a manifestation of his mind. And yet, despite his relief, he still finds himself unable to breathe properly through the panic constricting his chest.

He grasps for a necklace that he knows isn’t there, his fist opening and closing against the leather of his harness.

“Gally, get your arse over here and help!”

Thomas looks up, and his eyes meet Gally’s, who is staring right at him. Gally looks as stricken and terrified as Thomas feels.

Thomas ducks his head, chest still heaving for air, and his gaze darts around the floor for one of the vials.

There.

When Thomas looks back at him, Gally is already moving towards the serum, scooping it off the ground and rushing over to Ben. He looks over him frantically, Ben’s flailing arms making it difficult for him to find a spot to inject it.

“Just do it!” Thomas’s yell is shrill and breathless, barely audible over Ben’s screaming and Minho’s shouting. Still, Gally glances over at him, then grabs one of Ben’s thrashing arms and stabs the needle right into his bicep.

Ben goes still almost immediately. He slumps, and Minho curses, barely catching him before he hits the floor.

When the room falls into an uneasy silence, Thomas becomes aware of how harsh and rasping his breathing sounds, how his heart hasn’t stopped pounding from the fight, how anxiety and fear are still humming beneath his skin. And he knows he’s not far from plunging head-first into a full-on panic.

Minho, Newt, and Gally all look over to him at once.

Thomas averts his gaze to stare at the wooden flooring of the Homestead, his chest and throat burning. His shoulders and upper back throb painfully from his impact with the chair and floor.

Several seconds pass where Thomas tries to rein himself in, unable to hear past the roaring in his ears, when a hand falls on his shoulder.

He cries out, both from pain and surprise, his body jerking away from the contact. His gaze darts up, searching, and he finds Newt, brows furrowed with deep concern.

Newt kneels down in front of him, effectively blocking his view of Ben, Minho, and Gally.

Even just looking at him, eyes filled with clarity and skin clear of any black veins, has Thomas starting to calm down.

Even so, he leans away when Newt reaches out.

“Thomas, let me see.” His voice is commanding, though underlaid with sharp worry.

See what?

Newt’s words confuse him, and thinking about what they mean has Thomas’s breath coming easier and his panic receding.

Taking advantage of Thomas’s confused state, Newt reaches out once again, his fingers pressing beneath his jaw and coaxing his head up.

Newt sucks in a breath, his fingers dropping to Thomas’s throat. A stinging jolt of pain follows the movement, and Thomas recoils.

There’s blood on Newt’s fingers.

“Can you breathe alright?” Newt is suddenly asking, eyes darting all over him.

“Yeah,” Thomas manages, and the sound is rasping and shaky. The pressure in his chest loosens at the relieved look on Newt’s face.

They sit in silence for a long moment.

“Are you okay?” Newt asks, and the softness of it nearly makes Thomas crumble. Instead, he forces a smile, and he nods, pushing himself to his feet with trembling arms.

He’s shaking, and cold, and hurting, and his breath is still a little uneven.

Minho and Gally are gone, and Ben with them.

“They took him upstairs,” Newt says quietly, rising to his feet. “I think they’re going to use the serum on Alby, too.”

Newt is eying him, not even trying to mask his concern. “I should go get Clint–”

“Don’t,” Thomas cuts in, hastily. “It’s not so bad. See?”

He raises his hand to his neck and wipes the blood on his palm, revealing the injury. It’s shallow, and already the trickle of blood is slowing; not without staining the collar of his shirt, though.

Newt presses his lips together. “I wasn’t just talking about the cut, Tommy.”

Thomas frowns, cleaning his bloody hand on his shirt hem. While, yes, his back is still stinging and aching from his collision with the chair, he somehow doesn’t think that’s what Newt’s talking about either.

“What do you mean?” he decides to ask.

Newt looks at him for a long, long time. Finally, when the stairs creak signaling the others’ return, Newt shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he sighs.

“Thomas? You good, man?” Minho asks, walking over. He surveys him, brow crinkling. “You still seem pretty shook up.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas says tersely. Then he does what he does best: he changes the subject. “Did you tell Newt about what we found today?”

Minho takes the non sequitur in stride.

“I was just about to,” he says, “before you came bursting in here with Gally hot on your trail.”

Newt sidesteps to allow Minho into their circle.

“Yes,” Newt agrees. He shoots Thomas a look. “And if there’s no more interruptions, I’d love to hear about it.”

“What about Gally?” Thomas asks. Minho waves off the idea.

“He’s upstairs with Ben. Trust me, he’s more concerned about that than anything we have to discuss.”

Then Minho straightens up, slapping his palm to his forehead. “Shoot! Almost forgot; Gally asked me to go get Clint and Jeff. Y’know, to make sure Alby and Ben are alright. I’ll be right back!”

Then Minho is leaving, jogging to the door of the Homestead and slipping outside.

A few seconds of silence tick by, then Newt suddenly speaks. Thomas swallows against his dry throat, and the cut on his neck stings at the movement. At least he’s breathing normally now.

“I s’pose we ought to get you a new shirt, eh?”

“I guess,” Thomas says, and he follows when Newt makes for the stairs.

The upper floor is uneasily quiet, and Thomas’s gaze falls on the two closed doors beside each other.

Newt leads them past these doors without pause, then enters the room at the very end of the hall, a room Thomas has never been in before.

Newt opens the door to reveal a smaller room than the rest, with no bed or chairs. It is clearly used as a supply room, with individual piles of folded blankets and shirts and pants and socks and other such things. Of course, there is a very minimal amount in each of these piles.

“Go ahead and grab one,” Newt says. “There’s a few left over there.”

Thomas sifts through all five of the clean shirts, the majority of which are so old they are threadbare and dull-colored.

Eventually he decides on a plain, solid green shirt with long sleeves that looks like it will fit him. The color is faded, and the shirt has a suspicious, dark stain on the inside of the left elbow.

He unbuckles his harness and tosses it onto an old dresser. He then shrugs off his shirt, gritting his teeth against the drag of the material on the scratched and bruised skin of his back.

Thomas uses the shirt to wipe any new blood from the cut on his neck, then lays it on the dresser next to his harness.

When he turns to pull on the new, clean shirt, he hears a sharp inhale from behind him. He freezes, the green shirt clutched in his hands.

“Shit, Tommy,” Newt whispers. His footsteps shuffle against the floor, and Newt’s hands hover over his shoulder blades, just barely brushing the skin.

“How bad?” Thomas asks, voice catching in his throat at the close proximity. He keeps his gaze trained on the far wall of the room, but it does nothing to help the sudden pounding of his heart.

“Pretty bad,” Newt murmurs, fingers trailing down Thomas’s spine, his touch feather-light. “Definitely gonna have some wicked bruising. You’ve got some scratches too, but nothin’ too serious. I think the harness kept you from getting scraped up too bad.”

Thomas can hear Newt’s hesitation.

“I think we should have Jeff take a look,” he finally says, his hands retreating. “It’s not a pretty sight, and it’ll get worse over the next few days.”

Thomas takes a step forward to distance himself from Newt and quickly pulls on the green shirt. It’s baggy, hanging loosely around his wrists and shoulders, but it works.

He lifts the harness and finds himself staring at it, where one of the knives is missing. He shifts, ready to slip his arms into it, when Newt steps in front of him and tugs it from his unexpecting grasp.

“No point in puttin’ it back on just to take it off,” Newt says.

“Newt?” Minho calls, his voice muffled and coming from downstairs.

“Be down in a second!” Newt hollers, and he gestures to the opened door with his free hand. “After you.”

Thomas steps out. As he walks down the corridor to the staircase, he rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows.

They pass Clint and Jeff on their way downstairs.

Newt stops Jeff with a hand on his bicep. “Hey, let Clint check on those two. I want you to take a look at Tommy here.”

Jeff looks at Thomas, and his gaze immediately lands on his neck.

“Okay,” he agrees, and he turns to follow them down to the main floor.

Minho is sitting at a table in the far corner, in a chair that matched the one Thomas broke with his back. He pats the table and gestures to two other chairs on either side of him.

“Come, sit,” he says. “Well, not you, Jeff. We’re now short a chair.”

All of them follow Minho’s gaze towards the wooden remains scattered on the floor.

“What happened?” Jeff asks, his curious eyes darting between Minho, Newt, and Thomas.

Thomas sits.

While Minho explains the situation, Thomas is busy remembering the Griever ambush from their first escape, and how Jeff had died to save Minho’s life.

Thomas won’t let that happen this time. He intends to get everyone out, with no casualties.

Of course, that is almost certainly wishful thinking, but Thomas hasn’t gotten this far from being completely realistic.

Someone bumps him. He looks up, only to find Newt, Minho, and Jeff all staring at him.

“What?” he says. Newt’s brow furrows, and he looks like he’s about to speak when Jeff begins talking.

“I want to take a look at your back and your neck, see how bad it is,” he explains.

Thomas doesn’t bother protesting, mostly because he knows Newt would be pissed at him. Instead, he stands up and shucks off his shirt, tossing it on the table.

Minho whistles, and when Thomas looks at him, he gives him a wide grin and a wink. “Lookin’ good, Tommy-boy.”

Thomas frowns, and he replies without thinking. “It’s Thomas.”

Minho holds his hands up in a mock defensive gesture, scoffing. “Excuse me. Didn’t realize Newt was the only one who got special ‘nickname’ privileges.”

Newt snorts, and Thomas decides to ignore both of them, turning to Jeff for instruction.

“Step over here and turn around so I can get a look at your back,” Jeff says, and Thomas can see the amusement on his face.

He grumbles as he shuffles away from the table. When he turns around, so that his back is facing Jeff, he catches Newt surveying him, his gaze roaming shamelessly. Thomas’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t give in to the urge to fold his arms across his chest.

“Jeez, Newtie, be a little more obvious that you’re checking him out,” Minho says, loud and unabashed.

Newt rolls his eyes, completely unaffected by the comment. “Oh, please. I’m just seein’ if he got hurt more than he was lettin’ on.”

Except Newt had literally just seen him shirtless, like, less than ten minutes ago, when Thomas changed.

The implication that maybe Newt really is checking him out brings a dark flush to his face.

Newt smirks at the sight of it, and he mouths the word ‘payback.’

Oh. Because Thomas embarrassed him earlier. By pointing out the way his accent is more pronounced when he’s flustered.

Then Jeff starts poking at his shoulders, and Thomas decidedly focuses on the small jolts of pain instead of the wolfish grin on Newt’s face.

Minho carries on with his commentary.

“I do think you two would be good together. Maybe you could even compete with Ben and Gally for most disgustingly cute couple.”

Thomas is ninety percent sure Minho’s just trying to embarrass one (or both) of them, but a part of him can’t help but wonder if he’s been too obvious about his fondness towards Newt and Minho latched onto it.

“I don’t think anyone can compete with those two,” Newt points out cheekily.

Thomas opens his mouth to contribute to the conversation, but at that moment, Jeff presses especially hard under his left shoulder blade, and instead of words, Thomas yelps, lurching forward and turning his head to scowl.

Jeff winces at the glare. “Sorry! Sorry. I am done with your back though, you can put your shirt back on.”

“What do you think?” Thomas asks, slipping into the shirt and accepting the harness from Newt, pulling it on.

“Just bruises. They’ll look nasty, but they’ll go away in time. Any movement using your shoulders will probably hurt for a few days.”

