Archive of Our Own

He had no idea what time it was, or where he was. No matter how hard he tried to open his eyes, all he was met with was an inky darkness swirling before him. 

Thomas couldn’t tell if he was dead. If he were, would he still be able to hear the voices of his friends echoing in this vast void? Would he still be able to feel the small hole in his chest, the ripped flesh attempting to put itself together as fast as possible? Would he still be able to feel the intense pain of his rattling breaths aggravating the wound further?

The darkness was captivating, that’s for sure. Thomas almost didn’t want to open his eyes, despite his friends’ broken pleas for him to get up. He finally felt calm. In pain, yes, making the thought pop up that there was no WCKD to chase him anymore. No conflicting feelings about Teresa. No need to worry about his friends anymore, as they’ve been delivered to the safe haven. 

As selfish as it was, Thomas wanted nothing more than to welcome the cold, dark embrace. At his youthful age of 16, he was content with leaving the world behind, when the generations before him continued on in life to keep making the world a better place. Thomas liked to think he’d made his mark: a legacy for his friends to tell around the safe haven’s campfires. 

Then, when he really listened to what the echoes were saying, the gaping hole in his chest was no longer a literal thing. He felt torn, stuck between this limbo of wanting to return to his friends, the people he belongs with, and accepting that he had done what he’d set out to do- and to finally relax. Though, as he really, really , thought about it, the choice was obvious.

When was he ever selfish?

Thomas fought against the cold seeping into his bones, listening to the guiding voices bouncing around his mind. Listening to his own slowed heartbeat as it began to race again. The cold slowly began to retreat, leaving his body in a state of too hot but also too cold, shivering, wet.

He heard Minho, threatening him to wake up or else… Thomas didn’t hear that last part, but it probably wasn’t any good. He heard Frypan begging him to wake up, that he’ll make anything Thomas wants as long as he opens his eyes. With how empty and lifeless Thomas was feeling, he’d kill for Frypan’s famous stew. He heard Newt telling him he was fine and that he just needed to walk it off. All of them having the same tone of voice: solemn, desperate, but also hopeful that he’d pull through. 

Thomas had never been this badly injured before. If his friends were resorting to begging to get him to wake up, it must’ve been pretty bad. Thomas shrugged off the cold fingers grasping at his wrists, trying to keep him in the dark. That selfish part of his mind wanting to finally take a break. 

He couldn’t afford any breaks. He was needed, whether he liked it or not. He had a job to do, though he didn’t know what yet. 

Thomas experimentally moved his toes. He was back in his body. His body was… where was he? They were moving along a particularly bumpy road, as his limp limbs bounced and moved with the vehicle. There were hands on his shoulders, his forearms, clutching at him like he was going to fall through the car. 

Through the intense heat he’d recognize as the Scorch, he groggily blinked, catching a blurry glimpse of figures above him. The three silhouettes of his friends that brought him back to the light. He blinked once more, their features coming into focus. They looked like utter shit, but healthy. Covered in dust and soot, worried glances and shining eyes. 

Thomas really fucked up this time, huh? 

He hissed as the car hit a particular bump, shooting an electrifying pain through his chest. Instantly, the hands gripped him tighter. He wouldn’t be surprised if they’d break his bones just from their grips alone. 

“Thomas?” Frypan questioned hopefully. 

The boy forced his eyes open against their protests. Frypan, Newt and Minho stared back at him in disbelief and soul-crushing relief. He saw the weight physically lift from their shoulders, causing them to sag and lean against their respective sides of the car. The old, rusty car that sounded very familiar.

While he was awake, that didn’t mean he knew what was going on.

“Wha’s…” he slurred, his throat dry and sore. He tried to raise a hand and rub at the skin, but was forced back down.

“You got shot last night, remember?” Minho informed him seriously. “You’re on the brink of death. We couldn’t… you weren’t waking up.”

Thomas’s tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips. “Where we goin’?” He managed more coherently. 

“To the Last City,” came a gruff voice from behind. Thomas grinned lightly, knowing Jorge and Brenda were there, too. “We can find help there.”

“Aren’t we fugitives, though?” Newt asked dutifully, never missing a detail. The boy had a cooler next to him, probably full of food and water. He opened the cooler as Jorge answered.

“You are. Not me. We’ll go into the slums, see if we can find anything useful while you three stay hidden. We can’t risk WCKD knowing you’re here,” Jorge sighed. “Damn, why do you kids have the worst luck in the world? Going to the Last City…”

The road suddenly wasn’t as bumpy anymore, smooth sailing aside from the occasional pothole and cracks in the road. For a moment, the three boys in the trunk stared to the right in awe. The Last City, Thomas assumed. 

Newt shook it off quickly, his hand retreating from the cooler with a rag. “This feels nice. Too bad it’s going on your head.”

Thomas scoffed heartily, which turned into a small grimace as the freezing cloth was placed on his forehead. “Really hate me that much? After all we’ve been through together? I’m hurt.”

“We’re all burning up, but not as bad as you are,” Frypan supplied. “Must have a fever or somethin’. Wound infection, maybe.”

“You’ve got no idea what you’re talkin’ bout,” Minho quipped back. 

He could see the beginnings of a petty argument, which he was finding amusing at first, until his lungs rattled and coughed. His throat felt constricted, and he gagged as thick crimson forced its way past his lips. The argument quickly died down in favor of the boys throwing various curses and questions at the man behind the steering wheel. Newt helped him sit up so he wouldn’t choke, but it increased the fiery pain in his chest tenfold, and he suppressed a scream of agony.

The ringing in his ears was painful almost, banging on his forehead in a terrible migraine. He grimaced, clutching onto his friend’s hands holding him up like he was dying again. 

Hitting another nasty pothole, Thomas passed out.

The next hour felt like a blur to Minho. 

Thomas nearly died again on the way to the slums. Yes, again. They’d lost his pulse right as they’d gotten out of the crank tunnel, but luckily, Thomas was a fighter. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Thomas could feel the collective stress and fear of traversing through that dark tunnel full of monsters, and it was too much for his already struggling body to bear. 

The boy always did have a knack for knowing what the problems were exactly . He was observant.

They managed to help stabilize Thomas as Jorge drove through the outskirts of the rundown city, finding a particularly spacious abandoned garage to store the teens in. Brenda and Jorge quickly said their farewells and promised to be back soon before taking off, leaving the three in charge of Thomas’s well-being when they were, in fact, not medically trained much at all. 

Finally, Minho leaned against the rusty metal of the car, running a hand through his oily hair. “Shit,” was all he could muster. 

“Shit,” Newt and Fry agreed. 

Minho always had a good sense of direction, a good sense of what to do, maybe because of his time as Keeper of the Runners. But in that moment, seeing his best friend covered in his own blood and mucus, his lungs rattling with every breath, his mind drew a blank. He had no idea what to do other than trust in the two who ran off trying to find help. His main concern was who the hell was going to help them ? 

Once the people found out they were ‘Property of WCKD’, would they turn them in? Would they preserve themselves in a world where survival is key? Minho had no doubt. He would do the same. 

But this was Thomas they were talking about. Someone had to help him. He deserved to go to the Safe Haven more than anyone. Minho had a gut feeling about the guy and was right, and look where it got them. Out of the Maze, back in the real world with a few forgotten memories and tons of new ones. It was because of him and Thomas, together, that they escaped the Maze. He had Thomas’s genius brain to thank for that.

Thomas couldn’t die. He was invincible. While he did die on the way to the Last City, it was like death himself didn’t want to take him yet. He still had more to do on this shucked up Earth, and death wouldn’t take him until he was done. 

It seemed like forever they sat in that trunk, windows cracked to allow airflow. They listened to Thomas’s breathing intently, listening for any hiccups or drops in rhythm. None of them spoke in fear of not being able to hear their dying friend on the floor. 

Minho hated seeing the leader so pale and small, tightly wrapped bandages around his sickly white skin that continued to sweat. Newt reached over to feel the cloth, a dejected look on his face as he removed it and put it back in the cooler. 

The boys tensed as they heard the Earth outside the garage shuffle. Footsteps, scraping against the sandy ground. Fry practically dropped to the floor of the car, with Newt and Minho trying their best to duck in the open space. Minho could see, through the front windshield, three figures stop in the doorway of the garage. All wearing gas masks. The one in the middle, a tall, lean dude, nodded at the car, his hand tightening around the rifle hanging from his neck. 

Shit shit shit , Minho mouthed, lowering himself next to Thomas as far as possible. 

Newt and Fry looked at him questioningly. 

Three guys, weapons , he mouthed again, more dramatic this time as the steps moved closer to the vehicle. 

The two other Gladers shared a fearful look. They knew there was no way out of this. Jorge took the key, and any weapons they had. They couldn’t climb anywhere else in the vehicle, as it’d shake the frame and defeat the whole purpose of hiding. Minho was quickly running out of ideas, the only option really poking its head at him: fight.

The figures looked through the windows at the driver’s seat and passenger’s seat. They were approaching fast. They had to come up with something. Anything. 

As the footsteps neared Minho’s side of the car, he clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. No way he was letting these scrappers turn them in. Newt repeated the sentiment, sharing a terrified but determined nod with Fry. Newt was second in command, sure, and willing to get his hands dirty, but that didn’t mean he was a good fighter. Out of the three of them, Minho stood the most chance of skill alone, Frypan with stature, and Newt… well, they’d have to hope for the best. 

Thomas took this as the perfect opportunity to hack up a lung and groan like an old woman who’d fallen down the stairs. 

Minho’s heart leapt into his throat. “God- shit , Thomas!” 

His reprimands would do no good to the boy, as the back door to the trunk was ripped open, the three figures standing with their weapons pointed. Minho had felt this sense of selflessness before, when they were escaping the WCKD compound. He couldn’t care less if there were three guns pointed at him: there was no way they were taking his friends away from him. 

So he lunged forward with a battle cry, pushing one of the intruder’s rifles up just as he shot, knocking the weapon into the person’s gas mask. Frypan pounced on another, tackling him before he could get a single hit in. Newt used his good leg to kick the last one in the chest, earning a winded hiss. The fight, if you’d even call it one, ended quicker than it began. 

