Chapter Text
Thomas believes that, when things aren’t falling into place, he should make them fall into place. A little shove here or there. A forced twist or a directed turn. An entire shifting of events until they seem right. A moral puzzle.
But, there are times when he has the wrong pieces or when, no matter how hard he pushes or how many combinations he tries, it just won’t fit together. There are times when it all fits, but the end picture makes no sense, like it’s all been printed wrong. There are times when the pieces are out of his reach.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
The two words circle through his mind. He hangs on to them, desperately, willing them to be true. He needs them to be true.
Not yet. This can’t happen yet. Not now. Give me more time. Give him more time.
His heart pounds violently in his chest. It hurts him. The way it seems to constrict, more and more with each beat, wrapping itself around each of his lungs, squeezing them so tightly that breathing feels impossible. It feels wrong— so wrong. All of it. He feels as though somebody’s taken his body and shaken it up, shuffling through his organs so that nothing is in the right place. The world feels much the same. Shaken, rearranged. Wrong.
But, no matter how bad he feels-- no matter how gut-wrenchingly sick this fear is making him— none of it compares to Newt.
Newt.
He’s always been the anchor to Thomas’ admittedly unpredictable boat. Wherever they’ve been and whatever they’ve been through, Newt has been there to keep him grounded --every time, without fail. If Thomas feels lost, Newt brings him home.
Newt grunts as he stumbles a little, so Thomas tightens his grip around his friend’s waist, digging his fingers into Newt’s jacket. Not yet. It feels like Newt’s becoming heavier and Thomas isn’t sure if that’s due to his own strength failing or that Newt’s legs are giving out. Neither is good. Nothing is good. None of this is good. It’s all wrong.
They’re in the Last City. Thomas has his arm around Newt’s waist because without it Newt would fall. The Flare virus had never been kind to anyone, but Thomas has the bitter thought that it’s being especially cruel to Newt. It’s let him come all this way, helped him rescue their friend Minho from WCKD and escape the building just in time for it to take over his body almost entirely. Almost, because it hasn’t taken full effect yet. It hasn’t taken his whole brain, just part of it. It’s running him down, bit by bit, one cell at a time, exhausting him before it finally takes charge.
All around them, the city is in chaos. Fire barges its way through buildings and streets, filling the air with a thick, suffocating smoke. The sounds of gunshots and screams surround them wherever they go. Hell on Earth.
Thomas pauses and turns to look around them, pulling Newt with him, not daring to lose grip for even a moment. Which way was it? He clings to the fabric of Newt’s jacket like it’s the only thing holding him together. Which way? Where are they going?
There. Through that building. Towards the station.
He grunts. Each second demands more strength than the last. Newt’s left leg drags limply along the concrete behind them. Dead weight. Whatever fight he had left is diminishing quickly but he just needs to hold on. Just a little longer; they’re only waiting on one thing.
Grab the serum and get back to us as soon as you can.
Those were the words he’d said. Minho would do it. He’d be back with the serum. The serum would buy more time. Minho would be back before…
It isn’t far. They could still make it. They can still do it. It’ll be okay. It always is.
Newt groans in a pained voice that isn’t his. Thomas’ breath hitches in his throat. His mind flashes with all the possibilities. He’s never seen someone become a crank before --at least, not that he remembers. Regardless of whether he’s seen it, he gets the feeling that he’s about to. Time is running out.
Then make time, Thomas. Find a way to make time.
“Come on,” he mutters to himself. “Come on,” he repeats it louder. This time for Newt.
They’re through the doors. He can see the station ahead. Good. That’s good. It means they’re close. Only a block or so to the outer wall. It’s good. They can make it.
“We’re almost there, Newt.”
The words are just as much for Newt as they are for Thomas. Consolation. For both of them. Something to hold onto. Something tangible. A place to get to. Not far. Not far to go now.
Newt slips a little and Thomas’ heart skips a beat as he adjusts his grip, holding the other boy even tighter. “Stay with me,” he urges. “Come on.”