Thomas turns around and motions to his throat. “What about this?”

“Let me see.”

Thomas tilts his head up and stares at the ceiling, and Jeff doesn’t touch this time.

“You know,” he hears Minho whisper from behind him, “he’s got a nice ass, don’t you think?”

“Minho,” Thomas and Newt say at the same time, with the same exasperated tone.

“What? I’m just saying! Damn, you guys don’t have to gangbang me like that.”

Thomas can hear Jeff’s barely suppressed laughter.

The stairs creak.

“Who’s gangbanging Minho?” Clint asks.

“Thomas and I, apparently,” Newt comments.

“We’d be the perfect threesome,” Minho says matter-of-factly.

Thomas feels Jeff’s presence retreat, and he tilts his head back down.

“I don’t think I need to emphasize how lucky you got with this,” Jeff states. “You don’t need stitches or anything, but I would like to clean it and bandage it. It’ll probably scar, but other than that, it’ll heal just fine.”

“A scar on the throat? That’s pretty badass,” Minho says. “You’ll be the most intimidating shank around.”

“Shut up, Minho,” Thomas and Newt huff, simultaneously. Thomas turns around, and he and Newt exchange matching grins at the offended look on Minho’s face.

It feels just like old times.

“So,” Newt begins, breaking eye contact with Thomas to look at Clint, “how are they?”

Clint shrugs. “Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’m pretty sure they’ll wake up, but I can’t say when.”

“And the sting?” Newt continues.

“All signs of it are gone, on both of them. The pronounced veins, the bloodshot eyes, all of it. The serum really was a cure.”

Thomas tries not to look smug; he really does. The flat look on Newt’s face tells him that he doesn’t quite succeed.

“So what now?” Minho asks, sounding serious for the first time since he brought Clint and Jeff back.

“They’re in stable condition. Nothing to do but wait ‘til they wake up,” Clint says with a shrug.

Minho whips his head towards Newt. “Now can I explain what we found?”

Chapter Text

“‘What you found’?” Clint echoes, eyebrows furrowing.

Thomas watches Newt and Minho exchange a series of silent looks, and Thomas knows both of them well enough to understand that Minho wants to tell the Med-jacks, while Newt does not.

Thomas decides for both of them. “We came across something in the Maze today, something Minho’s never seen before.”

Minho and Newt both look up in surprise, though Newt’s expression quickly morphs to frustration.

“Whatever happened to ‘I get told first’?” Newt grumbles.

“They’re gonna find out soon enough anyway,” Minho points out. “Once we tell you, you’ll want to hold a Gathering to tell everyone else.”

“Exactly,” Thomas says.

 He expects Newt to argue. Instead, he shakes his head and gestures with a small motion of his hand. “Get on with it, then.”

Thomas waits for Minho to speak, but Minho, and Newt, and Clint and Jeff are looking at him instead.

Guess that means I’m doing the talking, he thinks, wanting to groan aloud at the thought. He’ll have to be careful not to reveal anything he shouldn’t know.

“You guys remember how Minho and I and some of the others brought back that part from the dead Griever?”

After the long explanation, in which Thomas adds a small part about thinking the Griever Hole must be the way out, Newt tells them they’re to hold a Gathering first thing tomorrow.

Then Minho hauls Thomas off to the showers, with a nonstop flow of commentary about just how smelly Thomas is, even though he’s already changed shirts twice since returning from the Maze earlier that same day.

On their way to dinner, they stop at the Med-shack for Jeff to clean and bandage the cut on Thomas’s neck.

By the time they finally reach the dining area, Thomas’s stomach is growling loudly, and he almost feels nauseous from hunger.

Newt and Chuck meet them for dinner, sliding into the open seats at their table.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!” Chuck says dramatically, looking up at Thomas with wide eyes.

“Me too, buddy,” Thomas says, lightly punching him on the shoulder. Chuck goes to reciprocate the move, but Newt leans across the table and stops him just before he makes contact.

“Hey, we don’t punch our friends,” Newt says, a teasing note to his voice. He’s speaking to Chuck, but his eyes are locked on Thomas, a subtle tilt of his head to ask if he’s okay.

Thomas smiles.

“He punched me first,” Chuck pouts.

“Then he should apologize. Right, Minho?” Newt states.

“Yes, or I’ll punch him for you, Chuck,” Minho agrees.

Thomas can’t help but laugh, raising his hands defensively. “Jeez, okay! I’m sorry, Chuck.”

“Nah, it’s okay. You’re still pretty cool,” Chuck says, and he dives into his meal.

Thomas takes Chuck’s distraction as an opportunity to speak to Minho and Newt.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, lowering his voice.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Minho says.

Thomas shoots him a look. “You know how the Grievers are really only out at night?”

Sensing his seriousness, Minho and Newt both lean closer from across the table.

“Well,” Thomas continues, “that means that whole section we explored should’ve been closed during the day. But it was opened, cuz the Griever didn’t return. And that’s why you’ve never seen it before.”

“Makes sense,” Minho says, prompting him.

“Yeah. So, I think the Maze isn’t going to change until the Griever Hole shuts.”

“That’s a good thing, though,” Newt says.

Thomas eyes him. “It could be. If we use it right.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“I have a plan–”

“Oh no–”

Thomas speaks up to drown out Minho. “I have a plan, and I’ll explain it to you guys later. Deadheads? At midnight?”

Newt snorts into his cup of water, but he doesn’t object.

“Minho?” Thomas asks, looking to him.

“I’ll be there, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna agree with this so-called ‘plan’,” Minho says, doing air quotes around the word.

“Can I come?”

Thomas turns to Chuck, smiling. “Yes, sir. You’re gonna be one of our most important pieces.”

Chuck’s chubby face splits into a blinding grin, then quickly settles into a look so somber, it’s almost comical.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” he insists. “I won’t let you down.”

“You could never let me down, Chuck,” Thomas assures softly.

Two minutes later, Chuck stands up and claims he’s going to get seconds, bounding off towards Frypan and the rest of the Cooks.

A hand wraps around Thomas’s wrist, squeezing. He looks up to see Minho gaping at him and Newt frowning deeply.

“Whatever this plan is, it better not be puttin’ Chuckie in any danger,” Newt warns.

“It won’t,” Thomas says quickly.

“Or any Glader, for that matter.”

At Thomas’s hesitation, Newt immediately starts shaking his head, grip tightening on Thomas’s arm.

“Thomas, I will not endorse this plan if it means anyone getting hurt.”

“Just listen to it first, will ya?” Thomas says. “Once you hear me out, then you can decide whether to use it or not.”

Spectacularly, Newt’s frown deepens even further. But only for a few moments.

Then he relents, leaning back and releasing Thomas’s wrist. He folds his arms across his chest. “Fine. I’ll listen to your stupid bloody plan.”

“Hey, you don’t know it’ll be stupid!” Thomas argues, somewhat offended by the notion.

Minho snickers. “Thomas, any plan you could possibly come up with is bound to be stupid to some degree.”

“I told you his plan would be stupid!”

Minho raises his hands defensively. “I agreed with you, dude!”

Thomas stands there, allows them to process.

Newt hasn’t stopped pacing since he finished talking, and it’s starting to make Thomas anxious, seeing him this on edge.

“Can you think of anything better?” Thomas counters.

“You really think we can do it?” Chuck asks, eyes wide and slightly fearful. Thomas turns to him and places his hands on his shoulders.

“I do,” he says. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought we couldn’t. I swear.”

“You seriously think the other Gladers will agree to that, though?” Minho asks. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard, but you haven’t even been here a week. Why would they trust you?”

He’s right. But last time, the Grievers attacked and killed almost everyone tonight, and the Gladers still followed him into the Maze afterwards.

And if they trusted him last time, they certainly should this time. Of course, many Gladers didn’t follow him in the first timeline, but he attributes that to the amount of deaths, as well as Gally’s influence. Now, Gally seems to have no issue with him, and no one’s died.

He’s made fan-fucking-tastic progress, in his opinion.

“Because you’re going to be the ones to tell them,” Thomas says, the final clincher to his plan, and Newt very abruptly stops pacing.

Thomas goes to continue, but one look from Newt has him shutting his mouth quickly, his teeth clacking from the force of it.

The lantern on the ground casts them all in sharp highlights and shadows, and the effect makes Newt look breath-taking, even in his anger.

“You’re taking the piss,” Newt states flatly.

Thomas says nothing.

“You can’t possibly be serious, Thomas.”

“I am.” He pauses. “Being serious, I mean.”

Newt pinches the bridge of his nose.

Minho hesitates before speaking up, but his voice is sure. “You know, it’s not that bad of an idea. As far as I can tell, it’s the safest option we’ve got.”

“We don’t know that!” Newt argues. “Even Tommy said it: we don’t know whether we’ll have to deal with Grievers or not. Ben and Alby both got stung in the middle of the day, so who’s to say we won’t?”

“Then we can only prepare for the worst,” Minho shrugs. He steps in front of Newt, gaining his full attention. “Listen, I know it’s dangerous and I know you don’t want anyone to get hurt. But the sooner we get out of here, the better, in my opinion.”

His voice softens as he continues. “And I think Thomas is right. I think this Griever Hole is our only way out.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Newt says, though his protests have weakened considerably.

Thomas shifts his weight from foot to foot, unsure.

Minho doesn’t even have to look at him to notice his hesitation. “Spit it out, Greenie.”

Thomas starts slowly, wanting to make sure his points make sense and it doesn’t look like he’s making a wild leap, lest they become suspicious.

“I think there might be more to it than just going in and leaving,” he begins. “Newt’s right, it’s...it can’t be that easy.”

Minho’s giving him that look, eyes narrowing with that same skepticism he’d had when Thomas let it slip that the key was, in fact, a key. He’s well-aware that Thomas knows more than he’s letting on.

“What’s your theory?” Minho finally asks, but it’s less of a question and more of a demand for him to tell them what he knows.

Shit, he hopes WCKD hasn’t caught on as easily as Minho has.

“I think there will probably be some sort of password or maybe another key to unlock it,” Thomas explains. “I mean, it’s not like it’s just going to open, right? And...I have a hunch that it has something to do with the Maze and its rotations.”

“Oh, he has a ‘hunch’,” Minho says, his voice equal parts soft and sarcastic.

Thomas shoots him a glare.

“What about its rotations?” Newt asks quietly.

“Minho, didn’t you say that they repeat every eight days? They cycle. So–”

“It’s a code!” Chuck interrupts, gasping. “The numbers, it’s a code! Minho, what’s the order?”

Minho hesitates, gaze flickering between Chuck and Thomas, but he answers confidently, the numbers ingrained in his memory. “Seven-one-five-two-six-four-eight-three.”

“We should write it down,” Chuck insists. “If it is the code, everyone should know what it is so anyone can enter it.”

Thomas finds himself surprised by Chuck’s insight and he fights a grin, but he knows that he has failed when Chuck beams at him.

“Well, I’m not sure about you gentlemen, but I’ve had enough of Tommy’s insanity for one night. I’m going to bed.”

Minho laughs and says something in reply, and they all begin the trek back, talking the whole time.

The second they reach the edge of the Deadheads and step out onto the courtyard, a group of boys jog over to them.

Thomas holds the lantern up a bit higher.

“We’ve been looking for you for hours!” hisses Aidan. Thomas looks over his shoulder at Newt and Minho, but when he looks back, he’s surprised to find that Aidan’s eyes are trained on him.