Frypan’s attacker knocked him upside the head with the butt of his rifle, sending Fry sprawling across the ground, probably knocked out. Newt’s attacker had him pinned to the ground under a dirty boot, with Newt squirming and kicking and punching at his attacker. And Minho was stuck in a chokehold, the attacker using the rifle to push against his throat rather than his arms. 

After a moment, the man in the middle paused, still pressing his foot down on Newt. His body language screamed wait, what the hell and it made Minho even more confused. What attacker pauses mid-attack to stare? The man’s head moved from Newt to Fry to Minho, and finally to Thomas coughing up blood in the trunk. Minho fought against his captor, thrashing in the stronghold to try and make it to his best friend.

“No!” Newt kicked panickedly, seeing how the man’s eyes locked on Thomas’s fragile form. “Get off me!”

To Minho’s utter surprise, the attacker complied, lifting his boot from Newt’s chest and allowing him to scramble into the trunk to make sure Thomas doesn’t choke on his own blood. The other attackers shared confused looks, Minho’s attacker even loosening his grip on the Runner a little. 

“Hang on, chill out guys,” the middle man said to the other attackers. 

The man holding Minho reluctantly let him go, looking at the middle man with a frustrated shrug. “What the hell-”

He was about to say a name when the middle man spoke again, “calm down!”

Minho leaned down and checked on Fry, making sure he was fine before spinning to confront the main attacker, whose voice had a familiar timbre. “What the hell do you mean chill out? You attacked us-”

The man Minho fought retorted, “you went at me first!”

Minho’s comeback died on his tongue when the middle man shouted.

“Stop! Now! You too, Minho!” 

Everyone stopped in their tracks. Even Thomas stopped hacking up his lungs. Minho’s heart raced uncomfortably in his chest as he realized why this voice sounded so familiar. Who it belonged to. Always talking about sticking to the rules. 

The guy began taking off his gas mask, but Minho didn’t need to see his face to recognize him. 

“Gally.”

The boy raised his head, clean shaven with dirt and grime smeared across his face. “Minho,” he nodded, turning his attention to Newt, who was staring in disbelief. “Newt.”

“You know these guys?” one of the men asked. 

“More or less,” Gally replied steadily. 

Minho didn’t know how to feel. The emotions he’d been feeling for the past twelve hours had all been conflicting, overlapping one another to the point where Minho didn’t know what was what anymore, or what he was truly feeling. In that moment, he felt guilty, but he also felt angry- on behalf of Thomas and his lost bond with Chuck but also his own anger at Gally for a) killing a child, and b) nearly killing them all right then and there.

Still, the swirl of emotions in his gut was unreadable. 

“I put a spear in your chest,” Minho commented, instinctively moving to the sarcasm to try and make sense of the situation. 

“Nobody’s perfect, man,” was all Gally said before leaning further into the trunk to see what had them so worked up. “Oh shit. What’s up with him?”

“He got shot,” Newt said bluntly. 

“In a bad place, too,” Minho’s captor said absentmindedly as he looked over the two Glader’s shoulders. “Mid-chest?”

“Yeah,” Minho sighed. “He flatlined on the way here once, almost twice. He’s not doing good. We didn’t know where else to go.”

Gally’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes conflicted. “Look, I know you guys don’t trust me anymore, especially after what happened in the Glade and… Chuck. You have no reason to believe me when I say that I know people who can help, but I do know someone who can help.”

Newt and Minho glanced at each other, skeptical as all hell because… what? Gally just happens to show up and say that he can help? Gally, of all people. Minho ‘killed’ him, and he’s willing to help them? Just like that, all forgiven?

“What are you, working for WCKD?” Newt questioned, pulling his authoritative, threatening tone out just in case. “Why are you so willing to help us? Above all, Thomas, the guy you hated the second he came up in that box.”

Gally was clearly getting a little frustrated, and let it out in a simple breath. “It’s either me, or risking WCKD getting their hands on him. For him, I personally wouldn’t care either way. It's your choice. Hand him over to them, or let me help.”

Minho didn’t have to look at Newt to know what decision they were going to make. Thomas started coughing again, the red spluttering from his lips. Some of it landed on Newt’s cheek, making the boy flinch from the sudden feeling of blood on his face. 

“Fine! Fine! Please help us,” Newt relented, shifting Thomas so he was leaning on the backseats on his own. 

Just as Gally was about to speak, a bullet whizzed by his ear and landed straight into the wall. Everyone took cover as a few more bullets sunk into the concrete pillars behind them. 

“Boys?” came the call of Jorge, unsure and albeit a little frazzled.

“We’re good! Don’t shoot!” Newt answered, climbing out of the trunk to stop Jorge and Brenda from firing any more shots. 

“Who are these guys?” Brenda nodded towards Gally and co. She had yet to lower her weapon, her eyes scanning Newt and Minho who had also followed the blonde out of the car. “And where’s Fry?”
“Right here…” the cook groaned as he rolled onto his back, rubbing his bruised temple. “Damn, he got me good.”

Frypan stood as fast as an old lady, using the car as support. Brenda quickly made her way over to assist. Only when Fry’s eyes landed on Gally did he fully pause. 

“Gally?” he breathed, confused and surprised just like the rest of the Gladers in the room. “What the-”

“I’ll explain later. Right now, the Greenie needs help-”

Jorge gestured with his pistol at Gally and his buddies. “You know this guy? What’s a Greenie?”

“We’ll explain later,” Minho replied, turning back to Gally. “Look, I can… try and look past what happened with Chuck and your little mental breakdown back in the Glade, but right now I’m trusting you with making sure that slinthead in the trunk gets the right medical care.”

“Why would I kill him now when I would’ve back then?” Gally questioned rhetorically. “I’m glad I didn’t. Son of a bitch knew the way out after all.”

Brenda looked between Minho and Gally before sending a glare to the man standing closest to Fry, which happened to be the one who hit him. “Glad you’re reunited with your buddy and all, but I think Thomas is dying faster, so I think we’d better move faster than Death.”

Gally tapped his boys on the shoulders, nodding to the garage door. “We have an armored van you guys need to follow. We’ll meet you there.”

They split up, Minho and his crew in their car and Gally and his company running out of the building, whizzing by a moment later on a van covered with armor and a ladder on the back doors. Jorge quickly turned the ignition and followed. 

The man looked at Minho through the rearview mirror. “Want to explain now?”

Minho steadied himself as Jorge took a sharp turn. “He was with us back in the Maze.”

“He followed us out of the Maze even after insisting that the Glade was home, and there was nothing left in the world. Tried to kill Thomas after he got stung, ended up killing our little brother instead,” Newt said bitterly. “Well, the kid threw himself in front of Thomas to try and save him, ended up dying right in front of us.”

“Chuck?” Brenda offered quietly.

The three Glader’s heads whipped towards her.

“How do you know about him?” Frypan asked skeptically, still holding his head as if it’d help the raging, throbbing pain. 

Brenda looked out the window at the people passing by. “When we were in the medical tent, at the Right Arm camp, I told Thomas about my brother. He told me about Chuck. Not much, but he seemed fond and upset. I can see why now.”

Minho hadn’t even noticed they’d entered another garage, a bigger one, that led into a large concrete spiral ramp where people bustled about. He jumped when there was a smack at the back doors, Gally standing behind it with a hurry up look. Minho hadn’t glanced at Thomas at all during the ride. Looking at him now, Minho probably would’ve thought him dead if not for his rattling breaths. 

Bloodstained lips, droplets of the liquid dotting his face like a canvas. His skin was abnormally pale for a man who’d just spent a couple of days in the Scorch. Thomas was naturally kind of tan, but the Scorch had cooked him a nasty sunburn. All traces of it seemed to be gone. That couldn’t be good. 

Gally had been barking orders at people passing by, and a moment later, a makeshift gurney made of two long curtain rods and fabric was brought to the vehicle. 

“You’re gonna need to lift-”

“I know, Gally,” Newt interrupted, already working on taking up one of Thomas’s arms. “We have to be careful.”

Minho joined in, grabbing Thomas’s other arm while Gally’s friends carefully lifted the boy’s legs. Thomas was placed swiftly onto the gurney without so much as a moan. Minho and Newt started to follow the two people carrying their friend away when Gally stopped them, grossing his arms. 

Minho huffed, “please get out of our way.”

“Can’t. You’ve got to visit Lawrence first. House rules,” Gally stated factually. “You too, Fry.”

The cook sighed as he carefully exited the vehicle, Jorge and Brenda steadying him before allowing him to take off on his own. 

“Sorry about that by the way,” Gally gestured to his head as he began leading them up the ramp. “If I’d known it was you guys I would’ve called them off sooner.”

“Self-defense, can’t blame y’all,” was all Fry said.

The meeting with Lawrence went about as well as Minho would have expected it to. Minho barely held his anger together towards the guy while also trying not to stare at his face too much. Newt luckily did most of the talking alongside Gally. Lawrence wanted more of the ‘cure’ WCKD was putting out that was currently running through his system, stopping him from fully cranking out, and in return he’d allow Thomas to be taken care of. 

Seeing no other options, Newt agreed.

Now, going through the sewers, Newt wondered what was happening back at Gally’s hideout. Was Thomas actually being taken care of, or was that a manipulation tactic for Lawrence to get more of that cure? Newt wouldn’t put it past the man: he looked like death. Men in the clutches of death would do anything to slip by.

Gally led him and Minho through the city, glowing with light at night, no life to be seen. Police cruisers patrolled the street, forcing their trip to go a little slower than Gally would’ve liked it to. The Glader led them up the walls of the city, to a seemingly abandoned area for the night, under construction. From that high, the city looked even bigger than it did below. Newt would never be able to understand how WCKD had this place functioning in this corrupted world. 

Gally gestured at the telescope set up on the metal catwalk. “I have a backup plan, in case we need it. I don’t think you’ll like it. I’m just putting the option on the table.”