Thomas needs Newt to hear it. He needs Newt to stay. Right now, he needs Newt more than anything. He needs Newt and not that sick, rampant virus taking over his brain. He needs to see that knowing look, that smirk, that frustrated scowl that always came with a hint of affection. He needs the person who told him not to give up, and that he matters, and who told him there was a place for him somewhere. Thomas needs Newt.
But Newt’s body is choking and his legs give out and suddenly he’s slipped from Thomas’ hands, tumbling down in an awkward heap. Thomas reaches out.
“Newt, no, no!”
He wraps his arms behind Newt’s shoulders to stop his head from hitting the floor. Heart racing, he lowers him down and Newt’s gasping for breath, heaving in, spluttering on the dark ooze that won’t let up.
In a panic, Thomas leans in, tilting his head so that his ear lines up with Newt’s heart. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he hears that much-too-fast heartbeat. Much too fast.
It doesn’t matter if it’s fast, he tells himself. It’s still there. Still beating. He’s alive.
He needs to stay that way.
Thomas can see the effort it’s taking Newt just to breathe. Wheezing, heaving, he sucks in desperate gasps of air, only to cough more of that… gunk up. He’s going to need all the help Thomas can give him, so Thomas is going to give him everything.
“Come on!”
Thomas reaches under Newt’s arms and heaves him up, adjusts his grip so he’s hugging Newt close to his chest, clinging on like a scared kid. He starts to drag Newt along, unsure if he’s even conscious at this point.
Come on, come on, come on. Almost there.
He’s barely made it a few feet before Thomas is struggling. His arms quiver with the effort and his muscles strain, protesting against the whole world. Newt’s body is slack, unmoving, and Thomas tries— he tries so hard— to keep going. His mind is screaming at him. KEEP GOING. HOLD ON. YOU CAN’T GIVE UP.
But, despite his mind, his legs do stall, give up, and both Newt and Thomas fall to the floor.
Newt collapses on top of Thomas. Thomas waits, watches Newt.
Still breathing, he notes. Newt’s still breathing.
He’s struggling to get his own breathing under control, grappling to think of his next move. Does he keep moving, or is it better to wait here? How far are the others? Can he convince Newt to find some inner strength? Is this it? The end?
“Thomas.”
The voice comes from above. The speakers. The P.A. system. Thomas recognises it immediately. He’d know that voice anywhere. That was the voice that had come to him in his dreams, back in the maze, before he even knew who it belonged to.
Teresa.
“Can you hear me?”
What does she want? How does she know he’s still here? Where is she?
“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I need you to come back. Thomas, you can save Newt. There’s still time for him.”
Thomas pulls himself out from under Newt and stands up, drifting aimlessly towards the sound of Teresa’s voice, willing her words to bring him some kind of miracle.
What does she mean? He can save Newt without going back. For a while, anyway. The rest, he’d figure out. He just needs the serum. They just need the serum. Buying time. That’s all they need to do. Minho will be here soon. He’ll have it with him. They just need to sit tight.
Why does she want him to come back?
“There’s a reason Brenda isn’t sick anymore. It’s your blood. Do you understand? She isn’t sick because you cured her.”
Her words hit him hard, unexpectedly, like a slap in the face. Abrupt. A lump forms in Thomas’ throat. He blinks, his eyes stinging. It can’t be true. It can’t be. It’s not that simple. There isn’t a cure. There is no cure. It was all for nothing. All of it.
But her words do hold some truth. Brenda hasn’t needed a thing from Thomas since they left the mountains. Her symptoms are long gone, haven’t returned and, in all honesty, she seems healthier than ever.
Did Thomas do that?
“She doesn’t have to be the only one. All you have to do is come back and this will all finally be over.”
Come back. She wants him to come back to WCKD. He’s just gotten Minho out of there, through an elaborate rescue mission and now… she wants him to walk back in? Just like that?
Only, he thinks, it isn’t just like that. Newt is dying. Quickly. If Thomas could do something to save him...
Teresa’s voice comes back. “Please. Just come back to me. I know you’ll do the right-”
Then, just as abruptly as it came, her voice is gone. Cut off. Thomas stands in darkness for a few seconds, before sudden, blinding lights penetrate the air, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut, still reeling from the information, trying to make sense of something among the chaos.
