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Another false lead. Vince had come to them a couple of days earlier stating he might have something, and it was just another thing that brought them absolutely nowhere. They'd been trying to find Minho for weeks now, had been looking high and low for him in every single place they could think of. But there was still no trace of him anywhere. It was like WCKD had taken him and had vanished off the face of the earth, leaving the rest of them behind to grasp at straws trying to get him back. They all tried to cling onto hope, continuously telling each that "This could be it!" anytime something new arised, but it was obvious everyone was slowly getting discouraged. Everytime they came back empty handed, everytime they felt like they were close to getting him back only to have reality slap them in the face, their hope to one day find him was slowly chipping away. Every failed expedition was another piece of it that fell away, leaving behind a hole that was later filled with disappointment and resentment. The more the days passed, the less people started believing they would ever find Minho.
They were running on borrowed time, after all. None of them really knew what WCKD had planned for him, or any of them, really, but Janson had made it clear that they wouldn't bother keeping around someone that wouldn't be of any use to them. There was no knowing what "being of use" meant, no way for any to know if Minho was still alive or if WCKD deemed they didn't need him anymore. It meant they were running around the Scorch, scrambling to find even the smallest of leads, without knowing if the one they were looking for was even still alive.
That stressed Newt out more than anything else.
He could deal with not knowing where Minho was, could manage not having him around, hell, he was even willing to lose sleep because he wasn't around. But not knowing if he was still alive? Doubting the fact that he'd ever get to see the man he loved just one more time? That was worse than anything WCKD could've possibly forced him to go through. And their last failed search was the final nail in the coffin.
Newt hadn't even stayed around long enough to hear about how "We'll be find him next time, guys!" or whatever else everyone tried to tell themselves. For two weeks, they'd been searching high and low for any trace of WCKD, any trace of Minho, and for two weeks they hadn't found anything. Not even the tiniest of hints. Newt didn't even know if he had anymore hope left to lose or if it had all gone down the drain already.
He finally found a secluded spot, one where he didn't think anyone would look in for a while. Letting himself sink to the floor, he burried his head in his hand, letting out a shaky breath, desperately trying to ignore the tight pain in his chest. It wasn't the first time it had settled there, but he thought he'd gotten rid of it for good when they'd left the Glade and he wouldn't have to worry about whether or not Minho would make it back in time. There were a couple of instances where he'd almost broken down because Minho made it through the doors right before they closed - and don't even get him started on how he felt when he actually got stuck in there with Thomas and Alby. The tightness had been there every time, but it always settled as soon as he was able to wrap his arms around his lover, it would dissipate and leave until the next time Minho was later than usual.
But now it wouldn't leave. It had appeared when he watched Minho get dragged away and hadn't left since, only growing and spreading throughout his body. He'd stopped eating, his mind was always filled with thoughts and ideas about how they could save him. And his heart. It felt broken and heavy, it was painful, as if someone had wrapped their fist around it and squeezed, the hold growing tighter with every passing day that Minho wasn't by his side.
He tried to push the negative thoughts away, he didn't need them making him feel worse than he already did, but they still found their way into his mind. They pushed away his logical thoughts, digging their claws into him and taking over him until all he could think about were the What If's.
What if they got there but the plan failed? What if they got taken along with him and didn't have any way to save him or themselves? What if Minho died? What if they got there and they were too late? What if they were already too late? What if they were sitting here, trying to find ways to get to Minho, but it was already too late for him? What if he was already dead, and they were all just doing this for nothing at all?
Newt's thoughts spiralled, each one conjuring up images and scenes more horrible than the last. The pain in his chest just kept getting worse, worse, worse. Tighter, tigher, tighter. It felt like something was pushing down on his chest. Forcing the air out as soon as he managed to take some in. He dug his hands into his thighs, scratching them through his pants as he gasped. Trying to breathe through the whirlwind of thoughts swarming his mind. Taking over his entire being. He could see Minho in front of him, body lifeless, WCKD having drained everything out of him. He closed his eyes, willing the visions away. But they stayed. They stayed and multiplied.
Minho attached to machines. Minho being tested and experimented on. Minho being put through hours of pain for something that didn't exist. Minho having the life drained out of him. Minho dead.