Minho peeked through first. Gally assisted him in aiming the telescope towards one of the main towers in the center of the city, the letters of WCKD glowing bright on the outside, like a beacon of hope. Funny. That’s what WCKD was supposed to be all this time. Yet all they did was cause more pain and suffering, lie and manipulate children into doing their bidding in the name of a cure. Anger flared up in Newt, boiling, churning in his gut until it had his whole body aflame. 

He was a victim of their grand plan for a cure. He’d seen countless kids die in the Maze, and for what? WCKD was nowhere closer to a cure than they had when they were kids, giving them tests and stupid shit that was meaningless. 

“What? Are you serious?” Minho fumed, leaning away from the telescope to face Gally head-on.

The dude just shrugged. “I told you. You don’t have to like it. I’m just saying it’s an option.”

Newt leaned in to take a look, his eyes widening at the sight of Teresa bustling about a lab with a frown tugging at her lips. “No way,” he scoffed, “there’s no way I’m entrusting Thomas’s wellbeing to her. Not after what she did.”

“I’m not asking you to hand him over.” Gally checked his watch, then looked to the skies, starless. Clouds shimmering with the sheer power radiating from the city. “We should head back.”

So they did. When they returned through the manhole cover, Jorge, Fry, and Brenda were gone, presumably taken somewhere to sleep. Minho and Newt wordlessly followed Gally as he walked away, assuming they’d be led to their friends. As Newt strutted behind Gally and Minho- who had somehow struck up a civil conversation- he had half a mind to take a field trip of his own and go find Thomas. Who knew if Gally was actually holding up his end? What if he was baiting them, promising the Greenie care, using them for Lawrence’s gain? 

Newt raised his eyes from his feet, looking off to the various lamp-lit rooms that seemed to ascend and descend forever in this garage. Most of the rooms were completely engulfed in darkness. People sleeping in cots, breathing lightly as if nothing was wrong with the world. To them, Newt guessed, this was the new normal they’d gotten used to while Newt and the others were holed up in some WCKD facility in the Scorch as kids. 

Years had gone by since then. Adapting and surviving.

In one room, there was a group of men dressed just as Gally had a few hours prior: in bulletproof vests and kneepads, monotone gray and black slacks and shirts, wrinkled and dust-covered from a day out in the town riding on the back of the cars. They were gathered around a round wooden table, old and splintering, laughing and playing a game of cards while smoking. Newt scoffed lightly at the sight. Humanity always managed to surprise him in this world. 

Gally turned the corner, leading them down another hallway stemming from the main ramp-staircase thing Newt couldn’t remember the name of. The lighting dimmed in the hall, more sleeping soldiers and townsfolk alike. Gally lifted the dirty cream curtains and stepped into the room at the end of the hall. A much larger room than the ones they’d seen walking down there. 

There were plastic curtains everywhere, white-bedding on stained mattresses, all sorts of stains on the floor that had Minho grimacing. Gally led them behind one of the far most curtains, where Brenda and Jorge sat on separate cots, talking animatedly. They quieted down when they noticed the Gladers enter.

“What’s the verdict?” Minho questioned, crossing his arms over his chest with a poorly concealed worried look. 

“We don’t know. Haven’t been told anything,” Brenda reported. She turned to Gally.

Looking around, Newt saw one curtain that caught his eye. A shadow of a bed projecting on the concrete floor, a figure below the sheets breathing evenly and loud. Newt had listened to Thomas’s ragged breathing enough to know it was him. Still, before he could rush over and check on him, another question popped into his mind when he noticed how empty the rest of the vast room was.

“Where’s Frypan?” he interrogated, facing Gally with a frown.

“I don’t know everything that goes on here,” Gally sighed exasperatedly. “But I’ll go look for him.”

When Gally passed through the curtains separating the large room from the hallway, Newt bounded over to the dirty, thin cloth that concealed Thomas from the world. He barely heard Minho’s questions as he forcefully ripped the fabric to the side, stopping in his tracks. 

Thomas lay in the bed, a plastic oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, the clear mask fogging up with every stuttering breath he was forced to take. The caretakers must’ve cut the shirt he wore, as he had a fresh set of bandages tightly wrapped around his torso. A thin blanket pulled over his arms, stopping just a few inches below his collarbones. He looked paler, his eyes more sunken in if possible.

Newt’s posture deflated as he took in the sight. Shit , he thought. He was no doctor, but Thomas looked like he could get swept away into the arms of Death if a single gust of wind hit him. Something must’ve happened on the transport to the room, or the caretakers weren’t doing their job right, or maybe Thomas wanted to-

No. Thomas was a fighter, he was going to fight until his last breath. 

Still, what if… what if Thomas didn’t want to fight anymore? He said he was tired of running. He even turned himself in, then nearly committed suicide (even though that was a group decision). Newt watched carefully as Thomas’s chest rose and fell, memorizing the way the boy’s lungs shook with every exhale, drawing the movement of the blanket with each breath, scared that if he even looked away for a second, Thomas would slip out from under their noses.

A hand clapped his shoulder, making him jump. 

“You should rest, hermano . I’ll take the first watch,” Jorge spoke softly, softer than Newt had heard before with clear sincerity, accompanied with a slight smile. Newt was glad he trusted Thomas’s intuition about Brenda and Jorge, otherwise, he feels like things would’ve ended for them in the Scorch. 

Jorge pushed him towards the cots, where Minho was settling down, tugging a blanket over his shoulders and sighing. Newt’s stare lingered on Thomas a moment longer, still fearful of the what if ’s, until Jorge drew the curtains, blocking his view of his best friend once more. Newt sighed, sitting on the cot opposite of Minho’s as Brenda joined Jorge. 

Newt ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. While he didn’t feel lost, he felt useless. He was the one always helping, always making sure everyone had what they needed and checking up on them. This situation was killing him: not being able to help Thomas, the one person who deserved it the most. 

Suddenly, Gally’s plan with Teresa didn’t seem so bad. That’s not to say he still didn’t like the idea of trusting that traitor. Yet he couldn’t come up with an idea, himself, that rivaled the simplicity and reasonability of Gally’s. Newt remembered the way Teresa’s worried but determined gaze turned into one of intense fear the moment Thomas threatened to blow himself up. She may have betrayed the Gladers as a whole, but there was still one person who had the ability to change her mind once more. 

That person, laying in a cot in a run down garage, barely clinging onto life. 

“Stop thinking so loud, you shank,” Minho drawled, blinking at Newt through half-lidded eyes. The exhaustion of the day had caught up with the Runner. “I’m trying to sleep, dammit.”

“And I’m trying to think,” Newt grinned as Minho’s eyes fell closed once more.

“Think somewhere else.”

“Nah, I’m comfortable right where I’m sitting.”

Minho groaned, leading Newt to chuckle into silence. The two relaxed into the quiet, finally having a small moment to themselves after the frantic events of the day. Still, the blonde could tell Minho was still awake. His eyebrows were scrunched up, just as he does when he starts thinking a little too hard. 

They both knew what had to happen next. They both understood, even from a glimpse, that their best friend wouldn’t last much longer in a place like this. 

No offense to them, they just don’t have the right equipment , Newt thought. 

“You’re definitely thinking the same as me, right?” Minho asked hesitantly, his fingers pulling at the gray blanket as if trying to pluck all of their troubles away. 

“Definitely.”

“Then that means we’ll have to see her again. Face to face.”

“No shit, Min.”

“No, I mean…” the Runner sighed, pushing himself up to rest on his elbows, staring at the ground ahead. “Can you handle seeing her? Even if it’s just for a few hours?”

Newt clasped his hands together in his lap, trying to control the intense anger he felt when it came to Teresa and her actions, of which he was still trying to understand the reasons why she acted the way she did. “I’ll have to try, or else I’ll lose more than my temper. I’ll be losing one of my best friends in this entire shucked-up world.”

Minho sighed, flopping back onto the stiff cot. “I just hope she doesn’t try something.”

“If Gally’s with us, I doubt it. She still thinks he’s dead.”

“Then we can use that.” The Runner rolled over, his back facing the blonde.

Newt hummed an affirmative, his mind racing miles a minute coming up with a plan he’d eventually have to talk to Gally about. While Newt still believed he held the second-in-command title, he was playing on Gally’s- or more Lawrence’s- turf. He needed to adhere to their rules if he was going to get what he wanted, no matter how hard he wanted to act impulsively like the stupid shank currently dying twenty feet away. 

“Hey,” Minho broke the silence, his voice contemplating, inquiring. At Newt’s answering hum, he continued. “Do you think… nah, nevermind.”

“Think what? You can’t leave me hangin’. Now I’m curious,” Newt said, leaning forward, elbows on knees, to poke Minho’s back insistently. 

“It’s stupid.”

“If it’s bothering you, then it’s probably something important.”

After a brief silence, Minho rolled back over, eyebrows knit together and a frown tugging his lips. 

“Do you think WCKD knows something about him that we don’t?” 

Newt raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Thomas is… for lack of a better word, special. WCKD knows it, too. Why else would Ava Paige be so fixated on him and sending him into the Maze last? Gally said something about Thomas always being their favorite, too. Remember?”
Newt vaguely remembered the moment Gally confronted Thomas outside of the glade. He was too focused on the sleek metal gun pointed at his friends and himself to really listen to Gally’s stung-ridden speech. He just nodded to satisfy Minho’s rhetorical question.

“If they spend so much time worrying about him and not everyone they send into the Maze, then don’t you think that maybe… maybe there’s a chance he’s-”

“What? The cure?” Newt challenged. Then, as he thought more about the oddities of Thomas, taking into consideration Minho’s argument, he deflated. “I don’t… maybe it’s possible. But maybe they put their favorite into the Maze to differentiate between people like him and people like me.”

Minho’s frown grew deeper. “People like you?”

Well, shit, nice one , Newt thought sarcastically. There was no way around this now, curse Minho’s stubborn personality.

“The immunes and the non-immunes.” 