“Me?” Thomas says, confused. Aside from Aidan and Zart, he can’t even put names to the five boys in the small group; what could they possibly want with him?

“We need to talk,” Zart says.

That’s when Thomas’s notices the look in his eyes.

A myriad of emotions. Slight panic, frustration, fear, but more than anything, a sense of understanding, and an almost defeated acceptance.

The look is reflected back among the other boys in the group, and then Thomas realizes why he can’t name them.

They all died the night the Grievers attacked.

And they know it.

But what triggered them to remember so suddenly, and all at once?

“Okay,” Thomas says, surprised by his own calm. He passes the lantern to Minho. “Minho, Newt, Chuck, you should go to bed.”

“Like hell,” Newt snaps. He looks ready to put up a fight, too, one that Thomas is far too weary to counter. But then Minho puts a hand on Newt’s shoulder and starts to lead him away. Chuck follows.

When Thomas meets Newt’s eyes, he only sees hurt and betrayal. Thomas looks away, chest aching.

Once they’re out of earshot, Thomas surveys the boys, letting his gaze linger on each one. “First, I want names. The only two of you I know are Aidan and Zart.”

“Well, I’m Frankie,” says the one in the front.

“Eric,” says the boy beside Zart. He gestures to the third boy Thomas doesn’t know. “An’ this is Jimmy.”

“It’s Jim,” the boy emphasizes, scowling. The irritated expression makes him seem slightly older, but he still looks younger than most of the Gladers.

“Explain,” Aidan demands. “We know you know. It’s why you’ve been acting weird this whole time.”

“Yeah,” Thomas says simply. He tilts his head. “But how do you?”

“We, uh...we’ve known since just after sundown,” Frankie says, clearing his throat. "Remembered all within five minutes or so of each other.”

Hadn’t the Grievers attacked just after sundown?

Shit, that should’ve been today. They’d remembered their deaths when they should’ve died?

“And it’s not just us,” Jimmy adds, glancing around. “Most of the Glade is looking for you for answers. But some people don’t know anything, so we tried to keep it kinda quiet.”

“Good. Keep it that way,” Thomas says, his sense of calm starting to fade. “No more talking about it. Not when everything we say is being monitored.”

“We think the only ones who know are the ones who...” Frankie trails off, but Thomas knows exactly what he was going to say.

We think the only ones who know are the ones who died.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

He’s got to get them out as soon as possible. Because if everyone is remembering the first timeline when it would have ended for them, when they were supposed to die, Thomas wants to get them out before more of the Gladers remember, lest there be a mass panic.

Because no one has died and that’s only because Thomas has changed things, and these boys all came to that realization pretty quick, looking for Thomas for answers. If Thomas had been the same, the timelines would have been the same.

But why is Thomas the only one who remembers everything? Why him?

“From the second you showed up here, knowing more than you should, things started changing,” Eric says softly. It reminds him of Gally’s words a lifetime ago. Except Gally meant he’d changed the routine of the Glade; Thomas knows that Eric is referring to the timelines and the deviations.

“Since I came up from the Box,” Thomas says.

“You didn’t run, when you came up. You didn’t run,” Aidan says, and for the first time, he sounds almost vulnerable. The statement cements the idea for Thomas that his arrival was where the timelines split.

And really, it’s a relief knowing that the second timeline began in the Box and not some time before.

“So what now?” Zart says after a long silence. “What do we do now?”

“We get the hell out of here,” Thomas answers firmly. “All of us.”

Thomas spends the remainder of the night in the Map Room, wired and alone with his thoughts.

Even if he’d actually been tired, he wouldn’t have slept. There are things to do.

The sheet of paper has been lying on the table in front of him for hours, and he hasn’t added to it in twenty minutes, mind frustratingly blank.

He looks over it once again, starting from the top.

Griever Attack

Eric, Zart, Frankie, Jimmy, Aiden, Clint, Alby,

Escape

Jeff, Gally?, Chuck,

Stayed in Glade w/ Gally (and died?)

Dan,

Scorch + Right Arm

Tim, Jack, Winston, Mary, Joe,

Last City

Ava Paige, Janson, Teresa, Newt,

He’s cursing his lack of thought in the first timeline to remember names. It’s making it a hell of a lot harder to compile an accurate list of deaths and times.

He knows, obviously, that more people died than what he has listed. But, for the life of him, he just doesn’t know their names.

He surveys the paper several more times and he’s unable to come up with any others. So he just stares, taking in the scrawl of their names.

Will it just be the Gladers who remember? Or will it be everyone? Will Mary remember her death if Thomas keeps her alive? Will Ava Paige?

Thomas obviously hasn’t had to himself, but he thinks reliving one’s “death” is probably pretty brutal. Judging by the look on Zart’s face when he talked about it, the vulnerability in Aidan’s voice, it must be a lot to handle.

Shit, he hopes it’s just the Gladers. If it’s everyone, on a global scale? That’s just...too much to deal with.

But really, Thomas figures, there’s only so much he can change between the timelines. He’s only one guy.

He props his elbows on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning.

I’m only one guy, he thinks, slowly dragging his hands up through his hair. I can’t fix everything. But I guess I can try.

“Thomas? You in there?” The voice is muffled and quiet, but it still manages to make him jump. He slams his knee into the table.

“Ah, shit,” he hisses. He rubs his knee as he turns in his chair, grabbing the paper and beginning to fold it. He stuffs it, and the pen, into his pocket. “Yeah. Come in.”

For a few moments, there is nothing. Then the door drags open, and a Glader steps in that he recognizes, but can’t name.

“Uh, hey,” Thomas says awkwardly.

“Hey,” the boy replies, giving a tight-lipped smile and pulling a hand through his loose brown curls. “Um, Newt said it’s time for the Gathering. He sent a few of us to come find you.”

“Thanks,” Thomas says. This boy doesn’t have the same stricken look as the boys who’d remembered their deaths. Which means he survived the Griever attack that killed most of the Gladers.

But shit, Thomas still can’t remember his name.

The boy seems to notice his struggle.

“It’s, uh, it’s Billy. I didn’t expect you to remember it, Newt only introduced us at the bonfire. I’m the Keeper of the Baggers.” The boy smiles, cheeks dimpling. “But, um, I think it’d be really cool if we talked more. You seem like a really good guy.”

Thomas blinks.

Billy continues. “You’re braver than every other shank here combined. And I think that’s pretty admirable.”

“Uh.... Thanks, man,” Thomas says, forcing a half-smile. He stands from his chair, brushing his palms on his pants. “So. Gathering?”

Billy jumps. “Oh. Yeah! Let’s go.”

The walk to the Homestead passes with no conversation between them, but every few steps, Billy’s hand brushes against Thomas’s, and by the fourth time it happens, Thomas knows better than to think it’s accidental.

But he ignores it, and when they enter the Homestead, Billy splits away from him to sit next to Zart, up front with the rest of the Keepers.

It seems that most of the Gladers are here already. Thomas scans the crowd for Newt.

“Ben and Alby are awake.”

“How are they?” Thomas asks, not relenting in his search for that familiar mop of blond hair as Minho stops to stand beside him.

“They’re not talking much sense, but they’ll be fine,” Minho says casually. “Gally and Newt are up there with ‘em, along with the Med-jacks. They want them down here for the meeting.”

The stairs creak. Most of the Gladers are too caught up in their own babble to notice it. When Thomas looks over, his stomach flips.

Ben’s skin is sickly pale and his shoulders are hunched, as if he is attempting to curl in on himself. Alby is nearly the same, except his eyes are up and out, scanning the sea of Gladers.

When he meets Thomas’s gaze, a wild array of emotions flit across his face. Surprise, relief, anger, and a haunted fear. He schools his expression, gives Thomas a simple nod, and that’s all Thomas needs to see to know that Alby remembers too.

Gally leads Ben to the far back corner of the Homestead, a gentle hand pressed to his lower back. Gally clearly has no intention of sitting up front with the rest of the Keepers, despite protocol.

When Newt weaves his way to the front of the room, Alby follows him.

“Come on, we ought’a get down there,” Minho says, and he gives Thomas a light shove towards the front.

The stairs act as long bench seats that slope down towards the floor, and they’re packed full of boys.

When Thomas reaches the bottom of the stairs, he finds a row of chairs lined up neatly. Zart, Billy, Frypan, and a few other Keepers are already seated. He grabs the seat on the far left, an empty chair between him and Fry.

He turns the chair around backwards and sits, straddling the seat and propping his arms against the wooden back of it. This way, he doesn’t have to worry about accidentally leaning too far back and exacerbating his tender shoulders.

The Gladers’ murmurs carry for a long time. So long that Thomas ends up dozing off, head pillowed on his arms.

Some time later, Minho finally just shouts at them to shut up, jerking Thomas awake.

“Is everyone present?” Newt calls. No one replies.

Thomas rubs his eyes.

“This is ridiculous. Since when do we have a meeting first thing in the morning?” someone grumbles, his rasping voice cutting through the sudden silence.

Minho falls into the seat beside him, knocking Thomas’s arm softly.

“This not interesting enough for you?” he mocks under his breath. Newt glances over his shoulder and shoots both of them a dirty look.

Minho stops talking.

“Look, this is important,” Newt snaps. His patience is already worn thin, that much is clear. “So all you shanks need to be quiet and listen for five shuckin’ minutes. Minho, get your arse up here, you’re helpin’ me explain this.”

Minho stands, clearly having expected to be called upon, and he moves up to Newt’s right. Alby is stood off to Newt’s left, blinking into the crowd.

“So. Thomas and I were running the Maze yesterday and we found something. A passage, one I’d never seen before,” Minho starts.

Thomas expects someone to interrupt, but it remains painfully silent.

“We checked it out and we found this big hole in the wall. We think it’s where the Grievers go during the day. And we think it could be our way out.”

Thomas braces for the explosion of protests and shouting, but once again, no one says a word. It’s as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

“So,” Minho continues, “we came up with a plan. We want to leave as soon as possible, and we want to make sure we’re as safe as possible. So we’re going to gather all the weapons we have, make sure everyone’s got something to use for protection. And we’re gonna get the shuck outta here.”

“And the code?” Chuck says from the first row. Thomas looks over, and he’s mildly surprised to see Teresa beside him. She notices him looking and gives a tiny wave.

Minho nods in acknowledgement to Chuck’s comment. “That’s another thing: Thomas and I talked, and we think just leaving is too easy. We think there’ll probably be some sort of password, and it makes the most sense that it’s the Maze rotations. And I know most of you don’t know the numbers, so we’re gonna write them down on everyone’s arms, just in case one of you has to enter it.”

Thomas hadn’t been told about that. He can’t deny that it’s a good idea, though.

“When, uh.... When would we be leaving?” someone calls hesitantly.

Silence follows the question. Thomas looks up, wondering why Minho isn’t answering, and he sees that all eyes are on him.

He jolts in his seat a little at the realization, the wooden legs squeaking against floorboards.

Embarrassed by the soft snickers rippling throughout the Gladers, he slings one of his legs over the seat and stands, but he doesn’t join Newt, Alby, and Minho at the center of the floor. He remains where he is, suddenly and unexpectedly nervous with all eyes on him.

He looks at Chuck, and it helps.

