Chapter Text
Thomas woke in a hospital. Warily, he glanced around: it was nice, clean but not sterile. There was a table next to his bed, made of metal, and a chair next to that that looked uncomfortable and hard. There was a photo of some strange landscape by the door, high trees and very large plants and water spilling over a cliff.
He tensed as the door opened, and a man walked in: he had on a white coat with blue scrubs on underneath.
Thomas, heart thumping painfully against his chest, grabbed the metal pole his I.V. was attached to and pointed it at the man.
The man, presumably a doctor, raised his hands, dropping his clipboard. Thomas kept the pole level as he asked, “Where is Janson? Did he bring me here?” The doctor shook his head. “We don’t have a Janson on staff,” he said.
Thomas felt his face twist. No Janson? Maybe he was finally out of their grasp. He jabbed the pole, in warning. “You’re not WICKED?” Now it was the doctor’s turn for his face to twist, “I’m sorry, sir, but no. You were brought here from the aftermath of, uh, of a raid on WICKED. They found hundreds of missing children, and you were one of them.
Thomas felt his hands slacken, and distantly he felt the thump of the pole against his legs. He was free? But he shook his hope away before it settled in.
“Where am I now?” The doctor breathed a sigh of relief, ducking down to gather his papers. “Your in Seattle - all of the survivors are here to treat the extensive trauma that was endured. Including you,” he said pointedly, gesturing to his abdomen.
Thomas, looked down, and patted his side. There a sharp stab of pain when he did, but there wasn’t blood gushing through the hospital gown so he figured he was good. He remembered the wound, now, Janson bloodied and half-way to the Gone, shooting at him and Teresa as they scrambled through the crumbling building.
Teresa. Her name brings a bolt of longing. He doesn’t know if she’s alive or dead.
He musters up some courage to ask,“Hey, doctor, is there a girl here? Very pale, kinda tall, black hair, blue eyes? Burns? The doctor paused, eyes flickering as he seemed to be trying to remember. He smiled as he grasped what he was looking for. “Oh, yes, she was brought in. She’s just down the hall in room 129.”
Thomas’s chest tightened even more. Maybe, if Teresa was alive, could Newt be too? He had been fighting the Flare the last time he saw him, and then he had left for the Cure, and then Janson ambushed them.
Swallowing thickly, he asked another question, although this one appeared heavier to the doctor. “Is there also a boy here who was succumbing to the Flare? Tall, skinny, blond hair and brown eyes?”
The doctor smiled reassuringly at Thomas. “He was one of the first we treated. Turns out, WICKED had the cure all along: after all, they were the ones who engineered the Flare, why wouldn’t they have an antibody.”
He noticed that Thomas had gone rigid. “They created the Flare?” He asked slowly. The doctor righted the pole across his legs and adjusted the bags of liquid that were dangling. “Son, they made everything up. There were no solar flares, there was no Scorch, there were no Cranks and whatnot. Everything was fake.” He patted Thomas’s shoulder and bustled away, but paused before he was fully out of the door. “Your friend, the boy- he’s doing really good. He’s been asking for you. Room 137.” And with that, he was out.
Thomas felt as if his center of gravity was off kilter. He was giddy as he slipped out of bed, thankful the doctor removed the I.V. as he padded to the door.
Poking his head out, he stepped out and closed the door with a click. Hope heavy in his heart, he hurried down the hall, glancing at numbers as he passed them: 132, 133. He sped up. 136, 137. The fateful number.
Knocking frantically, he pushed at the handle and it opened. Inside, he sagged with relief as he saw him. Newt. He looked hundreds of times better that when he saw him last, although he was gaunt and his hair was disgusting. He cracked an eye as Thomas rushed to capture him in a hug, and Newt wheezed as Thomas squeezed him. “Hey, Tommy.”
“Jesus Christ, Newt, I thought you were dead.” Newt laughed, and it tinkled through Thomas’s ears, rusty and stale.
“Me too, thought I was in bloody heaven when they brought me here and I was me again.” Thomas pulled back, and felt a grin biting at his cheeks. “Everyone’s okay, or at least everyone that was alive is okay. No mortal wounds.” Newt nodded. “I know, Sonya and Aris have been visiting everyone. Spreading the good news,” he laughed again, and it sounded more like him this time.
They talked for a long time, remembering the Glade, and their, albeit brief, times with the Right Arm.
“I wonder..” Thomas started when conversation had paused. “What are they going to do with us once we all recover? We can’t stay here forever.” He grasped Newt’s hand, carefully. “I think that they’ll send us back to our families. From before.”
Newt squeezed his fingers, leveling a small smile at him. “We’ll figure it out. I’ll be shucked if the thing to tear us apart was that.”Thomas just squeezed back, silently, but he didn’t need to say anything.