He steps back, tries to ground himself. Somehow, against all odds, he trusts her. Thomas trusts Teresa. The thought alone somehow shocks and reassures him, simultaneously. Maybe there is hope, even if just a little. Just enough to take and use. Just enough to save Newt; that’s all he needs.
He knows what he wants to do; he just doesn’t know how to do it. He knows the piece is there, but how does he make it fit?
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Not now. He shakes his head, clearing it. First, he has to keep moving and get Newt to the others. Whatever comes next, he’ll decide at the time.
So, he turns back to Newt, mentally preparing himself to pick him up and keep going.
Newt’s standing.
His back is to Thomas, facing the way they came from. He’s moving so slowly -- so surely-- to his feet that Thomas stops in his tracks. This isn’t right. Newt could barely hold his own head up. His body had given out, collapsed, drained, exhausted. Now it’s as though he has more strength than ever before. A sinking feeling settles in Thomas’ stomach as he asks the question:
“Newt?”
When the figure turns, Thomas goes numb.
You’re not Newt.
The crank roars.
“Newt! Newt!” Thomas screams, as if yelling louder will startle the crank enough to let Newt through. “Please!”
He’s been holding him back, fighting the crank off. The worst part is that he knows that Newt’s still in there somewhere. He sees it in moments of hesitation, a sudden crumple of his brow, the ways his lips part and eyes widen in fear. That’s Newt.
And Thomas doesn’t want to hurt him.
So, he fends off the crank, pushing him away, pinning him down, diving away from his blows, biding his time. Anything but fighting back. Anything but hurting Newt. Anything but that. He wouldn’t ever forgive himself.
The crank pushes Thomas and he stumbles back, losing his balance. Again, the crank charges forward, knocking him to the floor, climbing on top of him.
“Newt!” Thomas cries, struggling to keep the crank’s hands away from his throat. “Newt, please!”
Hurry up, Minho. Please hurry. Where are you?
He needs to bring Newt back somehow. Newt won’t fight him. Newt will give them both time. He needs Newt.
Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.
“Newt, please! It’s Thomas! It’s me! It’s Thomas!”
There’s a flicker of something in the crank’s eye. It’s replaced with an expression that Thomas recognises. A familiar face.
Thomas breathes a sigh of relief to see his friend staring down at him. “Newt…”
Newt sucks in a deep breath, coughs, blinks rapidly, startled, like he’s been woken from a deep sleep. “Tommy. S- sorry, Tommy. I’m sorry.”
Newt shouldn’t be sorry. Newt has no reason to be sorry. He’s done nothing wrong. He’s here, after all. Thomas should thank him, for God’s sake. They still have time.
“It’s okay,” Thomas says, trying to calm him down because Newt looks so scared. “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. Not really. But it’s fucking paradise compared to the alternative. Newt’s here. He’s breathing. He’s alive.
Not yet, Thomas reassures himself. He’s still here.
So, when Newt pulls the gun from Thomas’ pocket and holds it to his own head, Thomas lets out a guttural scream.
“NO!”
The gun is knocked across the concrete before Thomas even registers what his hands are doing. Newt turns back to him -- only, now it isn’t Newt; now it’s the crank. The crank roars and strikes Thomas, but Newt had raised the gun to his own head.
That was his apology. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done, but what he’d been about to do.
Compelled by a surge of bone-chilling fear, Thomas fights back.
He’s always assumed that Newt was strong --probably stronger-- but Thomas never had to find out; there had never been any reason to test that. It’d never really mattered before. Now, it does matter and maybe it’s due to the effects of the virus on his body, but the crank is strong; he has Thomas pinned, tight.
Using all his strength, Thomas shifts his weight one way and then the other, tilting the balance enough so that he can push Newt off, sending him on to his hands and knees, shocked. Newt stays there, staring at the ground and, for a brief moment, Thomas can breathe.
Time. Buying time. They still have time.
The crank pulls out a knife.