“Uh, um, soon as possible,” he says. “The sooner the better. I’d say we take the rest of the day to gather what we need, then head out tomorrow morning, soon as the Doors open.”

There are a few murmurs of surprise, but no one objects.

“We- we should spend the rest of the day preparing. Doing whatever we can to make sure no one gets hurt.”

He gives a small nod, signifying that he’s done with his contribution. But the Gladers continue staring at him, Minho and Newt included, and the scrutiny is starting to make his skin crawl.

The lull stretches on, and each additional second adds to his discomfort. He has to bite his tongue, literally, to keep himself from snapping at them.

Finally, finally, Minho scoffs. “For cryin’ out loud. Sit down, Greenie, before you hurt yourself.”

Thomas sits, cheeks flaming. Minho carries on speaking, going into the specifics of preparation, but Thomas doesn’t listen. Aside from a few additional points here and there, everything Minho’s saying is based on Thomas’s idea in the first place.

So he doesn’t bother paying attention. Instead, he looks down at the dusty floor and breathes long and deep, trying to calm his pounding heart. He has no clue why he’s being this affected by standing and speaking. He’s done it before, loads of times, and it’s never been an issue.

A small part of him wonders if it’s a psychological thing; having so many people, people who should be dead, looking to him for guidance.

Or maybe it’s the knowledge that they all know they should be dead, and it’s because of Thomas that they aren’t.

Either way, he’s just going to have to get over it.

Then Newt starts speaking, making Thomas look up, and despite the gruff reluctance and grumbling tone, it soothes him. Or perhaps it’s soothing because of the gruff reluctance and grumbling tone.

Newt glances over at him, meeting his eyes for a half a second, but it has Thomas sitting up straighter in his chair and tuning back in.

“-should have the Keepers and Runners in the front and back. Chuck and some of the other younger boys, I want in the middle for protection. Minho, you had a specific formation mapped out?”

“Yeah.” Minho clears his throat. “So, I want me, Gally, Alby, Ben, Dan, and Newt in the front. And I want Bill, Alec, Hank, Carl, Thomas, and Mike at the back. Everyone else will fall in the middle. But like Newt said, keep an eye on Chuck, Jack, Peter, Scott, and Jimmy.”

 “I’m not that young!” Jimmy calls out in protest. “And I can protect myself.”

“You’re younger than most of us, though,” Fry points out gently. “And we know you can protect yourself. Hell, I’m one of the older boys here and I’ll be in the middle with you. It’s not all about your age, it’s also that we’re the Cooks. We don’t know how to really fight, Jim. Lee, Clint, and Jeff are older, and they’ll be in the center of the group too.”

Jimmy slouches, grumbling, and while there’s still a fire in his eyes, he seems to let it go.

Newt and Minho exchange glances. But to Thomas’s surprise, Alby is the one who steps forward to speak.

“We can’t guarantee there will be Grievers, but I definitely wouldn’t doubt it. If it does come down to a fight, it won’t be pretty. We probably won’t all live.”

Shocked silence.

Thomas clenches his jaw, a sudden and sharp fury filling him at Alby’s words. How dare he make them more scared than they need to be? How dare he try to make them doubt their safety?

He finds himself standing, stepping towards the center of the floor, struggling to keep his voice calm. The words flow from his tongue with little thought. “I’d rather risk my life out there than spend the rest of it in here. We don’t belong here. This place isn’t our home. None of us chose to be here. We were put here, trapped here. Out there, at least we have a choice.”

“The choice to do what? To die?”

Alby says it so softly that Thomas barely hears it, and it’s likely he’s the only one who does, over the sudden chatter and nervous words from the Gladers. Still, Thomas whirls around on Alby, rage simmering under his skin.

“How dare you?” he hisses through gritted teeth, seething. He steps towards Alby, almost standing on his toes. “How fucking dare-”

“Thomas, you of all people know he isn’t immune.”

Thomas recoils sharply, breath catching in his chest.

Alby continues in a calm, distant voice, seemingly oblivious to Thomas’s reaction and close proximity. “I remember. I remember how bad it is out there. Sending him out there is sending him to his death.”

“No,” Thomas rasps, shutting his eyes tightly. But the protest is weak, because Alby isn’t wrong.

They left the Maze, and Newt had died. There’s no one to blame for that except Thomas.

A hand presses against Thomas’s chest, lightly pushing him away from Alby. “Everything alright, guys?”

The Council Hall suddenly seems far too tiny for the amount of bodies crammed in it, and Thomas needs out.

His gaze darts over the concerned, too-close form of Newt, who has wedged himself in front of him, blocking Alby from his view. Newt is already looking at him, eyes jumping from Thomas’s face to where his palm is flat against Thomas’s chest. Perhaps he can feel the rapid pulsing of his heart.

“Tommy, are you alright?”

“I-I’m sorry, I...” He forces himself to take a breath, to try to calm down. He needs to get his shit together. If he continues freaking out like this over every little provocation or triggering thought or bad memory, there’s no way he’ll ever be able to lead them through the Scorch.

His throat is tight, and his heart is thundering in his chest. He straightens, exhaling slowly. “I’m fine.”

Newt looks unconvinced.

“Are you sure?” Minho says, a few paces away. “You looked ready to rip Alby’s head off.”

“I said I’m fucking fine,” Thomas snaps. He takes a step back to get some distance between himself and everyone else.

A slow frown forms on Minho’s face, equal parts concerned and irritated. “Cool it, Thomas. We’re just trying to help, dude.”

Before Thomas can give his scathing response, a large, gentle hand wraps around his bicep. The hand is too calloused and too warm to be Newt’s, or anyone else’s Thomas can immediately recognize, so he looks over.

“We should sit down,” Billy says, quietly advising with a light tug on Thomas’s arm.

Thomas hesitates momentarily, gaze shifting to Minho, then Newt.

Minho’s anger overtakes his concern, shown by the narrowing of his eyes and the sudden tightness of his jaw.

Newt’s concern also seems to have vanished, but his is replaced with a blank, unreadable mask. For just a fraction of a second, Thomas catches a flicker of hurt across his face.

“Newt, I-”

“I’m with Thomas!” Chuck’s cry is sharp and loud, enough so that it projects over the clamor.

“So am I!” Teresa answers.

Slowly, one by one, the Gladers shout their agreements, feeding off each other’s enthusiasm until the Homestead is bursting with the cheers and whoops of vigor.

Thomas doesn’t join in the battle cry. Neither do Newt or Minho. After a long, tense moment, Billy relinquishes his grip on Thomas’s arm and slips into the throng of Gladers, who have stood and are making their way outside.

Thomas just looks at Newt, unable to get the image of his fleeting vulnerability out of his head. But what, exactly, had Thomas done to prompt such a reaction?

And Minho, too. What did Thomas do to make him so angry, so suddenly?

Aside from Thomas, Newt, and Minho, Alby is the last one to leave, calling out for the nearest Gladers to gather their weapons and other necessities.

The door quietly thuds shut. The Glade outside is active with the jest and energy from the Gladers, who are certainly not behaving like today will possibly be their last day alive.

“So, you and Billy, huh?”

Thomas pulls his gaze from Newt, already frowning deeply by the time his eyes land on Minho. “What are you talking about?”

Minho rolls his eyes so hard his head rolls with movement. “Shank, that kid’s got the biggest crush on you I’ve ever seen.”

Minho pauses to glance sideways, rethinking his statement. “Well, one of the biggest.”

“What?” Thomas says.

Minho pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning as if in pain. “Oh my fucking god. You’re helpless, Thomas. I give up. You can’t see the truth when it’s right in front of you.”

Minho turns around to leave, knocking Newt on the shoulder. “And you’re not any better.”

With a very Minho-esque flourish, he exits the building.

Silence follows his departure.

Thomas scuffs his feet against the floor, ducking his head. He has no clue what to say.

After a long, horribly uneasy pause, Newt sighs. His words are slow and quiet.

“So.... You really can’t tell that Bill likes ya?”

“Oh, I can tell. But we’re definitely not together, and plus, Minho’s fun to annoy,” Thomas admits. Newt snorts, and Thomas dares look up, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

“Not as dumb as you look, eh?” Newt says, teasing.

“No, I’m definitely as dumb as I look,” Thomas assures, unable to mask his smile. “I just get lucky and have these rare moments of genius.”

“‘Genius’ is pushin’ it.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Shank.”

“Dick.”

“Twat.”

Thomas’s stomach does an unpleasant little flip at that one.

“All jokes aside,” Newt continues, oblivious, “I really do think you’re pretty smart. You’ve got an awful big brain up there. It’s just, sometimes, you forget to use it.”

“Hey,” Thomas protests. “I use it.”

Newt stares at him, deadpan. “Thomas, sometimes I swear you only have one functioning braincell.”

“And I use it!” Thomas says, laughing. “One braincell can go a long way if you’re me.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Newt replies, and his smile is soft.

Seeing that smile, directed at him, of all people, gives Thomas the urge to grab Newt tight and never let him go.

“We should go outside to help the others, shouldn’t we?” Thomas sighs instead, redirecting the conversation to a safer, more down-to-business mood.

“Probably,” Newt agrees.

They remain standing in silence for a moment longer, and Thomas’s fingers twitch, fighting against the impulse to reach out.

Newt gives him one last, fleeting smile, then turns to leave.

Thomas follows.

“No, look. Watch what I’m doing, Gally. Dan, come at me.”

Dan backpedals several steps, then breaks into a sprint towards Minho. Minho dodges out of the way gracefully, even thrusting his hands out to demonstrate that, if he’d been holding a spear, he would have done some damage.

Gally huffs a sigh. “I’m heavier than you, Minho. I can’t move that fast.”

Thomas smiles a little. He remembers what Vince taught him in gun training, how Thomas had the exactly opposite problem than Gally.

“You want to know why you keep missing?”

Thomas handed the pistol over to Vince and shook out the vibrations from his arms. “Well, yeah.”

Vince took a stance beside him, spreading his legs further apart than Thomas’s had been, his body a solid line of muscle.

“You’re not grounding yourself,” Vince explained. “You need to plant your feet, anchor into the ground. It’s not just about how steady you hold the gun. Once we move you to the heavier artillery, you’re gonna hurt your shoulder and get knocked on your ass from the kickback, you keep standing the way you are. And you’re sure as shit not going to hit anything. Plant your feet. Anchor your body.”

Vince raised the pistol and fired, hitting the target just shy of the center.

Thomas had slowly gotten better after that, but his first time with Harriet’s shotgun did indeed knock him flat on his ass, and Frypan and Newt had laughed at him for it.

He clears his throat, stepping forward from where he’d just been observing. Gally turns to him.

“Actually, I don’t think it’s about your size so much. You’re anchoring your feet. That would be great in wrestling, so you don’t get knocked down, but we’re more trying to avoid the Grievers. We’ll fight them if we have to, and you’ll want to plant your feet for that, but when you’re trying to evade, you’ve gotta be lighter on your toes.”

Thomas walks over to Dan, clapping him on the shoulder. “Go take a break. Minho, I want you to come at me.”

“Hey, you don’t gotta tell me twice,” Dan says, wiping the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. His long hair is tied up into a bun, but a few strands have come loose, sticking to his dirty face.

He walks towards the sideline, plopping down beside Gally and taking a long chug from his water bottle.

Gally folds his arms across his chest, looking unimpressed, but also curious. He motions towards Thomas, smirking a little. “Show me how it’s done, Greenie.”