Minho gaped at him, eyes shining in disbelief. “Newt-”

“Don’t. I don’t need pity, I need this plan to work,” the blonde snapped. “And before you ask, no, I’m not infected.” 

The yet went unsaid, but mutually understood. 

Minho just sighed wistfully, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes, as if trying to wake from a bad nightmare. Newt felt infinitely lighter now that the truth was out, but felt intense guilt at how Minho’s shoulders drew together, making him seem younger- unceasingly stressed. They both had enough on their plates. Maybe Newt should take Jorge’s advice and drop dead asleep onto the cot like his worn-out body was screaming at him to do. 

“We’ll talk to Gally tomorrow,” was all Minho said in response before turning over once more, indicating there was no further argument. 

Newt exhaled lightly, lying down on the cot, wincing at the aches of his joints and bad leg, before reaching down to grab the blanket off the floor and cover himself with it. Sleep never came easy for him, especially now when so much was on the line. He listened carefully, and after a half hour, drifted to sleep to the old habit of listening to the sounds of his best friends breathing. 

Thomas was running again. 

His lungs ached and his legs burned, and still, he couldn’t let up. He turned the corner of the Maze, finding it to be a dead end. He cursed under his breath, heartbeat racing faster with every mechanical whirr that reached his ears. Thomas analyzed the terrain, finding a small opening on the bottom of the back wall, mostly covered by vines and moss.

Taking no chances of being caught, Thomas slid under the wall. The opening was just enough to fit him snug. Though, in the dark of the night, he doubted the Griever would be able to see him unless it had some sort of night vision built in. The striking steps of the Griever turned the corner just seconds later, pausing in its tracks. 

It sniffed around, slamming its legs into the cement as it walked: an intimidation tactic used to frighten its prey into turning tail and in return, exposing themselves. That’s what it wants you to do, Thomas rationalized, trying to control his raging pulse. He feared that the monster could hear his every bodily function. 

The monster roared, spit flying from its rotten mouth, before retreating out of the dead end to chase another unfortunate prey. 

Thomas let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding in a huff, panting, greedily sucking in the moist air of the underbrush. He allowed his engaged muscles to relax, easing the tension and burns that he’d been grimacing about for the past few minutes. He simply allowed himself to breathe because holy shit, he just escaped death for what felt like the millionth time that night. 

He’d nearly grown accustomed to the Maze and its various noises it produces throughout the night. As he lay there, safe, he listened to his own breath as it steadied, and then the world. Vines whispered in his ear, the wind gently sang an eerie melody that carried through the hundreds of concrete pathways that, by default, should’ve been changing. 

It was too quiet. And once again, Thomas felt his heart speed up as he remembered: he was the prey.

He screamed bloody murder when something wrapped around his arm, dragging him out of his safety cocoon. He flailed under the bruising grip, grunting when something heavy pushed down harshly on his sternum. He forced his eyes up, dragging up the thing- no, person’s- body until he found a face. 

“What a waste.” The ringing of a bullet as it flew from the cocked back chamber, clambering agonizingly slowly to the floor.

Thomas screamed, tearing muscle and tendon. His eyes burned. Everything felt like it was on fire and the hands on his arms felt like cool buckets of ice. Too cold, burning him even more. He couldn’t hear anything over his own dying wails and thumping heart beat stomping in his ears. The hands burned, they burned, they burned-

A single, warm hand took a strong hold of his right wrist. Soft, yet callused from work. It squeezed his wrist lightly, comfortingly, familiar. 

He forced himself to calm down, to take a deep breath and quit screaming, as it was destroying his vocal chords and making his mouth feel even more like the Scorch. He struggled to control his breathing. His face contorted into a grimace as the familiar syrup-thick liquid began making its way up his throat. 

He passed out after coughing up blood.

When he woke up again, he thought he was dead. Floating, even. 

Nothing felt real to him. Not the bandages binding him in a tight hug, or the scratchy blanket covering the rest of his body, or the strange slight breeze that ruffled his hair. He willed his heavy eyelids open. 

The room was a lot darker than he expected. Only a lantern by his bedside illuminated the otherwise dark and vast room. Frypan sat at the foot of the bed, his back towards Thomas, watching the dark. 

“Fry?” he croaked, instantly garnering the attention of the cook. The single word felt like a chainsaw to his throat. 

Luckily, Fry understood what he was trying to convey, facing him fully to explain. “We uh… we managed to find some help. You’re gonna be fine.”

Thomas’s chest itched uncomfortably, making him cough and further ruin his damaged throat. “D-don’t feel-”

“I know. We’re trying to get more help,” Frypan said, “but the person who can help us the most is… well, not on our good list right now.”

Thomas didn’t want to talk anymore, so he tried his best to convey it through his tired eyes. Where are we? Where’s Newt and Minho?

“Don’t worry, man, they’ll be back soon. They’re bringing the help to you.”

Thomas tried to emphasize. Where are we? 

He was very lucky that Frypan could read expressions like an open book. The cook frowned, pulling his fingers until the joints popped anxiously. 

“Look, what I’m about to tell you is gonna seem crazy, but you’ve gotta believe me.”

Thomas nodded, encouragingly, as Frypan cleared his throat and took a deep breath. 

“We were on our way into the city. The Last City. Jorge parked us on the outskirts of the slums and ran off to hopefully find help outside of the walls. But um… someone else found us first. You have to promise me you won’t be mad or do somethin’ crazy, man,” Fry rambled, not even waiting for Thomas’s answer before dropping the bomb. “It’s Gally. He’s alive.”

The leader’s face fell, eyes visibly glowing with anger. Gally? Alive? Minho killed him, spear right through the chest so how… It didn’t matter. He killed Chuck. He killed Thomas’s little brother, and he was gonna pay for what he did. Thomas didn’t care if Gally was helping him. He didn’t trust him one bit. 

Frypan was talking, his expression worried and knowing, and for a moment Thomas hated how Fry knew what he wanted to do. His words fell on deaf ears. Thomas sat up agonizingly slow, feeling every burn thrum through his chest and through his body. Frypan must’ve been shouting at him to sit down, but Thomas took the plastic mask off of his mouth and nose, sluggishly tossing the blanket off of his lap. 

His bare feet hit the cold concrete, sending shivers up his body. Digging into every last bit of strength, Thomas pushed himself off the mattress. His world instantly tilted. He would’ve been in a much larger state of pain if it weren’t for Fry’s quick reflexes, managing to catch him before he flopped to the ground like a lifeless doll. 

“The hell are you doin’?” Frypan’s reprimanding voice filtered through the static in his ears. “You need to stay in bed- goddammit!”

Thomas had tried taking another step, his legs giving out and slamming his knees into the ground, definitely going to leave a bruise. Frypan moved his arms to grab Thomas under the armpits and hoist him up, trying to (carefully) push him back into bed. 

“Dude, I’m serious, you could die if you don’t get back in bed. Can’t you listen to reason for once?”

Thomas shot him a look. No.

“Okay, well…” Fry sighed, exasperated. A pang of guilt hit Thomas’s chest. He felt bad he wasn’t cooperating, and that he was making this more difficult for Fry, but he had to give Gally a piece of his injured-ridden mind. “Shit. We’ll go to the doorway, but that’s it. We can’t risk your wound getting worse than it already is.”

Thomas smiled lightly, squeezing Fry’s shoulder in a silent thank you , before Fry wrapped an arm around Thomas’s waist and helped him limp to the doorway. It was quite the struggle, considering every movement of his upper body sent bolts of stinging agony through his entire body. Yet, he was determined to at least stay on his feet for a couple of minutes. It felt like he’d been pulled out of his coffin that he’d been lying in for days, buried alive. Everything ached in some way, and he couldn’t wait to get a good stretch in without coughing up a lung.

As Fry was about to pull the curtain back, someone beat him to it. Gally, in the flesh, his eyes blown wide in shock. 

“Uhh… Fry?” Gally questioned, raising an eyebrow. “What the hell-”

“He wanted to uh… see for himself. If you were actually still alive,” Frypan explained.

Thomas glared at Gally, murderous. If he weren’t so weak that he couldn’t take a step by himself, he totally would’ve socked the guy right then and there. Save it for another time, he thought, when you’re better and can pack more of a punch.

There were shuffling footsteps behind Gally. Multiple sets. 

“We’ve gotta get him back in bed,” Gally said. “He’s probably killing himself even more just by standing.”

I’ll kill you , Thomas thought bitterly, not fighting against Frypan who had started dragging him back to the bed. The leader hesitantly laid back down, grimacing as he was lowered down onto the mattress. 

Frypan moved to his right side, a comforting presence in the room for Thomas, because it certainly wasn’t Gally. Then, Gally wasn’t in his line of sight anymore, but Newt, Minho, Brenda and Jorge and-

Holy. Shit. Frypan wasn’t lying. Striking blue eyes he’d know anywhere, eyes he grew up with. What the hell was Teresa doing there? Wait, no, they couldn’t be serious. She was the help? After she betrayed them? The leader didn’t forget about her speech she gave him before the first explosives struck, about her mom. He understood where she was coming from, but she had to realize that WCKD wasn’t going to stop what they were doing just because she made a deal with her. 

Thomas shifted away from her as she stepped closer. Fry’s hand was once again on his shoulder, a comforting weight. 

“Thomas, you need to calm down,” Minho said from his left. “We’re trying to get you help.”

He let out a painful noise, which earned him pitiful looks from the others. Minho and Newt stood behind his bed crossing their arms and staring at Teresa’s every move, while Gally moved to the foot of the bed, his hand close to his toolbelt. 

Minho set a hand on his unoccupied shoulder, grounding him as Teresa moved closer. As her eyes raked over his frame, he had to force himself not to move when every fiber in his being was telling him to get out of there. She reached over, not without looking at Gally first, before pressing gently on the bandages. 

“I’ll need to cut the bandages off to see what I’m dealing with,” she said. Every word she spoke raised the electric tension in the room. 

She walked over to the metal cart beside the bed, scanning it for scissors. She quickly found what she needed and carefully raised the scissors to the bandages, and Thomas suddenly found it difficult to breathe. His lungs took in air greedily, as if he’d been deprived for ages. 