One swipe through the air sends Thomas falling flat on his back, ducking down, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade. The crank seizes the opportunity, pinning Thomas again, this time with his legs, knife in both hands, poised at Thomas’ chest. Thomas raises his hands and braces them against the crank’s arms, pushing back with everything he has, ignoring the burn in his muscles and his shortness of breath.
“Newt!”
The knife edges closer.
No, no, no. He’s too strong. Too strong.
“Newt! NEWT!”
The knife touches Thomas’ shirt, nicks it, then carries on through. Thomas screams as it pierces his skin, digging into muscle.
Panicking, he kicks out. Hard. The crank falls. Thomas stands. Before the crank can drag him back down, Thomas throws a punch, sending him back down.
It’s not Newt. Not Newt.
But, no matter how he tries to fight back, the crank gets back up, never losing strength. So, when the crank charges, Thomas dodges the blade. It swipes past him. Left. Right. Left again. Too close. The crank swipes again and Thomas catches a glimpse of something behind Newt. Movement. Very close by. Getting closer.
One glimpse. He loses focus for less than a second. The crank falls into him, the knife mid swing, and, as he holds him close, Thomas hears a sickening sound. He knows immediately what it is.
The knife had gone in, but Thomas felt no pain.
He takes a shaky breath, not wanting to believe what he’s thinking. “Newt?”
Thomas pulls away slowly, dreading what he would find. Is it him? Did the crank stab him? Is he numb with adrenaline? Or is it something unthinkable?
Thomas looks into Newt’s eyes and sees his best friend staring back, eyes wide with disbelief. As he pulls back further, he spots the knife, buried deep in Newt’s chest.
No.
Newt’s legs give out and Thomas rushes to catch him, cushioning his fall, resting Newt’s head in his lap. Newt’s breathing frantically, staring up at the sky. His eyes squeeze shut for a second and open again before he coughs, clearing black fluid.
There’s blood. So much blood. It’s frighteningly dark --almost black-- but it spills out around the blade of the knife just like any other blood. Thomas wants to be sick.
“Thomas!” calls a voice from behind them. Thomas doesn’t turn. He can’t look away from Newt.
“Thomas!”
And then Brenda’s beside them, injecting the serum into a vein in Newt’s arm. Acting cautiously, not removing the knife, she rips some fabric from her shirt and wraps it carefully around the entry point, trying to slow the bleeding. She holds it in place.
Thomas watches Newt.
Still breathing.
“Newt?”
There’s another voice now. Minho. Thomas still doesn’t look up. He’s watching Newt’s face, watching how he glares up at Thomas, his eyes darting quickly back and forth. He hears a low growl. Thomas watches as he blinks again, eyes widening, filling with tears, then screwing up tightly with pain. He watches as his lips press tightly together and his shoulders tense. Newt is fighting battles that Thomas wishes weren’t possible.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Newt, it’s going to be okay.”
There’s another roar and the crank moves, trying to get up. Minho and Gally leap forward to help Thomas, holding the crank down while Brenda keeps pressure on his chest. Thomas holds his head while Gally and Minho pin his legs and arms. He can’t help but notice how the blood flows faster as the crank struggles against them.
“C’mon,” he mutters. “Please, don’t do this. Not Newt. Not Newt.”
Eventually, the struggling stops and there’s another blink. Newt’s back. He closes his eyes, tightly, then relaxing a little, leaning in to Thomas’ touch. It’s only then that Thomas realises he’s been stroking Newt’s forehead, which is cooling rapidly.
The dark, angry veins littering Newt’s body seem to be fading. For a split second, Thomas gets his hopes up: it’s the serum. The serum is working already. The veins are fading because the virus is losing. The serum’s fighting it off.
Then, Thomas looks down. He sees the dark blood, coating the ground around them, feels it seeping through his own clothes, still growing in size, frighteningly fast. He looks back at Newt and sees his paling skin and the beads of sweat on his face.
Newt winces and his breathing becomes more laboured. Thomas’ stomach drops. Gally’s grip is still tight on Newt’s wrists, but Minho’s loosened his a little. Thomas looks up to see him squeeze Newt’s leg in encouragement, but Newt still hasn’t spoken a word.