Thomas snorts, but he turns to face Minho, inhaling deeply. When he exhales, he allows the weight to stay in his chest instead of dropping back down into his abdomen. He centers himself over the balls of his feet, his heels just brushing the ground.

He gives Minho a small nod.

Minho starts at a jog and quickly increases to a full sprint. Just when he seems close enough to reach out and grab him, Thomas springs to the side, pretending to jab an imaginary spear the same way Minho had done.

Minho slows himself to a halt, jogging back over.

“Hey, not bad, Greenie,” he says, slightly breathless but grinning just the same.

“‘Not bad’?” Dan calls. “Minho, his form is better than yours!”

“Is not!” Minho cries, sounding offended. But he’s still smiling, and he pats Thomas on the chest as he walks over to grab a drink himself.

“Yeah, it was good, but I don’t get how you’re dodging that fast,” Gally says. “You guys make it look easy.”

Thomas laughs a little, shaking his head. “For some people, it comes naturally, trust me. Come here, I’ll show you what I’m doing.”

As Thomas fixes Gally’s stance, he overhears Dan’s whispered, “Did you teach him that?”

“Nope,” Minho says cheerily, not even trying to keep his voice down.

“Don’t spread your legs so much,” Thomas corrects. “And bring your weight forward, just a little. See? Your body naturally centers itself.”

“Feels weird,” Gally grunts.

“That’s how you know you’re doing it right. Once you get used to it, it becomes second nature.”

Thomas straightens up, taking a few steps back to survey Gally’s form. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“You’re angling your shoulders. You’re telegraphing which way you plan to go. Face straight on. And make sure you wait ‘til the last possible second to dodge. You want to surprise me.”

Thomas watches as Gally adjusts his upper body, nodding in approval. “Hey, Minho, try him now. I think he’s got it.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Minho says, standing and tossing his water bottle to Dan.

When Minho charges him, Gally darts out of the way. He moves a little too early, his feet drag, and he’s still angling his shoulder, but it’s definitely an improvement.

“Hey Thomas!”

Thomas looks up to see Chuck jogging over, eyes bright.

“What’s up, man?” Thomas asks. Chuck stops beside him, panting a little.

“Clint told me this was yours. He disinfected it and everything.” Chuck holds his hand out, displaying Thomas’s missing dagger, the one Ben tried to kill him with.

Thomas takes it, murmurs his thanks, and he clasps it back onto his harness.

Chuck shuffles his feet a little, suddenly looking nervous, and Thomas frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

“Can you show me how to do that?” Chuck says, motioning towards Minho and Gally and looking up with hopeful eyes. “I saw you do it and you’re really good!”

Thomas ruffles Chuck’s hair, earning a swat on the arm. “Sure, bud.”

The Gladers eat dinner around a roaring bonfire, much like the one that greeted Thomas on his first night in the Glade.

The Gladers aren’t as loud and cheery as they had been the night of Thomas’s arrival, though. They’re quieter, clustered in small groups and chatting. The occasional bark of laughter cuts through the air, but it’s mostly just the murmur of voices and the crackle of the fire.

Thomas starts to lean back against the log behind him, and he remembers with a small jolt of pain why that’s a bad idea. Instead, he pulls his legs up and leans forward onto them, propping his chin on his knee and staring into the flames.

It’s funny, the fire. The sun hasn’t really even started setting yet. It’s plenty bright out, and the fire seems unnecessarily. Still, he sort of likes it.

“Hey, Thomas?”

Thomas looks up, blinking. Ben stops with a large gap still between them, his eyes darting everywhere except for Thomas.

“Yeah?” Thomas says.

Ben clears his throat, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he sighs, deeply. “Look, I.... I just wanted to apologize.”

Thomas is shaking his head before Ben can even finish. “You don’t have to. You were stung. It wasn’t your fault.”

Ben shifts his weight from foot to foot, and Thomas sort of wants to ask him to sit, but he also doesn’t want Ben to be more uncomfortable than he clearly is.

“I saw you,” Ben whispers. Thomas sighs.

“Look. I don’t know exactly what you saw,” he says, lying through his teeth, “but I’m not that guy anymore.”

Understatement of the year.

But Ben nods, slowly. He smiles, but it’s brittle. “Yeah, I guess not. Now that you’re here, you’re one of us, right?”

“Right,” Thomas agrees. “Hey, we good, man?”

“Yeah,” Ben says. He brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck. “Just...be careful.”

He walks away without another word, slipping back into a group consisting of Gally, Newt, Winston, Dan, and some kid Thomas doesn’t know the name of.

As Ben sits back down, Newt looks over, catching Thomas’s gaze.

Newt leans towards Winston, says something that Thomas doesn’t catch. Then he stands, stretches, and walks over to Thomas.

Thomas looks into the fire to keep himself from staring.

“You’re all sweaty.”

“Yeah,” Thomas agrees. “Been busy?”

Newt hums, settling down beside him. “A little. Mostly just cataloging our weapons.”

“And?” Thomas asks, gaze breaking away from the fire to look at Newt.

“It’s not the weapons I’m worried about,” Newt sighs. “We could have the world’s biggest arsenal here and I’d still be worried.”

“We’ll be okay,” Thomas assures. He sees Newt picking at the skin around his thumbnail, and he rests his hand over Newt’s to stop him.

Newt glances up at him, biting his lip. “You think so?”

Thomas hesitates a little, not wanting to get Newt’s hopes up too high. “I mean, there’s always that possibility of it going sideways, you know? But I don’t agree with Alby. I think we’ve got the advantage in numbers.”

Newt sighs deeply, gaze falling to his lap, leaning back against the log behind them.

“People are going to die,” he says softly.

“Probably,” Thomas agrees. He squeezes Newt’s hand. “But we’re gonna do our best, alright?”

Newt looks at him, the reflection of the fire dancing in his eyes.

“You’re a good man, Thomas,” he says, freeing his hand from Thomas’s to reach over and gently pat his shoulder.

Thomas takes a sip of his water, feeling a little overheated from the bonfire and Newt beside him.

He takes a moment to look at the numbers drawn on his forearm, a little bit smudged from sweat, but entirely legible.

Seven-one-five-two-six-four-eight-three. Thomas repeats them under his breath, a rhythmic mantra in his head.

“Newt?”

When Newt turns towards the voice, Thomas turns as well, not liking the note of worry he hears.

Aidan hesitates, clearing his throat. “It’s Alby. I went to ask him something, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

Thomas sits up straighter, frowning. “You check the Homestead?”

“Yeah,” Aidan says. “Checked each room. Nothing.”

“Where all did you look?” Thomas persists. Newt gives him an odd look.

“Tommy, he’s a big boy. He can go wherever he likes.”

Thomas keeps his gaze on Aidan.

Aidan huffs, wringing his hands. “I checked ‘round here, the Homestead, the Med-shack, and the kitchens.”

“Did you look in the Deadheads?”

Aidan shakes his head. “Figured there’d be no point. The sun is going to set soon, and the woods is pretty big.”

Thomas stands. “Then we ought to find him before it gets dark.”

Newt grumbles, but Thomas offers him a hand to help him to his feet. Newt accepts it, shaking his head in exasperation.

“Alby’s fine, I’m tellin’ you,” he says.

“Well, you can tell me again when we find him,” Thomas says pointedly, then he sets off towards the Deadheads.

“Thomas, wait!”

Thomas stops, allowing Chuck to catch up with them.

“Where are you going?” Chuck asks, cocking his head a little.

“To look for Alby, apparently,” Newt says.

“Can I come?” Chuck asks. “I can help.”

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas replies. He turns to Aidan. “Go check the treehouse. And the Map Room. We’re going to check the woods.”

Aidan hesitates. “You’re worried about him.”

“Hopefully, there’s no reason to be,” Thomas says, sighing. Aidan nods, then sets off in the opposite direction.

Thomas glances at Newt, then Chuck. “Come on, let’s go.”

Newt falls into step beside him. “So you don’t want to recruit anyone else for this ‘search’?”

Thomas frowns at him. “I don’t want people to panic. And I know you think I’m being ridiculous, but come on. He hasn’t been the same since he was stung and you know it.”

Newt goes quiet for a long while, not speaking again until they’re several feet into the woods. “That may be true, but he’s still my friend. I trust him.”

Thomas raises his hands defensively. “I know you do. I’m not saying we shouldn’t trust him, I’m just saying I have a right to be worried.”

Thomas frowns, realizes the telltale crunch of leaves underfoot isn’t a loud as before. He stops.

“Chuck, buddy, you coming?” he says, gesturing in front of him. He starts to turn, frowning. “Why’d you-”

Thomas stops, his heart sinking.

Chuck’s skin has gone deathly pale, his face drawn tight in terror. He is staring at some distant point over Thomas’s shoulder, his gaze vacant.

“Chuck?” Thomas asks, his voice too loud and too uneasy and Newt abruptly turns around.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asks. Then he goes tense and quiet beside Thomas.

In the silence, Chuck’s quietly hitching breath sounds like harsh wheezing.

No one utters a word as Chuck reaches up and presses his palm against his chest. Exactly, exactly where he’d been shot.

Then his eyes meet Thomas’s, and there is a sudden gleam, a knowledge that hadn’t been there a few moments ago.

“Thomas,” Chuck says, voice small and scared and devastated.

“Shit,” Thomas breathes; an agreement.

They stare at each other.

Thomas’s mind is a void, blank and empty except for a faint ringing. He’s still trying to form a rational sentence when tears start spilling from Chuck’s eyes and his lips twist and he rips his gaze from Thomas’s to stare at the ground.

The sudden lack of eye contact pulls Thomas out of his head so sharply that feels disconnected from reality, faint and swaying on his feet.

Chuck, he tries to say, but his breath stutters in his chest and the word dies before it even reaches his throat.

“Chuckie? Alright, mate?” Newt says, soft and gentle and coaxing. Thomas hears the crunch of leaves, the sound of Newt stepping forward, and Chuck shrinks back. The steps halt immediately, and Chuck’s shoulder relax a fraction, but that doesn’t stop the way they shake.

His words are broken and thick with tears when he starts to speak. “I...I should be–”

“Well you’re not,” Thomas says. His voice is steady and cold, and he hears it echo in his head as if someone else had spoken, someone very far away. His back is suddenly ramrod straight, and while he is no longer lightheaded, the dazed, out-of-body feeling remains.

Then Chuck gives up on any pretense of keeping it together. A sob punches from his chest loud enough to make Thomas jump, and the jolt brings him back to himself fully, snapping him from his dissociated state.

A breath rushes from his lungs and he all but staggers forward to haul Chuck into his arms.

He mutters nonsense into Chuck’s curls; “you’re safe” and “it’s okay” and “I’m here, I’m right here.”

Chuck nearly deafens him with a broken, anguished wail, but Thomas just holds him tighter, clenching his jaw against the growing lump in his throat and the slight blur in his vision.

Chuck’s cry dies down with a series of gasps and hiccups, and he presses his face into Thomas’s chest, muffling his sounds considerably.

“You’re okay, Chuck, it’s okay. I won’t let it happen, I swear I won’t.”

It’s a promise he’s going to keep, because right now, nothing else matters.

Chapter Text

By the time Chuck has calmed down, Thomas’s back is aching and stinging from Chuck’s tight hold. It’s not quite dark yet, but the sun is just beginning to disappear below the West Wall.