It's your fault. Soneone said. It's your fault. You were too slow. You didn't stop them from taking him. If you weren't so useless with that limp, you could've made it. Could've saved him. But you didn't. And now he's dead. Because of you.
He tried to tell them to shut up, to stop talking, but he could barely move. Barely think. His mind wouldn't stop. His lungs felt empty. His heart was going too fast. Everything was blurry, he felt like he was losing his grip on everything. His ears were ringing. He could taste blood. Minho's body was laying in front of him. Eyes wide, empty, dead.
For a while that was all. Accusatory voice. Heaving lungs. Blurry vision. Ringing ears. Dead Minho, dead Minho, dead Minho.
Then something cut through. Made his way to him even through his panic.
He was too out of it to notice it at first. But he picked up on it at one point. A heartbeat. Thumping in his ear. He could feel it against his temple, too. His hand was resting against something. Going up in down in a steady rhythm. He could feel small puffs of air against his forehead. Like someone was trying to get him to match their breathing pattern. He wasn't able to keep the air in the first time, coughing as soon as his lungs filled up. And again on his second try. But, slowly, he breathed in and out in a slower rhythm. His heart calmed down, no longer trying to break his ribcage open. The visions faded away, leaving behind them the dusty room he'd walked in a couple of minutes earlier. Thomas' voice cut through the accusations - which were getting quieter and quieter - whispering words of encouragement and informing him of who was cradling him and calming him down.
It took him another couple of minutes to fully come back to himself, chase everything away, but once he did, Thomas was still there. Arms wrapped around Newt and holding him close, chin resting on top of his head while Newt's head was on his chest. He stayed there for a while - could've been two minutes, could've been ten - just listening to the boy's heart beat, enjoying this moment of peace, something they so rarely had these days. Eventually, though, he pulled away, Thomas letting him go without a fight, thankfully.
"How'd you find me, Tommy?" Was his first question after he'd checked to make sure standing up didn't cause any dizzy spell, the brunet following him in his tracks.
"Saw you coming down here a couple minutes ago." He explained. "Came to look for you when Jorge said he needed to talk to us."
Newt hummed, still not looking at him, choosing instead to watch as people worked to steadily fill the ship up with Immunes that were going to leave for the Safe Haven soon. "Are we leaving?" He asked, seeing no other explanation as to why he'd be needed.
"No." Thomas' tone is what got him too look back at him, and he tried not to feel sick at the shine of hope in his eyes. He'd seen it get crushed so many times already, he didn't want to witness it again. "He said he heard of some city not too far from here. It's where the rest of the population lives. WCKD's headquarters are there, too, apparently, and there's a good chance Minho is with them."
"And… Vince actually agreed? To the plan?"
"Took a bit of convincing and promising that this would be the last time we tried, but yeah."
Newt pursed his lips, thinking about it. They'd searched abandonned houses, warehouses, WCKD compounds… but never an actual city. And if WCKD's headquarters were there, then Minho was probably locked up there, too. They had one chance, one last chance to save the love of his life. To get him back in his arms, where he belonged. Where he was safe.
But, there was still the chance that this wouldn't work. That Minho wouldn't be there, or that he'd be dead when they got there. Or another one of them could die during the whole rescue mission.
Thomas must've noticed his inner turmoil, because before he could fall back down the endless spiral, he pulled him into a hug, allowing Newt to cling onto him like he was afraid he'd die if he let go. "We'll get him back, Newt. He's okay, we still got time, I'm sure of it."
He didn't have anything to say to that, so he just squeezed him even tighter. Thomas didn't take too long to pull away, turning to leave but not before asking him if he was following behind. "You go ahead. I just need a second to think."
The brunet nodded, walking away despite the clear hesitation on his face. "I won't be far, just call for me if anything happens."
And just like that, Newt was alone again. Able to let himself drown in his thoughts if he so pleased. Sighing, he scratched at his arm before pulling his sleeve back, revealing the angry, black veins he already knew were there. He didn't quite remember when he'd gotten infected, but it couldn't have been all that long ago, the disease was still only in his forearm. His veins were more obvious, poking out and a much darker, worrying shade than they should be. He clenched his fist, groaning at the pain that shot all the way up to his shoulder.
We still got time, Thomas had said.
It didn't matter how much they had, he needed Minho with him, in his arms, now.
Newt's time was running out quicker than their's, after all.