“C’mon, Newt. You’ve got this,” Thomas tells him. He frowns as Newt’s expression seems to soften and his skin pales even more, now almost translucent. Sickeningly white.
“We’ve gotta go,” Brenda says. “He’s losing a lot of blood. Whether the serum’s working or not, he’s bleeding out.”
There’s a loud bang from somewhere behind them and they all turn to see a group sprint past in the distance, guns blazing.
“Oh,” Brenda continues, “and I don’t feel like getting shot today.”
Thomas nods once, slowly, unable to bring himself to speak to anyone but Newt just yet. He’s wincing with each breath now, no longer showing any signs of struggling against Minho or Gally. The veins are now less black, more grey. Still visible.
“She’s right; we gotta go. Minho, lift his legs. Thomas, you get his arms. Brenda, hold the knife in place. I’ll cover,” Gally instructs, already getting to his feet. “It’s only a couple blocks. Shouldn’t take us more than a few minutes.”
Suddenly, Newt coughs, his now-freed arms reaching up to hold his stomach. He curls his legs up towards his chest and Thomas helps to roll him to his side. Black liquid spills out on the concrete floor. Brenda struggles as the knife budges a little, worsening the bleeding.
“We better hurry,” Gally says quietly, eyeing the blood, still pooling alarmingly fast around them.
So, they do hurry. Thomas grabs Newt under the arms, Minho takes his legs, and Brenda holds the knife. Nobody bothers to count to three; they all just lift and start moving, heading towards the outer wall of the city.
After a moment, Thomas looks down and sees Newt looking up at him with pleading eyes. His mouth is open and it looks like he’s trying to speak, so Thomas leans in.
“Newt? What is it, buddy? We’re almost there. We’ve got you.”
Newt just takes another shaky breath, followed by a long moment of silence. Thomas is about to move back, believing that Newt’s too out of it to speak back.
“Leave me.”
His words sting Thomas. Leave me. He said them with such sincerity, like it’s the only thing he wanted. At first, it’s a shock, then, once he’s understood the depth of Newt’s words, Thomas feels struck by some newfound determination and a certain element of coldness.
“Never in a million years,” he whispers back to his friend. “Hurry!” he yells to the others. “Where’s the Berg?”
Thankfully, Minho’s leading the way, because Thomas would’ve had them all running in circles. “Up ahead!” he shouts back. His voice is muffled a little by gunfire. “The next block!”
Thomas nods instinctively before realising that Minho wouldn’t see him. He glances down at Newt, whose eyes are now closed. Thomas can’t tell if he’s breathing. His muscles clench and his pounds so hard he’s sure he can hear it above the noise of the city.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Don’t give up. Newt. Don’t give up. Not yet.”
Brenda’s eyes are wide and, as they lock with Thomas’, he knows what she’s thinking:
Newt looks dead.
“Here!” Minho screams, but the announcement of their arrival doesn’t make Thomas feel any less distraught.
Newt’s eyes are still closed.
They reach the berg and bring Newt inside, lying him down on the floor. Brenda leans in and listens to his chest. She nods quietly to herself. “He’s breathing.”
“Good,” says Thomas. He steps straight back out of the berg.
Vince steps forward, right to the edge. “Woah! Where do you think you’re going, kid?”
Thomas is staring straight at Newt. Brenda’s right. He is breathing. Thomas can see his chest rising and falling now. It needs to stay that way. Long term.
Thomas looks up at the group. “I need to do this.” He shrugs and it feels unnatural. Shivering with adrenaline, he glances back at Newt, wondering if they’ve already used all their miracles. “Someone once told me we all have our roles to play. This is mine.”
Thomas turns and runs without saying another word. He hears them call after him. He almost stops when he hears Minho’s voice.
But this is about Newt. This is about the boy who never gave up on him, against all odds. This is about the boy who put everyone else before himself. Thomas needs to repay him. He’s not losing Newt. He refuses to give up on Newt.
Thomas isn’t stupid; he knows that Newt’s survival will take a miracle, but the alternative is too much to bear.
He can’t lose Newt now. Not now. Not after all this.
So, heavy-hearted, pleading with fate, dreading his return, Thomas sets out to force a miracle.