“Sun’s goin’ down,” Newt says quietly, the first time he’s spoken since Chuck’s breakdown. “You still wantin’ to look for Alby?”

Thomas shakes his head a little, shifting on stiff legs. “No. I’m sure Aidan found him, anyway.”

Newt approaches slowly, and Chuck’s grip around Thomas tightens a fraction.

“It’s just Newt,” Thomas soothes.

Newt smiles a little. “Hey, Chuckie, how about we get you to the Homestead? Let you sleep in a real bed, yeah?”

Chuck sniffles, then his grip around Thomas drops completely. He brings his hands up to rub his eyes.

“That sounds good,” he says, his voice rough.

Newt steps closer, and when Chuck doesn’t react badly, he places a gentle arm around his shoulders and starts to guide him back towards the Homestead.

Thomas follows behind, his shirt wet with tears and snot, and his mind sluggish with exhaustion.

He barely remembers the walk back. Just that they’re suddenly in the Homestead, in the same room Thomas had woken up in after his night in the Maze. Chuck is lying down, curled on the bed, and Newt murmurs something about getting a good night’s sleep.

“We’ll be by the bonfire, if you need anything,” Newt says. He leaves the lamp on as he walks away, gesturing for Thomas to step outside. Thomas does, and Newt follows him, shutting the door quietly as he steps into the hall.

Almost immediately, Newt’s hands are on his hips and he’s frowning at Thomas.

“Look—” Thomas begins, but Newt cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I’m not going to ask questions,” he says. “I was just going to say that you also look like you could use some decent sleep.”

Thomas sags.

“But,” Newt continues, his gaze scrutinizing, “I think we ought to see if Aidan found Alby first. I’m sure he’s fine, but I think you’ll sleep better knowing for sure.”

Newt leads him downstairs and back outside.

The sun has begun to dip down behind the far wall, and the Glade is awash with an almost golden tint. The bonfire is still blazing, but now it’s larger and most of the boys have gathered into a circle nearby, whooping and rooting Gally on.

“He shouldn’t be wasting his strength,” Thomas says, frowning. Newt bumps his shoulder.

“Let them have their fun.”

Thomas scoffs, then spots Aidan’s red hair on the outskirts of the circle and he makes his way over.

Thomas grabs his shoulder and tugs him around. Aidan seems surprised at first, then not so much, shrugging Thomas’s hand off.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

“Did you find Alby?”

Aidan’s hostility quickly disappears. He shuffles his feet, gaze flicking away from Thomas’s. “I, um, I thought you guys did.”

“Which means no, you didn’t.”

Aidan doesn’t reply, and Thomas sighs heavily, turning away and pacing back over to the fire, sitting down on the log.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Newt says, but even he is starting to sound hesitant.

Skin crawling, Thomas stands right back up, rubbing his face. “I’m going to walk around a little. I just need a minute.”

Newt nods. “I’ll be here.”

Thomas manages a small smile, then he sets off towards the Gardens. He breezes right past them and continues walking until he’s a few feet from the wall. He follows it, allowing his feet to carry him and his mind to wander.

Alby is missing.

He’s either hidden away somewhere or he’s long gone. Thomas wouldn’t be surprised if they found the tattered remains of his clothes tomorrow in the Maze.

Maybe Alby was just never meant to be saved.

It’s not a thought Thomas likes, so he switches gears to Chuck.

Chuck remembers.

Thomas knows that he’ll never be the same, innocent Chuck that he was before. Hell, there’s even the possibility that remembering his death is what drove Alby to do this vanishing act.

Maybe I’m just making it worse.

Thomas drags his fingers through his hair roughly, nearing on painful. He lowers a hand to press it against his side, where there should be an old, round scar and a faint ache.

Instead there’s only phantom pain, remembered pain. Thomas presses a bit harder.

Why did it have to be him? Why did it have to be him who travelled back and had to figure all of this shit out?

Atonement, he thinks bitterly. Punishment for all the people I killed.

Thomas reaches the corner of the walls. He scuffs his feet through the grass and turns. Then blinks, squinting, when he spots someone sitting in front of the Doors, looking out into the main corridor of the Maze.

Despite the dimming light, Thomas knows exactly who it is. He quickens his pace to a jog.

“Alby?” he says, stopping a few feet away.

The sun has fully vanished behind the West Wall now, and the Glade is pitching darker with each passing second. Behind them, the distant crackle of the fire.

Thomas sees the line of tension in Alby’s shoulders, and it makes him glance around uneasily, looking for some sort of threat.

“Alby, what are you doing out here?” Thomas asks, and Alby doesn’t even turn, still looking out into the Maze.

“You notice anything strange, Thomas?” Alby asks. Thomas steps closer, and in the dying light, he catches the way Alby’s eyes are darting around, the fear etched into his face.

“What d’you mean?” Thomas asks.

Alby does turn then, and his eyes lock onto Thomas’s.

“The Doors,” Alby whispers, his voice trembling now. “They should have closed by now.”

Thomas freezes, his gut clenching.

A small glance up at the darkening sky, and Thomas knows Alby is right.

Despite the sudden way his stomach drops, the cold chill that breaks across his skin, he leans down and hauls Alby to his feet, gripping his wrist tightly and dragging him back towards the bonfire.

Alby doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t try to run, either. They’re about halfway there when the air splits with a hauntingly familiar groan, the grating sound of stone on stone as the other Doors grind open.

A sudden anger overtakes Thomas. He yanks Alby forward sharply and gets behind him, shoving at his shoulders.

“Come on, Alby, move,” Thomas snaps, shoving Alby again.

“This should have happened already,” Alby whispers. “We should already be dead.”

Thomas stops pushing him, and Alby stops walking.

“If you don’t pick up your fucking feet,” Thomas fumes, “I will leave your ass here.”

Alby doesn’t look back at him, but he does start moving, a pathetic jog that is still far too slow. Thomas’s heart is jammed in his throat.

Come on come on come on.

The sound of the Doors opening stops, and a ringing silence follows.

The happy, whooping shouts of the Gladers have morphed into cries of terror. Thomas watches as the boys scatter, most of them fleeing towards the Homestead. Most of them died during this attack. Most of them know exactly what’s about to happen.

WCKD, Thomas thinks, trembling with rage. WCKD did this. It didn’t matter whether we triggered the Maze or not. This was always going to happen.

The shrill, booming screech of a Griever bounces off the stone walls, magnified by the echo. There’s no way to tell which set of Doors the sound came from.

Alby died in the Homestead. There’s no way in hell Thomas is taking him there.

But he died to save Chuck. And Chuck is in the Homestead.

Thomas clenches his jaw in frustration, hysteria bubbling up in his chest and making it hard to focus, hard to concentrate.

He watches as a group of Gladers sprint towards the Slammer. He grabs Alby’s arm and jerks him into that direction.

“Go,” he says, quickly. “Lock yourself in with the others.”

“What about you?” Alby asks, sounding more curious than concerned.

“I . . . don’t know yet. Just go, okay?”

Alby gives him one last look, then he takes off towards the Slammer.

The shriek of the Griever sounds again, much closer this time.

Thomas looks over at the bonfire, sees that everyone has ran for cover. He spots Gally and Ben standing beside the Box’s opened doors, helping other Gladers down.

In the light from the fire, he notes with some relief that Teresa is among them.

Gally looks up and spots him.

“Greenie, get the hell over here!” he shouts.

Thomas begins to shake his head, but he pauses.

What about Newt and Minho? Last time, he was with them.

But last time, they were all by the Doors when it happened. And because everyone had been around the fire this time, they were much closer to shelter. Maybe they’re already in the Box?

Thomas stands there, paralyzed with indecision.

The Grievers decide for him.

They burst into the Glade in a cacophony of sound, pouring in from all sides, seeming to slide and trip each other in their haste. They make eager little chirruping sounds as they spill into the courtyard.

Thomas turns and bolts for the Homestead, running right past the Box. Gally screams after him, but Thomas doesn’t stop. If Newt or Minho are in the Box, they’ll be safer there than in the Homestead.

And Thomas isn’t about to watch Chuck die again.

He stumbles, nearly turns around at the agonized scream of a Glader. He has to force himself to keep running, his heart racing wildly in his chest.

Thomas reaches the Homestead in record time. He pushes the door.

It doesn’t budge.

“What the hell?” he says, his voice breathless and choked. He tries it again, but to no avail.

Then remembers. The Gladers would have barricaded the door.

Oh fuck.

“Shit shit shit,” Thomas whispers, scrambling back to look at the building. There are windows, but those seem to be barricaded too.

He slips around the side of the Homestead, creeping around as quickly and quietly as possible. He’s only been around the back of the Homestead to shower. He’s never looked closely, doesn’t know if there’s some sort of back entrance.

He creeps around the shower block, and while there’s no door, there is a small hole in the side of the building, acting as a window without a pane.

It’s the window to the bathroom.

But it’s up high on the wall, Thomas doesn’t even know if he can reach it.

Just as he starts to raise his arms, he hears pounding footsteps come skidding around the back of the Homestead. Someone crashes into him, babbling nonsense through gasping breaths, grabbing at him and making him stumble.

“Shut the fuck up,” Thomas hisses. In the dark, he can’t even tell who it is. But he’s younger, and shorter than Thomas, and Thomas knows for certain that this boy wouldn’t be able to reach the window. So he gestures towards it.

“Get inside. I’m right behind you,” he whispers. The piercing cry of a Griever drowns out most of his words, but the boy still seems to understand, for he steps up to the window and waits.

Thomas crouches, locking his fingers together to form a foothold.

“Step up,” he says quietly. The boy does, wobbling and unsteady. Thomas boosts him up, waits until the boy is halfway through the window before he stands and brushes his palms on his thighs.

The boy vanishes into the Homestead, his feet striking the wood floor inside with a soft thump.

Thomas reaches up for the window, and he finds with a sinking feeling that he’s definitely too short. There’s a grinding sound of mechanical legs creeping closer, and Thomas holds his breath to listen.

click click, whirrrrrr

Fuck it, he thinks frantically, and he jumps. His fingers just barely catch the bottom ledge of the window, and he hauls himself up and through the hole gracelessly, nearly bashing his face into the edge of the toilet.

He stands and gropes around for the door, unable to see it in the dark. He finds it, and notices that it’s already opened, likely because of the kid who went before him. Thomas steps out of the bathroom and he is very quiet about shutting the door behind him.

I need to get upstairs, he thinks. I need to see if Chuck is all right.

Thomas pads silently into the large, main room of the Homestead. As his vision adjusts to the dimness, he can just make out the tightly-packed group of Gladers in the middle of the room. Thomas is surprised by the amount of them that made it inside. He squints, trying to make out Chuck’s outline in the dark. He shrinks back against the wall by the doorway when he hears familiar, hissed voices close by.

“He told me he was going for a walk, Min,” Newt whispers, his voice an octave too high and almost hysterical. “What if he’s still outside?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Minho sighs, quiet and calm. “We can’t go back out there while the Grievers are here.”

Then someone shushes them, and Minho goes silent. Maybe ten seconds pass, and Minho starts talking again.

“Besides, it’s Thomas,” he murmurs. “He survived a night in the Maze. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I really hope so.” Thomas goes dizzy with relief at the sound of Chuck’s timid voice.

He shifts, about to move forward and make his presence known, when an earth-shattering shriek slices through the silence. Not a moment later, the long tail of a Griever is bursting through the side of the Homestead.