“Thomas, calm down,” Teresa said. “I can’t help you if you don’t-”

He couldn’t. He kept breathing erratically, flinching away from the cool metal touching his skin. Metal. Cool metal. A pistol, aimed at his chest. 

“Thomas, please, let her help you,” he heard Newt say from above him. “We know. God, we know what happened. We were all there. Just let her look at you and see if she can actually help, yeah?”

Thomas listened to his friend’s voice. He tried to relax, forcing his heart to stop thumping in his ears. He was suddenly exhausted from the effort of staying awake and trying to venture outside earlier. The lead weight returned to his eyelids, making it difficult for him to stay awake. 

He couldn’t face Teresa. Not yet. He didn’t know if he had it in himself to forgive her, and he couldn’t even speak to anyone due to the excruciating pain in his throat. He figured it was best for himself and the others, if he just fell asleep. So Thomas allowed himself to succumb to the darkness calling his name. 

“He definitely needs surgery. The bullet probably nicked a lung, but I’d need my better medical equipment to be sure.”

Minho sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Thomas had passed out nearly an hour ago, and Teresa was able to conduct her medical examination without further issues. Her expression when she saw the inflamed wound was… well, it didn’t give Minho any more hope. 

And now knowing they somehow had to sneak Thomas into the WCKD tower, the only place that could help him, it was dangerous. Minho knew the risks, he knew the possibilities, he knew exactly what would happen if WCKD caught them. His heart pounded at the mere thought of creeping around the vast, illuminated city with a boy who could yell across a football field and still be heard. He’d given them away last time with his terrible coughs. They had to ride on the hope that Thomas would stay quiet throughout their journey. 

“And bring him right to Ava Paige?” Newt scoffed. 

Teresa gave him a tired, slightly frustrated look. “She won’t know. She’ll think I’m working on the cure. I have been for the past few days.” Then, she glanced at the sleeping figure on the bed, a certain knowing gleam in her eyes that made Minho’s suspicion fly through the roof.

The Runner was surprised to find himself searching Gally’s expression for any ideas. Though, it wasn’t too far-fetched. Gally knew more about the area, the schedule of the guards on the walls, everything. The boy seemed lost in thought, even as he stared at Teresa with an unimpressed look. 

“We need to break into the tower? Seriously?” Brenda sighed. 

“I can get you in. I have access to most of the building, more the medical wing than anything. You’d just need disguises and a plan to get out of there.”

“I can get us disguises,” Gally interjected. “I just don’t think I trust you enough to perform surgery on him.”

Teresa looked like she was about to snap back when Jorge finally spoke up. 

“I think we can trust that WCKD wouldn’t kill Thomas as soon as they got their hands on them. You know they wouldn't do that,” the man reasoned, “not when there’s a chance his blood turns out to be liquid gold. I agree with him: I don’t trust you by yourself to conduct a surgery. I’d feel much better about this if there were other, trusting, doctors there to help out.”

“Wouldn’t every doctor be working on the cure, though? If they figured out Thomas was there, who’s to say they wouldn’t snitch?” Frypan spoke. 

“I know a few that are more on the fence of what WCKD is working towards. They’ll help, no doubt,” Teresa said. 

Minho sighed again, knowing the next few hours were going to be exhausting, full of gathering resources and possibly running around the Last City. 

He was right.

They had to run back into the city to make sure Teresa got home so as to not draw WCKD’s attention further. Gally had split them up into different groups: Minho and Gally would get the WCKD uniforms from the city, Jorge and a couple of Gally’s trusted people would work on the escape plan, and Brenda, Fry and Newt would work on backup plans and memorizing the blueprints for the tower Teresa provided. 

All in all, the work paid off. The next day, Gally, Minho and Newt would escort Teresa to the medical wing as personal bodyguards while Brenda and Fry would sneak Thomas in amongst the different patients. As the ‘bodyguards’ began to suit up, Teresa checked up on Thomas. She seemed upset somehow. At first, Minho thought it was because of her being kidnapped the night before. 

Though, the farther he looked into it, the more he realized it was probably guilt. Guilt that her actions brought WCKD to the Right Arm’s doorstep and in return, kickstarted the events that brought the bullet to Thomas’s chest. This was her chance at redemption. Minho, subconsciously, hoped she didn’t screw it up, for Thomas’s sake.

Gally handed Newt and Minho their masks. “Let’s head out. You guys ready?”

Brenda adjusted her uniform, a pretty convincing nurse’s outfit. “Of course,” she scoffed, making sure her pistol was in its ankle holster. 

Frypan raised his mask, hands trembling in his guard’s uniform. Anxious, Minho knew. “Okay,” the boy whispered to himself, “go through the garage, up the stairs, he’s a last minute transfer…”

“Fry,” Minho called from the table of weapons. The cook nervously met his eye. “You’re gonna be fine, you nervous shank. Don’t worry so much.”

While the skittishness didn’t leave Fry’s eyes, he nodded, appreciative of the small comfort from his friend. 

Jorge stood beside Minho, handling the weapons with ease. The silence between the two spoke volumes. Minho had a feeling Jorge wanted to say something, perhaps about the well being of Brenda.

“Minho.”

The Runner looked up from cleaning his pistol. The man’s expression was serious, even more than usual. He cocked back a pistol, letting it ring out, echoing across the lavish church ceiling. He set the pistol back down and began the cleaning process of another. 

“Watch each other’s backs. WCKD isn’t stupid,” Jorge warned. “I won’t be there to catch your hail mary that I know you’re probably going to throw.”

Minho nodded solemnly. “Of course. Thomas may be the plans guy, but I’m not stupid either. Neither is Gally, even though he looks like a dumb shank.”

Jorge snickered, placing his hand on Minho’s shoulder and squeezing. “Stay safe, hermano . Don’t do anything Thomas would do.”

The Runner smirked, “no promises.”

Jorge handed him a larger assault rifle identical to Newt and Gally’s, nodding one last time as a good luck , before going to say goodbye to Brenda. Minho made his way over to the Gladers, who were oddly quiet and staring off into space. He understood the sentiment: they had no clue if this was going to work. They could be stopped in the middle of the tower for all they knew. Even though Teresa had removed the chips embedded in their necks, there was still that fear that someone could see through their tinted masks. 

Gally broke through the silence as he clicked the safety on his rifle. “We’ve gotta move now if we want to be back here before sunrise. We have no clue how long this surgery will take.”

The Gladers gathered everyone and reluctantly began their journey into the city, hoping Jorge had a damn good escape planned for them. 

So far, the plan was going suspiciously smooth. 

Minho thought, with their luck, they’d have dropped dead as soon as they entered through the front doors. In stark contrast to his racing heart, everyone around them seemed calm. Nobody batted an eye at Teresa and the three guards trailing behind her. They safely made their way past the metal detectors and to the staircase in the far right corner of the main lobby. 

The team wordlessly ascended the staircase until Teresa stopped them. She opened the door to an empty hallway with a bunch of doors labeled by numbers. The boys followed her as she traversed the corridor, carrying an air of confidence that assured anyone who walked by them that nothing was wrong. They turned multiple corners, walked down uncomfortably long halls, until they reached a small hub of sorts where more doctors were walking around, clipboards in hand.

The elevators to the left, facing a long open hall with observation rooms. Patients sat in bed, receiving injections. Teresa turned on her heel, walking down the hall full of doctors and nurses. The boys followed, a little more on edge this time as there didn’t seem to be many guards on this level. As they neared the designated room Teresa had mentioned during planning, Gally broke off from them, returning back to the elevators to wait for Brenda and Fry. 

Teresa went ahead and swiped her ID on the door’s lock, hearing a trusting beep as the lock clicked. She shuffled inside, the two Gladers on her heels. The door shut behind them, lock engaging once again. 

This room, lucky for them, didn’t have any windows. If Minho looked hard enough, it seemed to be a large storage closet. The size of an operating room, full of black crates labeled by spray painted acronyms, stacked onto shelves that hit the ceiling. Other crates were pushed into the corners of the room, making the center the place of operation. A medical table, a bunch of machines and wires and gas tanks that Minho couldn’t read if he tried, and a big light set up in one corner. 

There were two doctors in the room, a really tall, skinny dude and an average height, blonde woman. Their heads whipped around as soon as the door opened, and their shoulders tensed once the Gladers took off their masks in the safety of the windowless room.

“Teresa, I know you said you couldn’t explain much, but I’d love to know what I’m getting myself into. You know, ‘cause we’re about to operate in a storage closet,” the man said, voice scratchy but oddly soothing. 

“You’re going to be saving a childhood friend of mine, Bryan. You’re saving a life, just in a more uh- in a more hush hush kind of way,” Teresa replied, relaxing more as the man, Bryan, lowered his shoulders from his ears. 

“Why make it so secretive?” the woman asked indifferently, picking at her cuticles. “Is he a war criminal or something?”

“Or something,” Minho sighed. “A troubled kid, if you will.”

“Great, so a junkie.”

“No,” Teresa argued, aiming a glare towards Minho. “He was shot in the crossfire of a raid. He’s done nothing wrong. Stop assuming the worst of everything, Kaya.”

Kaya shrugged, focusing back on her nails. “When will they be here, anyway? We’re on a tight schedule and it depends on how bad it is.”

“They should-”

A knock at the door. Teresa ushered Minho and Newt further into the room, out of view of the door, then she opened it. Brenda rushed into the room, wheeling in an unconscious Thomas, who looked like Death. Frypan and Gally entered close behind her, lifting their masks when the door closed. 

“This was too easy,” Frypan whispered panickedly. “We walked right past everyone . Didn’t they have wanted posters of him everywhere?”

“No, they didn’t,” Teresa confirmed. “As far as I’m concerned, only Janson and Ava know about Thomas. They had to cover it up or else it would’ve given them a bad name.”

Kaya and Bryan began to suit up into their scrubs, instructing them to place Thomas on the table. They began preparations for the operation silently as the rest of the Gladers stood off to the side, watching them work. 