The boys scramble away from wall, clambering over each other like ants. The Griever’s tail thrashes around, and Thomas remembers what’s about to happen mere moments before the Griever’s tail locks around one of the four main support beams.

In the faint firelight now filtering through the hole in the wall, Thomas sees the outline of a Glader on the opposite side of the beam. The side where the ceiling is going to cave in.

Thomas knows he can’t stop the Griever. But he can sure as hell distract it.

Thomas launches himself forward, yelling as he flings himself towards the Griever’s tail. Alby had used a rock on the thing. But Thomas doesn’t have a rock or any sort of blunt object at all, and the tail is almost entirely metal.

With no other ideas and no time to come up with anything, he balls his hands into fists and swings.

 He lands two fast, very painful punches when the Griever screeches, releasing the support beam and jerking its tail sideways.

“Thomas!” someone screams.

He ducks just in time to avoid getting struck with it, stumbling back to join the other Gladers. The Griever’s tail lashes and retracts back out of the hole in the wall.

Through the gap, Thomas watches it throw itself around in its fury, smashing everything within reach.

But then, all at once, it stops.

whirrrrrrr

Craning his neck, Thomas realizes the Griever has slunk out of sight. Then he sees the glint of metal.

“Everyone, get back!”

The moment he says it, the Griever rams into the side of the Homestead at full force, the wooden walls splintering inward. The Griever’s momentum carries it through the wall entirely, sweeping out the beam. The entire corner of the Homestead collapses, burying the Griever, and several Gladers, beneath it. The noise is almost deafening.

The debris hasn’t even settled before the Griever is roaring, attempting to find its footing. It’s sharp, pincer-like feet slip on the loose rubble. It’s tail flies out, catching the support beam parallel—the only thing still holding up that side of the building.

The Homestead tilts alarmingly.

We have to get out, Thomas thinks in horror. Then, stomach flipping, he realizes that the only door has been destroyed and the windows are all barricaded, aside from that useless, tiny little window in the bathroom.

In their attempt to lock the Grievers out, they’ve also managed to lock themselves in.

There’s a sharp, cracking sound, and Thomas looks over, only to see the damaged support beam splintering, bowing in on itself.

A voice Thomas can’t place rings out, barely audible over the groan of the leaning Homestead and the thrashing Griever. “Everyone get over here and get down! This side of the beams! Cover your heads!”

Thomas scrambles to place himself on the opposite side of the two remaining beams, following several other Gladers. He crouches down and covers his head with his arms.

The constant creaking of the battered Homestead gives way with a splintering crack, and suddenly the sound increases tenfold, and Thomas squeezes his eyes shut as the world around him darkens and shakes.

Someone screams.

Small fragments of wood and other debris rain down, and Thomas hears a boy nearby cry out in pain.

It feels like eons before the Homestead stills and the sounds have died down. The collapse is still settling above them, disturbing cracks and groans punctuating the air.

Despite this, Thomas blinks his eyes open and slowly brings his arms down, squinting through the dark, dusty air to make out his surroundings. He straightens, but he only gets halfway upright before smacking his head on the debris above him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pressing a hand to the top of his head. Cold fingers wrap around his arm and yank him back down.

“Stop moving around,” someone hisses, and it’s the same kid that told everyone to get down earlier. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“What?”

“The entire second floor is on top of us right now,” the boy says. He sounds young.

“Is . . . is anyone hurt?” Newt calls out shakily.

“Me,” someone gasps out on Thomas’s left.

“Glenn, is that you?” Minho says.

“Yeah, I—” he cuts off with a sharp, disturbingly wet cough. “I’m stuck.”

“Shit,” Minho curses, and there’s a scuffle of feet as he attempts to get closer. “Where are you?”

“Wait, wait,” the boy next to Thomas says, his voice pitching higher with nervousness. “We can’t all be moving around. There’s too many of us under here. We move too much, the whole building is gonna fall on top of us. The beams gave us a gap, but we need to see if there’s an opening anywhere, start getting people out.”

“No,” someone protests, “we should—”

“Peter’s a Builder, he knows what he’s talking about,” Newt interrupts. “And he’s right. Does anyone see anything? A light source, anything?”

“It’s nighttime,” someone mutters sarcastically.

“There was light from the bonfire, dummy,” someone else cuts in. And just like that, everyone is putting forth their own suggestions and snarky comments, the air growing tense and stuffy.

Someone starts crying.

Voices rise, both in anger and hysteria.

Thomas takes a breath, running a shaking hand through his hair as the panic begins to infect him.

We’re trapped. We’re trapped, we could die in here.

“Guys?” Chuck’s voice is tentative, wavering. Miraculously, the Gladers quiet down. “I-I feel a breeze.”

A long pause, broken only by Glenn’s wheezing, little gasps of pain that ring in Thomas’s ears.

“Wait, I feel it too,” Newt murmurs. “Hang on.”

Everyone falls silent, the Gladers collectively holding their breath as Newt starts shifting the debris. Thomas strains to listen.

Shuffling, brushing sounds. Wood clattering onto the floor. Low grunts of exertion.

“Minho, come help me move this,” Newt says, slightly breathless. “Put your hands here. Ready?”

A loud snap makes Thomas jump, but it’s followed by a triumphant whoop, and suddenly, it’s a little bit easier to see in the confined space as faint, flickering orange light seeps through.

“Got it,” Minho says, panting.

“Minho, you go first,” Newt says. Minho starts to protest, but Newt cuts him off. “Help anyone out who needs it.”

Newt turns to face the rest of the Gladers. “We do this quickly, but carefully, all right? Stay low, don’t be stupid.”

The claustrophobic squeeze of bodies around him slowly starts to dissipate, and Thomas is just about to move forward when he realizes the boy beside him—Peter—is no longer there.

Thomas turns, and in the dimness of his surroundings, he can just make out the faint silhouette of a Glader, crouching low to the ground.

“Where does it hurt?” Peter says, his voice hushed.

With a jolt, Thomas realizes that Glenn’s gasping breaths have slowed, to the point where they’re barely audible.

Still, he manages a croaking laugh. “Everywhere?”

Thomas shuffles over to join them, crouching down next to Peter and squinting to make out Glenn’s form.

It takes Thomas a second to spot him, because the majority of his body is buried under rubble. The metallic scent of blood is suddenly overwhelming, and Thomas’s stomach churns violently, his throat closing up.

“Hey, T-Thomas, right?” Peter says, his voice wobbling, and Thomas doesn’t even ask how he knows it’s him.

He swallows against the nausea and utters a weak, “Yeah.”

“What,” he breathes out sharply, “what do we do, man?”

“Go,” Glenn says roughly. “See if there’s anyone else out there who got buried under this crap. See if you can get them out.”

“What about you?” Peter whispers.

Glenn coughs, or maybe it’s a laugh. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, kiddo.”

Peter turns to Thomas then, clasping his arm tightly.

Minho was going to help before. Where is he? Why hasn’t he come back in to help? Thomas thinks, his head swimming.

“We can’t leave him here.” Peter’s voice is choked up, near tears.

“No, we can’t,” Thomas agrees. He takes a deep breath, steels himself. “How strong are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I lift this,” Thomas gestures to the debris, “do you think you can pull him out?”

In the darkness, Thomas sees Peter shaking his head, even before he’s finished speaking.

“No no no, that won’t work,” Peter says. “No way you can lift that, it’s too heavy.”

“Gotta try,” Thomas says grimly, sliding past Peter and closer to Glenn. He places a hand on the ground for balance, and his palm lands in a puddle of something warm and wet.

His stomach flutters and he has to pause, suddenly lightheaded. Unable to stand the tacky, iron smell cloying in the air, he takes a shallow breath through his mouth, in and out. In and out.

“Okay,” he says faintly. “Okay, okay.”

He brushes his fingers along the edge of the wooden panel pressed against Glenn’s chest. Before he can even get his fingers under it to begin lifting, the Homestead groans ominously, followed a sharp snapping sound overhead. Dust rains down.

“You need to go,” Glenn says. He reaches a hand out and weakly shoves at Thomas’s chest.

Another crack, and the rubble shifts entirely, pressing down a few more inches. Glenn cries out.

“He’s right,” Peter says quickly. “The beams are giving out. We have to go.”

“We can’t leave him here,” Thomas protests, but with little vigor.

What if it was Minho or Chuck, or Teresa? What if it was Newt?

“We have to! Do you want to die?” Peter shouts, his voice cracking in his distress. When Thomas doesn’t move, Peter scrambles to his feet, pushing past him. “You’re fuckin’ crazy!”

Thomas looks down at Glenn. He’s no longer moving, no longer wheezing or gasping in pain. He presses a careful hand to Glenn’s chest. His ribs are concave in a way they shouldn’t be.

Thomas feels the weak, barely-there rise and fall of his broken breaths.

He won’t make it.

Thomas? Teresa says, her voice slicing through the turmoil in his head with crystal clarity.

I can’t save everyone. He doesn’t know if he’s replying to her or just thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he pulls his hand away. He squeezes his hand into a fist. It’s tacky with blood that isn’t his.

Thomas clambers to his feet, forced into a hunched waddle because of the low ceiling. He reaches the makeshift exit, a short tunnel held up by what appears to be one of the Griever’s legs, and Thomas quickly realizes that he will have to crawl to get through.

Just as he drops to his knees, he hears something crack, more of a punctuated sound than those previous. A glance backward shows the far support beam visibly bowing outward, splintering.

Oh fuck, he thinks, and he flings himself forward, scrambling through the passage. He ducks under a sharp, protruding piece of wood and pulls himself out of the tunnel, the fresh air cooling the sweat on his brow.

Before he can get a decent breath, the pathetic remains of the structure collapse, billowing out a cloud of dust and dirt.

Anyone who was trapped under there is certainly dead now.

Thomas closes his eyes against the shower of dust and he coughs, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow. He wheezes, unable to catch his breath.

What’s the death toll at now? How many Gladers just died because of me?

“Thomas!” he hears, but his ears are ringing, and he can’t tell who it is.

His eyes are still shut when someone drags him into the grass. He’s still gasping when they pour water on his face, swiping the grit from his eyes, and force him to sit, shoving his head between his knees. A hand rests on his back, rubbing soothingly, but still he struggles to pull himself together.

“Easy. Deep breaths. The Grievers are gone.” The hand on his back slows a little, a steady drag up and down, and the vice of his chest seems to loosen a little as the panic recedes, and his breaths come easier. The ringing in his ears slowly fades, but his hands continue to shake, sporadic tremors that he can’t control. He swallows, his throat tacky and dry.

“You okay, man?”

Ah, Minho. Of course.

Thomas blinks his bleary eyes open and brings his head up, not quite meeting Minho’s gaze.

“Fine,” he answers dully. He stares at his trembling hands, the cloying blood beginning to dry, caked in the creases of his palms and crusted beneath his fingernails.

Minho doesn’t say anything else. For a moment, Thomas thinks he’s left, walked away to deal with carnage elsewhere, but then Thomas hears a soft, plosive sigh, and Minho is kneeling down in front of him.

Wordlessly, he reaches for Thomas’s left hand. With the same thermos he used to pour water on Thomas’s face, he spills some of the water onto Thomas’s hand, rinsing away the blood. Minho does the same for his right hand, then dries both with the hem of his shirt.

Thomas blinks, a thought coming to him. “Is Chuck okay?”

“He’s fine,” Minho says, his voice soft in a way that Thomas doesn’t frequently hear. “He’s with Newt, checking up on the others.”

Thomas looks up, his eyes finally meeting Minho’s. “How many made it out?”

Minho shifts, his gaze dropping to the ground. “We had too many boys. There was no way in hell we were all making it out of that.”

“How many?” Thomas repeats.

“About ten of us, give or take.” Minho pauses for a moment. “When the Homestead started coming down . . . I don’t know. There wasn’t enough time for everyone to get to cover.”

“Do we know who all made it?” Thomas says.

Minho shakes his head a little. “That’s why Newt and Chuck are going ‘round, doing counts. Trying to see who’s left.”

Thomas breathes out, long and slow. Then he pushes himself to his feet and offers a hand to Minho.

Minho looks at him, gaze flickering from Thomas’s face, to his hand, then back again. There’s a certain haunted look in his eyes, a pain that Thomas feels reflected in himself.

Then Minho reaches up, clasps his hand in Thomas’s own, and allows him to help him up.

Through the haze of smoke that has settled over the Glade, Thomas makes out a small group of boys near the Box, huddled close together. At the head of the group, Thomas spots Newt’s familiar form, with Chuck clinging to his side.

Thomas releases his grasp on Minho’s hand and begins towards the surviving Gladers. Silently, Minho falls into step beside him.

***

The water is refreshingly cold against his sunbaked skin. A small wave washes over his shoulders, a chilly bite to it.

The sand underfoot is soft and yielding, slipping between his toes. Something hard pokes the bottom of his foot.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” he answers, turning away from the never-ending horizon to face Brenda. She looks nervous.

“Are you?” he asks, smiling a little. She slugs him on the arm.

“You sure we couldn’t have done this by the lake?” she says, and he shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says, smirking. “The waves make it harder, sure, but it’s going to make practicing in the lake so much easier.”

When she still looks uncertain, he quirks an eyebrow and says, “Minho brought Drew out here yesterday and he can already tread water and read the tide.”

Brenda’s eyes narrow.

“Any idiot with eyes can read the tide,” she says pointedly. Then, as if to prove a point, she takes a step forward, the water lapping at her chin. She raises it, eyes flashing with determination. “No way Drew can tread water better than me; I’m stronger. Did I tell you that—”

“That you beat him in arm wrestling?” he interrupts. “Yeah. Multiple times, actually.”

Brenda hums, flinging out her arms and prompting him with a look. “So?”

He steps up to her, allowing a wave to buoy him as it gently passes, then hooks his hands under her armpits, dragging her a few steps deeper. She grabs his arms, a look of fear coming into her eyes as her feet can no longer touch the sandy floor.

“We’re going to take our time, okay?” he assures. “I want you to kick your legs, try to keep yourself above the water. Don’t worry, I’m not going to let go yet. I just want you to get—”

A hand shakes his shoulder.

Thomas jerks upright, a gasp pulling from his throat. He reaches, instinctively, for his gun, and when he comes up empty-handed, it disorients him.

“It-it’s just me.” Chuck’s stammering voice brings him back to the present. Thomas looks up, squinting in the mid-morning sun, to see Chuck hovering over him, eyes wide.

Thomas struggles to sit up, stifling a groan at the various aches across his body. Mostly it’s his back, but his hands hurt too—probably a result of punching the metal exoskeleton of a Griever.

“Time?” Thomas grunts. Chuck backpedals, surveying Thomas with a look of near-comical concern.

“It’s eight,” he answers. “Newt said to let you sleep in a little.”

Thomas rubs his eyes, making a soft noise of acknowledgment. A yawn forces its way out of his mouth.

He drops his hands into his lap and looks around the area.

“Where’s everyone else?” he asks. Due to the state of the Glade, and with the fear that the Grievers might return, everyone had crammed into the Box and the Slammer to sleep. Thomas had been given a cell with Chuck, Minho, Frypan, and Jimmy. It had been cramped, but Thomas truly doesn’t even remember falling asleep.

“Fry and Jimmy’s cookin’ up some breakfast before we go,” Chuck says. “Minho went to talk to Alby about something. As far as I know, everyone else is awake except you.”

“Great,” Thomas mumbles. He thinks about his dream, the stark clarity of it. He hasn’t had a dream that vivid in a while.

His head hurts; a dull, steady throb behind his eyes that whisks the imagery from his mind. He doesn’t know what prompted the memory to pop up in his dreams at such an odd time.

Pushing himself to his feet, however, he does know one thing: he misses Brenda and her stubborn attitude.

He rubs his temple, willing the subtle ache to fade. He waves off Chuck’s questioning look and makes for the dining area, which has, miraculously, been left in mostly one piece after the attack. The Gladers are congregated there, milling around in small clusters of three or four.

Thomas does a quick headcount as he slips into an open seat at one of the empty tables.

Twenty-two. Twenty-two Gladers, excluding Thomas.

Instead of relief, the confirmation just makes him vaguely nauseous.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-two lives to protect. Twenty-two people to haul across the Scorch.

“Fuck,” Thomas mutters under his breath.

Everything okay? Teresa’s voice is soft, but it does little to provide comfort. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, hovering a few feet away.

“Fine,” he answers aloud, quietly tossing the word over his shoulder. “But you should really stop doing that.”

There’s a beat, then she walks over, slipping onto the wooden bench next to him. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and she looks at him.

“I’ll stop doing it when you stop giving me a reason to,” she states simply. Thomas snorts, knocking his shoulder into hers.

“Just because it’s been a rough couple days doesn’t give you the permission to do that.”

But honestly? It’s kind of nice to know that she cares. Not only does it inspire hope that he can keep her from betraying them, but it’s also just nice to be speaking to her again. Despite everything, he’s missed her.

“You never know,” she muses, “it could end up being convenient.”

Thomas eyes her, something like a smile ghosting over his lips. “Well, until then, keep it at a minimum, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she murmurs. They sit in silence for a long stretch of time. Thomas looks over the Gladers, tries to pinpoint those who made it that didn’t last time.

His mind had been otherwise preoccupied last night during the memorial, when Alby and Newt had gone through and marked off the names on the wall of those who’d died.

Jimmy made it. And Alby. A glance over at the Keepers shows that Zart’s still here too. He’s stood between Newt and Billy, hands tucked into his pockets and his distant gaze trained on the ground.

“You sure you’re okay?” Teresa says. Thomas redirects his attention towards her, frowning.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “I’m fine, Teresa.”

Maybe if he actually believes it, it’ll be true.

“Hey, Thomas? You got a sec?”

Thomas’s gaze flicks from Teresa over to Dan. As soon as Thomas’s eyes land on him, Dan looks away, rolling his shoulders.

“Yeah, sure,” Thomas says, pushing himself up from the table. He expects Dan to lead him away from the dining area and to somewhere more private, so it comes as a slight surprise when Dan steers himself towards the kitchen.

Wordlessly, Dan takes two trays of food from the countertop, turning and handing one to Thomas. Thomas accepts the tray with a mumbled thanks, and Dan leads him over to an empty table furthest from the other Gladers, but still well within sight of everyone.

“Sit,” Dan says, gesturing to the bench across from him. Thomas slowly settles onto the bench, placing the tray of lukewarm eggs and bacon on the table.

“What did you want to talk about?” Thomas asks after a few beats, when the silence and the weight of Dan’s gaze become too much.

Dan hums, stabbing a bit of egg with his fork and bringing it up to his lips. He pushes the food into his mouth, speaking around it.

“You should eat something,” Dan says. Thomas expects him to continue, but he doesn’t.

“What did you want to talk about, though?” Thomas repeats, his tone a pressing mix of mildly annoyed and confused.

Dan says nothing; rather, he quirks an eyebrow and glances pointedly down at Thomas’s food.

“Oh my god, fine,” Thomas huffs, and he digs his fork into his eggs and shoves a large portion into his mouth.

“So,” Dan says immediately, and Thomas rolls his eyes, “I want to know how you feel about all this. About our escape plan.”

Thomas chews slowly, allows himself the time to truly think about it.

“Well,” he begins, swallowing, “I think it’s really the safest option. We have to leave, obviously. Es . . . especially now. I think this is probably the smartest way to do it.”

“You think we’ll lose a lot of boys?” Dan asks softly, twisting around to look at the Gladers standing in clusters.

Thomas lays his fork on his tray. “I don’t know.”

Because he doesn’t. They have a larger group this time, a more developed plan, but that doesn’t really make him feel better about it. They have more boys, which means a larger number of them are at risk compared to last time. Of course, that’s because a lot of them had been dead by this point, but again, the thought doesn’t really make him feel better.

“How’re your hands?” Dan asks abruptly. Thomas blinks, looks down at the scrapes across his knuckles. His right hand is worse than his left. He slowly curls both hands into fists. It sends small, aching jolts up through his fingers.

“They’re fine,” Thomas says with a light shrug. He loosens his fists and shoves a hand in Dan’s face, wiggling his fingers to prove it.

Dan coughs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Minho told me you punched a Griever. Congrats on being the first of us brave enough to do that.”

Thomas snorts. “I feel like punching solid metal makes me more stupid than brave.”

Dan eyes him curiously, twirling his fork around his tray. “No, I don’t think I agree. Not when you did it to save lives.”

Save lives? Thomas nearly laughs aloud at the thought, throat closing up bitterly. I haven’t saved anyone yet. If anything, it feels more like I’ve doomed us all.

“Anyway,” Dan continues, slapping him on the arm as he stands. “Finish eating. I’m gonna send Newt over to talk to you; I think everyone’s about ready to go.”

Thomas pushes around the remnants of his eggs. He manages another small bite of bacon, but the faint taste of char makes his stomach twist, and he levers himself to his feet to scrape off the rest of it into the trash.

Just as he’s setting his dirty tray on the stack by the sink—a truly moot point that he doesn’t pause to consider—he hears the crunch of shoes on dirt, an uneven gait he would know anywhere.

“Hey,” he murmurs before Newt can beat him to it, turning around and leaning on the counter. For the first time since the attack last night, he gets a clear look at Newt’s face. He’s got a smudge of dirt along his cheek, like he’d rubbed his face with filthy hands. His eyes are dark and ringed with red with exhaustion—but rather than grief, Thomas is surprised to see the anger in Newt’s countenance; the flat press of his lips, the deep furrow of his brow, the tiny crinkle at the bridge of his nose.

What’s wrong, he almost says, but catches himself. What’s wrong? he berates himself silently, Could you possibly say anything worse?

“We’re getting ready to leave,” Newt says, and his face softens a little as he looks Thomas up and down. “Are you feeling up for it?”

“Yeah, of course. Is . . . I mean, is everyone prepared?”

Newt holds up black marker. “Everyone ‘cept you. Lemme freshen up the numbers on your arm and we’ll about be good to go.”

Thomas allows him to trace the faint scrawl of the code across his arm, faded and partially wiped away in the commotion and chaos the attack.

“What about you?” he asks quietly, and Newt pauses.

“What about me?”

Thomas levels his gaze with Newt’s. “Are you ready for this?”

The anger flares back to life in Newt’s eyes, a burning darkness that would have Thomas’s breath locking up in his chest if not for the clear, bright determination he sees there too.

“Oh yes,” he says, “I’m ready.”