“I hope none of you are squeamish,” Kaya warned, though it didn’t sound like she meant it. 

“Not the worst thing we’ve seen,” Gally commented. 

“The Maze Trials?” Bryan questioned as he cut Thomas’s shirt off. 

“Yeah. Seen enough violence in this lifetime,” Newt commented, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “‘M buggin' tired of it.”

“Hopefully, this will be the last time you see anything like that. Of course, you’re welcome to turn away,” Bryan offered along with a nod. 

The operation swiftly began, and Minho nearly threw up at the sounds of Thomas’s skin being tampered with. Seeing him get shot was totally worse than this. Gally, sensing the discomfort, attempted dragging the others into conversation as the two doctors worked. It worked for a couple of moments, but the Gladers’ focus was more on the heart monitor displaying their friend’s current state of health. 

“Punctured lung. It’s a wonder he hasn’t died choking on his own blood by now,” Kaya commented. 

Great , Minho thought. Thomas’s luck is so weird .

Teresa, he noticed, seemed enraptured by the operation. She couldn’t take her eyes off the table, or the person currently being surgically cut open and rebuilt. She didn’t look scared or upset, to Minho’s surprise. She looked more… intrigued. Thoughtful. Thinking about something probably unrelated to the operation. He could tell her curiosity was killing her, but not knowing what she was curious about was worrying Minho. Did it involve Thomas? It had to, why else would she be staring at the boy?

“What?” Minho asked, gaining her attention. 

“Huh?” she replied.

“What’s so interesting about Thomas on the operating table?”

Brenda and the others picked up on his question, now staring holes into the side of Teresa’s head. 

“I was just… wondering,” she said, “about something Ava said a long time ago.”

“About him?” Brenda questioned.

Teresa nodded. “We all knew this, but, back before we were put in the Maze, she would constantly tell him that he was special. I mean, of course he was, he had outstanding marks on tests, was athletic, hardworking. But now it’s just… I have a gut feeling that I want to investigate.”

Newt understood her quicker than Minho. “You want to test his blood?”

She nodded once again, her eyes trailing back to the boy on the table. “I just can’t shake this feeling that he has and always has been the cure. Who else but him?”

Minho didn’t doubt the possibility. Thomas had this air about him, something Minho thought surrounded someone powerful, like a president or world leader. He was confident in his abilities, his brain, his memory like it was always meant to be right, even if he wasn’t, he still took it in stride. In a way, he was curious too, if the boy who saved them from the horrid Maze was the savior the world needed. 

He could tell the others were thinking the exact same thing, because they all didn’t stop Teresa when she used a cloth to collect a small sample of Thomas’s blood. When she tried to leave the room was when Gally sent Newt and Minho to go with her. For safety, of course.

Newt, oddly, didn’t feel as nervous as before walking around the medical bay. An imposter in uniform, a daring and bold move, yet it worked. Teresa led them through the medical wing with ease, nodding politely at anyone who bid her the courtesy first. Newt found himself scanning their surroundings rather than focusing on the back of the girl’s head like Minho was.

No sign of Ava or Janson. A good thing or bad thing, who knows? But it didn’t make the burning nerves settle across his body. His finger itched above the trigger of his assault rifle. No threats. Yet. That was good.

Teresa eventually led them into another room, luckily without any observation windows, and instantly got to work, manning the machines and gathering test tubes like her life depended on it. In a way, if she was right, all of their lives did. 

The window did, however, have a giant glass wall overlooking the city. Newt was just as stunned as he was before: surprised but also not. He wondered how fast WCKD had built the city. A couple weeks? Months or years? He had to hand it to them, it was impressive, but impractical. They really couldn’t have thought they’d keep the general public out forever, right? People were demanding a cure.

Minho and Newt lifted their masks to breathe properly while Teresa worked. 

“Damn, this thing’s hot as shit,” Minho complained, wiping the sweat from his glistening face with one glove. “How do they work like this?”

Newt shrugged, leaning against the glass and watching the city below. Nobody outside, police patrolling in their cars, lights in the skyscrapers casually going out as people readied for bed. It got Newt thinking of Gally’s people. Were they going to sleep, or were they just as restless as he was? Teresa’s theory had sparked a new kind of adrenaline in his body. One that kept him awake and nothing else: no magic superstrength or ability to ignore major injuries like they were simple cuts.

The boys let Teresa work in silence, listening to the glassware occasionally clink together. Minho gathered his barings, still trying to wipe sweat off his face as he moved to stand beside Newt. 

“Man… I hate to say I’m impressed with all this,” he said, gesturing to the buildings. “Not an easy feat in this shucked up world.”

Newt snickered. “Wonderin’ where they got the materials, considering the world’s gone to shit.”

Minho returned the smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. And in the blink of an eye, the spark was gone. The Runner’s expression fell flat, brow furrowed in intense thought. The same look he got whenever he came back from the Maze, day after day when he knew there was nothing else to explore. Fearful, yet curious. 

“What?” Newt questioned, nudging the Runner with his foot. 

It took Minho a moment to find the correct words. He even glanced at Teresa, who was too occupied in her thoughts and motions to pay attention. 

“I’m just-” he huffed, crossing his arms and staring into the dark skyline, void of stars. “What if she’s right? What if Thomas is the cure?”

Newt didn’t have an answer for him. The rational one, the one who always thought of plan A-Z didn’t have an answer for a question he’d been putting in the back of his head the entire walk to Teresa’s lab. He hadn’t even given it a second thought because the first… well, he didn’t like the first. 

If Thomas was the cure, hypothetically, WCKD would eventually find out. They’d snatch him up without a second thought, locking him up in the tower like some damsel, making sure he was weak enough to not be able to escape, and they’d bleed him dry for a population desperate for a remedy to the one and only world-ending virus that had gone airborne. They’d never see him again. The worst part?

Newt knew Thomas would willingly go. No questions asked.

“We’d have to run,” the blonde shrugged. “They’d never let him go.”

Minho hummed. “He’d fight us, you know? Probably say something like- but I’m the cure guys! I can help people! ” the Runner mocked in a high-pitched voice.

The two shared a chuckle before the weight of the statement settled in. He could help people. That’s what Thomas was all about, and, if he knew he could save people… 

“I don’t want him to be. Is that selfish?” Minho asked genuinely, a certain timbre to his voice Newt hadn’t heard in a while. Newt’s fingers twitched before finally putting his hand on his best friend’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. 

“Not at all, mate. I… don’t want him to either, but I do want him to be this almighty savior. It’d make sense, wouldn’t it?” Newt said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Which, of course, Minho noticed, and questioned, “what is it?”

Newt was about to come up with some (probably) lame excuse when his lungs suddenly itched uncomfortably. Strong coughs forced out of his body, rattling his entire body with sheer force. One palm laid flat on the cool glass, sending shivers down his suddenly scalding hot body, the other still holding onto his best friend. 

“Hey! What’s going on? Talk to me!” Minho demanded worriedly, lightly patting Newt’s back as if it’d help ease the invisible itch. 

Newt coughed once more, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know, I-”

“The virus.”

Both boys whirled on Teresa, who was staring at them, wide eyed, her hands on the tuning knobs of a microscope. 

“The virus,” she said again. “It’s airborne. Newt, you…”

Newt’s heart raced uncomfortably fast. He let out a frustrated sigh. “Of course it had to happen now ,” he spat, rising to his full height. 

He glanced quickly at Minho and regretted it instantly. Minho would never stare at him like some poor piece of shit who got unlucky, he knew that, but he’d rather Minho look at him like a piece of shit than whatever unnatural amount of concern and worry and utter fear he was looking at him with now. 

“Let me just-” Teresa looked into the microscope, fiddling with the knobs. As she did so, a heavy set of footsteps approached the door, fast. 

“Shit!” Minho and Newt cursed, quickly putting their masks on and shuffling to look somewhat normal. 

The door opened, Ava Paige stepping through in her signature white outfit of the day. Some angel she was, Newt remarked mentally.

“What are you doing? I thought I told you to-”

“I know what you told me. I just… I’ve had a revelation,” Teresa said vaguely, not taking her eyes out of the microscope. 

Ava eyed the two ‘guards’ suspiciously. “What kind?”

“Groundbreaking.” The women fell silent. Teresa focused, barely breathing as she dropped something onto the test sample. Minho and Newt watched, holding their breaths. 

“Oh my god…”

Fuck , Newt thought. He watched Teresa’s expression evolve into something of awe and raw hope. All he could think was fuck fuck fuck, of course he is of course he is goddammit-

Ava’s posture straightened, asking the question all of them had at that moment. “What?”

Teresa looked at the woman with a spark in her eye Newt hadn’t seen since that night in the Maze, when the Grievers attacked. Utter determination. “I have the cure. I know how to make the cure!”

Ava’s expression fell into disbelief as she moved to look into the microscope. Teresa stepped back, smiling lightly at the two Gladers, who were feeling… even more worried. They just gave this information to the one person who they didn’t want to know. Ava Paige would surely stop at nothing now to get her hands on Thomas.

Ava turned to Teresa when all of a sudden, the building shook. Everyone looked out the window, seeing a giant yellow, white and orange explosion bring down part of the giant concrete wall separating the city from the infected. Newt could hear gunshots. More explosions, sounding from what seemed like everywhere. 

“What the-” Ava started just as the alarms started to blare. She looked hurriedly to Teresa. “Stay here. Don’t move. Make as much as you can!”

Then, Ava was gone, leaving a group of frazzled teens behind. 

Newt ripped off his mask, finding it harder to breathe with the mask off than on. “What the hell is happening?”

“It has to be Lawrence, right?” Minho reasoned. “I mean, you saw the guy. And we kinda didn’t hold up our end of the bargain.”

“But blow up the walls?”

“Guys!” Teresa interrupted, pointing intently at the blue vial in her hand. “I need more blood. I don’t think this is enough to cure someone.”

You , her eyes said, staring into Newt’s. The blonde still hadn’t found it in himself to forgive her. He found it odd that she’d suddenly turn against WCKD and return back to their side after everything that’s happened. Why help him? Because of Thomas?

“I’ll go-”

“No,” Newt cut off his best friend. “We all need to go.”

Teresa nodded, grabbing a couple of pieces of lab equipment before joining them in the chaotic halls. Doctors and nurses running everywhere, papers flying, guards yelling as they passed, barking orders. The three Gladers ignored everything, following Teresa back to the small closet they left everyone else in.

They got back a lot quicker than Newt thought, as Teresa wrenched the door open and ran inside, the two boys right on her heels. 

“I need more blood,” Teresa said, winded. 

The two doctors were right in the middle of stitching Thomas’s skin back together. It nearly made Newt throw up whatever was left of his stomach, seeing the needle pass through his best friend’s skin so easily. The rest of the group stared in wonder.

“Is he-” Brenda started.

“Yes. I need more,” Teresa repeated.

It was like the wind was sucked out of the room. Nobody spoke, too in shock of knowing the cure was right in front of them. 

“Greenie’s the cure?” Gally asked incredulously. “Wow. Holy shit-”

“Good thing I thought to save some of it,” said Kaya, unimpressed as she pulled up a couple of plastic bags full of blood. “Don’t ask how I got it.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Minho commented lightly. 

“He’s really the cure?” Bryan asked hopefully, a light sheen of tears in his eyes. 

Teresa nodded, and it made the man hiccup, trying to hold back a sob. 

“Okay, but what was that rumblin’ that happened a minute ago?” Frypan asked. 

“Someone blew up the wall,” Newt explained curtly. 

Gally sighed, running a hand over his buzzed head. “It’s Lawrence. He wanted to have one last F-you to WCKD. He knew he was a goner anyway.”

“We don’t have much time,” Teresa said, gathering the blood bags. “I need to make this undisturbed.”

“That’s gonna be a little hard to accomplish right now…” Frypan commented. 

“No, we need to get Thomas out of here. There’s no cure if he’s dead,” Brenda pointed out. 

“I agree. Newt, Minho, go with Teresa. We’ll get Thomas out,” Gally directed, watching carefully as the two doctors made sure the stitches would stay put.

They didn’t need another word before they were back out in the hallway, shoving past panicking doctors and rough guards. Newt was once again scanning the hallway, nearly stopping when he saw the familiar Rat-like face of Janson. He pushed Minho forward, keeping his eye on the man until they turned the corner.

“Shit,” he cursed as soon as they got back to Teresa’s lab. “It’s Janson. He saw us. He definitely saw us.”

“You don’t know that,” Minho argued, looking out over the now burning city, the officers running from the buildings into the crossfire. “He could’ve been passing by.”

“I don’t know about that,” Teresa said as she got back to work. “I think he might be infected. There’s no telling what he’ll do now.”

Newt tried taking calm, deep breaths, running his hands through his hair. It was becoming more difficult to think rationally. Definitely the virus eating his brain. Thoughts were more erratic, more violent , more disturbing than the thoughts he had back in the Maze. No longer suicidal thoughts, but murderous. His hands shook as he looked at Teresa, busy making a cure, fighting the urge to hop over the counter and wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze -

“Newt!”

Minho’s face obstructed his vision of her, concerned. “Hey? You with me? I’m gonna need those veins popping out of your neck to pop back in! Stay focused!”

“Trying,” Newt seethed back, unintentionally flinging saliva everywhere. It was becoming increasingly difficult for the blonde to even breathe properly. With every intake, everything burned and felt as if he were being electrocuted. 

Of the many thundering footsteps outside the door, Newt picked up on one set in particular. The same boots that walked them down the halls of the first WCKD facility, claiming they were a resistance against WCKD and that they were safe. 

Minho caught on quickly and managed to push a chair under the door handle, locking the door into place. The metal handle rattled quickly, then a pound on the door. 

“Teresa? Open up!” Janson yelled. 

The three teens in the room held their breaths. Janson’s fist made contact with the door another three times before they heard another muffled voice over the chaos outside. More reasonable, calm, and then the footsteps were fading away. The three exhaled in relief. 

“This batch is going to take a couple of minutes,” Teresa announced, typing on a keypad beside one of the fancy looking machines. She quickly glanced at Newt, who was trying to wipe off the perspiration dotting his face. “You need to sit down. You’re only going to get weaker from here.”

Newt nodded, not willing to argue when he could feel his body’s temperature steadily rising. He took off the gloves of his uniform, running a hand through his sweat soaked hair. He took the walkie talkie off his belt, tired of feeling the rubber antenna dig into his side. 

“Gally? Gally come in,” Newt spoke into the device as it beeped. 

Minho kneeled next to him, keen on an update of their friend’s condition. It was an agonizing moment of silence, one that felt too drawn out with the sound of gunfire bouncing off the buildings. Then, the device erupted with static.

“Guys-” bzzzzt “-razy as shit down here!” Frypan’s distorted voice entered the room. 

“I don’t know what you guys-” Gally’s voice cut in, but was stopped with another shhhhhkkk from the interference “-we got a transmission from Jorge! He’s going to pick us up down here-”

The radio cut out again, this time leaving them in a tense silence as they listened to the device struggle to pick up their signal. Newt’s heart hammered in his chest, waiting to hear from them again. 

“-en he said to pick-” bzzt “-up on the-” krrshh “-so stay put!”

“What? I’m losing you!” Newt practically yelled into the device. He was forced to wait once again, subject to the fuzz of the walkie. 

Through the loud static, Gally’s voice tried to break through the veil again, a little distorted as he said, “meet on the roof!”

“When?” Minho asked just as Newt pressed the button on the device. 

“I’ll radio you-”

“Gally? Gally?” Newt tried. No answer. No further updates. It was going to drive the blonde crazy not knowing what was going on. “Shit!”

Minho sat fully on the floor, wiping his face with his hands. “This feels like the Scorch all over again.”

Teresa turned her head to join in. “How so?”

“Us getting separated, worrying Thomas is dead when in all reality the shank was fine. God must really love him,” Minho said sarcastically.

“This is different though,” Newt sighed, grimacing with how every movement seemed to feel like a thousand needles poking his skin. “He’s hurt this time. Bad. And he just used up a lot of energy in that operation. If anything happens to them before Jorge can get to them…”

“I know.”

Teresa paced lightly, lost in thought once again. Before she could speak, there was more pounding at the door, making them all jump. 

“I know you’re in there you little shits,” Janson said, which in all honesty, kind of creeped the blonde out. “Open up.”

Minho shot to his feet, knowing Newt was close to being out of commission. He looked to Teresa, who unfortunately looked just as frightened as he felt.

Shit shit shit , he thought. They had no idea how many guards Janson brought with him. No doubt they were armed, too. Minho would probably be the only one to be able to fight them, but he was just one dude. He could fend off one person, maybe two. 

Sparks flew from the door. They were cutting the fucking lock. 

“Oh my god oh my god,” Minho muttered, unsure of what to do. He looked around the room, noting how there were no air ducts to retreat to. There was no way out. “What do we do?”

The machine holding the cure beeped, and Teresa scrambled to it, grabbing 6 vials. She frantically searched the cabinets beside the machine until she found the most futuristic needles Minho had ever seen. She grabbed an emergency medical kit from the wall and stuffed it all inside, making sure it was locked up good. By the time she was done with that, Minho estimated the guards were halfway through the lock. 

Minho’s eyes landed on the microscope Teresa had used earlier, sitting innocently enough on the counter. He ran over, unplugged it, and threw it at the window, effectively cracking the glass but not breaking it completely. Fuming, he ran over, grabbing the scientific equipment that did him no wrong, and hurled it at the glass again. Satisfyingly, the glass shattered. 

His eyes followed the shards as they fell parallel to the building before being submerged in the pool of water God knows how many feet below them. He eyed the building itself, really basking in how tall it was. 

“You can’t be serious,” Newt huffed as he struggled to stand. “That’s suicide.”

“I agree,” Teresa said, looking at Minho in disbelief. 

“Looks fine to me,” the Runner replied. “We don’t have much of a choice. It’s either fight against Janson and some trained guards or jump out and escape. What, scared of getting your hair wet?”
Teresa scowled, her hand gripping tighter around the med kit’s handle. “I’m scared we’re going to miss the pool and die. Or worse, die as soon as we hit the water.”

“We don’t have any other options!” Minho argued.

All arguments ceased when the sound of metal clanging to the floor rang out behind them. The door opened a crack, Janson peeking his head through. His eyes landed on Minho in surprise, then trailed to Teresa, where he seemed to only get angrier. 

“You bitch-”

Minho didn’t hear the rest of it. He grabbed the two other teens by the wrists and jumped, hearing Teresa scream bloody murder next to him until they hit the water. It wasn’t as bad as Minho thought it was going to be, but it still hurt a bit. The three emerged from the water, climbing up onto the street. Minho looked back up at where they jumped, seeing Janson standing with his pistol drawn and a disbelieving look on his face. 

“Man, fuck that guy,” the Runner griped under his breath, “I’m sick of him. Let’s go.”

“Where?” Teresa questioned, but still followed Minho as he started jogging, looking worriedly over at Newt, who was struggling to keep up. 

“Huh?” Minho hummed. “What do you mean-... ohhhhh shit.”

“We forgot to ask… where they were going…” Newt heaved, reaching up to unbutton his uniform further. His veins were really showing now and it worried Minho to no end. It made him feel guilty for dragging his best friend through hell. 

Minho reached for his own walkie, shaking the device as if it’d get all the water out from the speakers. “Gally? Brenda? Fry? Come in! Anyone!”

He nearly ran into someone with a giant pipe covered in blood. He paused, realizing he’d just led them into a battlefield. Shots were being fired all around them, to the point where Minho just ducked slightly and jogged to what seemed to be a small empty alleyway. The others followed suit, and once they were concealed in the dark, Newt slumped to the floor, wheezing breaths and coughs rattling his frame.

Minho tried again, “Gally? Brenda? Fry? Come on guys!”

For a moment, all he could hear were the nearby explosions, the bullets whizzing past, the screams of the rebels falling. Then, by some miracle, his walkie produced some static that sounded warbled. 

“...” bzzt

It was a start. Someone was trying to contact him. 

“Fry! Brenda! Listen, something went wrong! We’re headed to you, wherever that may be. Don’t leave without us! Don’t go back to the tower!”

Bzzt “-inho? What?”

He nearly sobbed at he sound of the cook’s worried tone. 

“Tell Jorge to not go to the tower, tell him to stay put.”

“Okay, but why?”

“Did you not hear anything I just said?”

An explosion shook the ground, a lot closer this time. 

“Did you hear that?” Minho questioned.

“I’m hearin’ a lot of things, you’ve gotta be specific.”

“That explosion! Just now!”

“I mean, yeah. It didn’t sound too far.”

“Where are you?”

“Near the train station. Be careful dude, it’s rough coming up that way.”

“Will do. Stay put, you hear me? We’re coming.”

“Roger that.”

Minho clipped his walkie back onto his belt and crouch walked over to Newt, who was getting paler and more sickly looking by the second. “We’ve gotta go now, dude. You up for one more trip?”

“Oh, am I ever,” Newt replied with a small smile and chuckle, still fiddling with his uniform jacket’s buttons, trying to undo them as he was feeling uncomfortably hot.

Minho looked at Teresa, nodding to Newt. She nodded and helped Minho bring Newt to his feet, swaying. They steadied the blonde, Minho readjusting his grip on his wrists to make sure they were secure before wordlessly leading them through the streets. They dodged lunatics with makeshift weapons, running at the properly armed guards. They stepped over the bodies of infected and guards alike, with Minho cringing every time his boots stepped in puddles of blood. 

“Wait… the train station is this way!” Teresa exclaimed over the gunfire, suddenly pulling them to the right. 

Frypan wasn’t lying when he said the fighting was bad. People engaged in hand to hand combat, guards beating people senselessly until they stopped screaming, people succumbing to the Flare virus right before their eyes. It made Minho squeeze his best friend’s wrist tighter, scared to let go.
They got about halfway through the street when Newt’s legs gave out. It nearly took Teresa and Minho down with him, but they steadied, grunting as they hoisted the blonde back up. 

“Come on, Newt! We’re gonna make it!” Minho yelled. 

Newt only grunted, his breathing heavier, struggling. Minho willed himself and Teresa to move faster. They got through the madness unscathed, miraculously. They were nearing the entrance to the train platform when Teresa paused. 

“What? We can’t start stopping! We’ve gotta keep moving,” Minho chastised.

“Not in the train station, near ,” Teresa said. “If I know Jorge, he’s kind of dramatic in a good way, but he’d definitely go big… I know!”

Once again, she led them in a different direction than the platform. Through a tunnel with burning, overturned vehicles and more gunfire. A bullet nicked Minho’s arm, making his heart leap in his chest as he cursed at the stinging sensation. He pushed Newt forward slightly in a poor effort to try and protect him from the gunfire. 

They emerged from the tunnel, and Teresa kept speed walking as fast as she could while carrying half of Newt’s dead weight. Minho wondered why she didn’t administer the cure to the blonde right after she made it. It surely would’ve saved them some trouble.

“Over there! That berg doesn’t belong here!”

“Berg? Oh my god, he is dramatic.”

Jorge was dramatic, but he was also insanely prepared. Minho just didn’t expect the man to have a Berg on standby, probably taken by unorthodox methods. Newt’s sickly pallor had gotten worse and worse, and to Minho’s horror, the boy started convulsing, a thick black liquid oozing from his lips and dripping onto his chin. 

“Shit, he’s nearly to the Gone,” Teresa stated. “We’ve got to get him to the berg! Push!”

“I’m trying!”

The tailgate of the Berg was put down, with Frypan standing on the ledge, looking through the dark chaos. He spotted them walking up the stairs to the open area the aircraft was parked on, Newt in tow. His giddy expression suddenly fell as he ran over to help. 

“What’s happening to him?” Fry asked, though he fully knew the answer.

“He’s infected, and I need to give him the cure,” Teresa said.

Together, the three of them got Newt onto the Berg and onto a row of seats, forcing him to lay down. The boy gave no protest, which was slightly worrying to Minho, as Newt hadn’t said a word for a while. His veins looked black instead of blue, which, as far as Minho knew, was never a good sign.

Teresa kneeled next to the boy and opened the medical kit, grabbing the cure and one of the needles as Jorge, Brenda and Gally entered the main area with conflicted expressions.

“What’s taking them so- oh,” Jorge started, taking in the sight before him. “Oh shit.”

“We need to take off, now,” Brenda said to the man, who nodded and ran to the cockpit. 

As the Berg prepared for takeoff, Teresa skillfully loaded the cure into the needle. She pressed it against Newt’s forearm before pressing fully, allowing the cure to enter his system. The reaction was nearly instant. The black of the veins retreated, returning to a normal sky blue. His skin was gaining color, and there were no more shaky, heaving breaths. Newt opened his glassy bloodshot eyes and breathed. He took a deep breath, smiling at the pain relief, knowing he was cured of the world-ending disease.

“Where’s Thomas?” Minho asked. Frypan pointed to the opposite side of the room, where they had secured Thomas to the opposing row of seats. Still sleeping. 

Teresa’s gaze lingered on Thomas’s sleeping form for a moment, deciding. “I can’t go with you.”

“What?” Brenda said. “But you’ve helped us, gotten us this far, we can’t-”

“I can’t go,” she repeated. “It’s for the best. For all of us. I’ve done my part. I helped you. I helped humanity . That’s the best I could ever do.”

She looked sadly at the Gladers, knowing that a long time ago, long before they were forced into the Maze, that they were all once good friends. Inseparable, attached because there was nothing else to do at the facility besides read and learn. They found the best in each other. 

Teresa stood, leaving the med kit on the ground and walking off the ramp, standing a firm five feet away from the foot of the ramp, smiling sadly at the group. She said nothing as the Berg shifted, jostling all of them. The aircraft took off, and they watched Teresa’s tearstained face get smaller and smaller until the ramp closed. Minho felt every bit of exhaustion in his body seep into his bones. He sat down in front of Newt, leaning against the seats his best friend lay on. Minho sighed, tired. Oh how tired he was. He felt as if he’d escaped the Maze all over again. 

Escaping the city felt too easy, though. Well, he didn’t want to complain, so he wouldn’t. He quickly drifted off, knowing they were all safe.

Thomas didn’t think he’d wake up again, but there he was, lying on something soft and staring at a ceiling made of… twigs? Tree branches?

He slowly sat up, grunting lightly at the itchy feeling on his chest. He raised the dark blue shirt he wore, seeing familiar white bandages. So it was all real then. They had gotten Teresa to help. It wasn’t a shitty plan: far from it. He just didn’t expect them to resort to working with a traitor. 

With some effort, he managed to stand. A wooden hut with some medical equipment, as well as a worn looking med kit on a table. The cloth being used as a door swayed with the wind, the sun’s light reflecting on the white fabric. Thomas pushed through, gobsmacked at the sight of a beach before him. Grass beneath his feet. Wind in his hair. People walking to and from with materials in their arms. A campfire in the middle, with wooden buildings surrounding the amphitheater. 

Down by the fire pit which painfully reminded Thomas of the bonfire in the Maze, he saw everyone. Newt, Fry, Gally, Minho, Brenda and Jorge. They were all talking, laughing and smacking each other’s arms when the laughter couldn’t be conveyed enough through sound. He began the eager walk down to the fire pit, wincing occasionally at the small prickles of pain on his chest. 

Frypan noticed him first, his eyes blowing wide. “Thomas!” he exclaimed happily.

The rest of the group whipped their heads directly at him. He suddenly felt like the scared little Greenie on his first day fresh out of the box, unknowing of the people around him or the environment. That was until Newt and Minho shot up from their seats, running over to wrap their arms around him gently. Familiar warmth spread across his skin like a warm blanket. He breathed in the salty air, realizing that yes, he was actually there, alive, not in a dream.

“Been asleep for a while, man,” Minho said, patting Thomas’s back lightly as he and Newt pulled away. “Snore like Frypan after a good feast, too.”

“Hey! I don’t snore,” Frypan denied half-heartedly as he embraced Thomas, patting the boy’s shoulders. “I’m making your favorite stew tonight.”

“Great, I’m starving,” Thomas said with a laugh, resting a hand on Newt’s shoulder to steady himself. 

“Still kinda lightheaded?” Brenda questioned as she grinned and went for her turn at a hug. “Don’t overdo it. I know you will but I’m gonna keep you in check.”

The group chuckled. Gally stepped forward, quieting the group as they were curious for what he was going to say. Thomas’s mood shifted slightly, not going unnoticed by Gally’s watchful gaze.

The boy cleared his throat. “I know we got off on the wrong foot. And I also am very aware of what I did to Chuck. I’ll understand if you want to hate me forever, and I’m okay with that if that’s your choice. I just needed you to know how sorry I am. It was like I wasn’t in control of my body and next thing I knew-”

“Gally,” Thomas interrupted. “I’m… still upset about it. Chuck was my little brother. But you tried to kill me. Chuck saved me. Chuck’s actions aren’t your fault. I just needed to blame someone because… I don’t think I know why, but I just needed someone to blame and it was you. But I know it was all WCKD’s fault in the first place. I miss Chuck, but it wasn’t you that took him from us.”

Gally was rendered speechless, so he just nodded, extending his hand for Thomas to shake. “I’ll keep that in mind going forward. Just try not to spit out my drink I’m making for tonight like you did last time.”

Thomas laughed, his bubbling laughter contagious to the others. For the first time in… all of his life, he finally felt like everything was going to be okay. He was alive, his friends were alive, they were safe and far away from WCKD. Thomas would count that as a win.

Even though Thomas didn’t get to put a bullet in Janson’s chest like he wanted to, he was happy to hear the last city had fallen, and WCKD with it, finally ridding his life of every burden he’d been holding onto.