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Minho opens his eyes, immediately alert. He's lying in the sand, on a beach, under a blanket. Tents undulate on one side, the sea on the other. The environment is picturesque, peaceful.
Minho’s not buying it.
He rises to his feet, drops the blanket and starts to walk. The air is damp and pungent with salt. Goosebumps rise on his arms as he stalks the frigid dawn. Soon he leaves the tents behind; in their stead, a green hill rises, one sharp peak poking at the dawn-blushed sky.
The beach goes on and on. Nothing makes a noise but the sea, the wind and his own stomping feet. The foliage rustles deceptively, hiding nothing but air and critters in its leaves. It's all very fine and normal until he notices a person in the distance just standing there, looking out into the horizon. Minho searches the sand, finds a decently-sized rock and picks it up, gripping it in his hand. Its smooth surface is cold to the touch; Minho has stopped being surprised at the level of detail in WCKD’s simulations. They're real experts at bringing nightmares to life.
Minho walks more slowly this time, but the crunch of his footsteps gives him away. The person turns around, and Minho’s heart plummets. He is shadowed by the shy glare of the dawning Sun, but Minho would know those shoulders anywhere.
Gally.
Minho drops the rock and waits. He knows what's coming — Gally will attack. He’ll raise a pistol and shoot, he’ll produce a spear out of nowhere and throw, he’ll lunge at Minho and strangle him with his bare hands. Minho readies himself for his death.
He won't kill Gally again.
They'll punish him for this. A much worse simulation will follow. Minho knows this with the same certainty with which he knows that he won't be granted the mercy of an actual death. They want him to suffer. It's important that he does.
Well, fuck them.
Gally begins to walk towards him. Minho closes his eyes. He's ready, he swears he is. He has to be, because he's not repeating the worst thing he's done in his life, even if it's not real.
Gally’s footsteps grow louder, closer. Halt. And then he passes Minho, walking away.
Minho opens his eyes. He is slumped against a log, under a blanket. He frowns down at the threadbare thing. What's with the cozy beginnings? Who are they trying to fool?
The environment hasn't changed — he's still on the same beach with the same tents and the same sea. People are milling around, sleepily smiling at each other and talking about breakfast.
Okay, false sense of security. Minho’s seen it before. He throws off the blanket, steps over the log. He feels someone's eyes on him and turns towards the crowd, seeing Sonya. She waves at him, then waves him over to join her, Aris and Harriet.
What the hell, sure. He might as well enjoy it while it lasts.
“Have you heard?” Sonya asks, handing him a bowl. It looks like she threw up in it. Clueless or unbothered, she hands him a spoon.
“Heard what?”
“About Thomas.”
Oh, here we go. He didn't even have the time to enjoy this vomit for breakfast.
“What about him?”
“Oh, cheer up, he made it.” She bumps shoulders with him. “He hasn't woken up yet, but Hans is optimistic.”
“Hans is a surgeon,” Harriet explains. “He's been in the Right Arm for a while, but I don't think you've met him. He's a recluse.”
“Yeah, I've no idea who you're talking about.”
So Thomas is… Fine? No one is mentioning Newt, though. Something isn't right — all of this feels too ordinary and too real even for a WCKD simulation.
“This is real, Minho,” Aris says, as if having read his mind. That's convenient, isn't it? But then he looks at Harriet and she nods.
“It's real.”
But if this is real, then… Then what isn't? Did he hallucinate Newt dead on the pavement of a burning city? It sure is cruel enough for WCKD.
Only one way to find out.
Minho excuses himself, then walks the beach until he finds the tent — the one where he remembers Jorge taking Thomas to. As he walks, he checks his pocket, feeling the coarse chord and the smooth cylinder of the vial attached to it — the necklace Newt gave to Thomas and which Minho took off him for safekeeping. He obviously hasn't opened it — what's in there is between Newt and Thomas — but he didn't trust anyone, least of all a doctor or a surgeon, not to throw it away.
That's already too real. The simulations have always been hyperrealistic, but they've never been this interconnected. Environments repeat and storylines recycle, but they don't continue on from each other.
He arrives at the tent. Takes a deep breath, teases the flap open with trembling hands.
The air inside reeks of blood and disinfectant. Thomas lies unmoving on a cot, as pale as sand. Minho is far from a doctor, but Thomas looks horrible, barely alive. No sign of Newt — Thomas is the only patient here.
“What are you doing?” A haggard-looking man hisses at him, shooing him away. “I already told you kids that he made it, but he needs rest. Get out.” And then he adds, somewhat reluctantly, “Please.”
“Fine,” Minho spits through gritted teeth. Nice to fucking meet you too, Hans. “Since you said please and it didn't kill you.”
He closes the tent carefully behind him, then sets off for the crowd again. So the tent wasn't a portal and the surgeon said please, which has never happened in a simulation before. Is this a trick? Are they trying to drive him totally insane? Maybe that will produce an extra spicy blood juice in him that will extend the efficacy of a serum for a whole hour.
His feet carry him back to Sonya, Aris and Harriet. He's got one more thing to test.
“Where's Gally?”
They all shrug. Harriet starts, “Maybe he's—”
But Minho has already thrown himself into the village proper.
“Gally!” He shouts. People part around him, moving each other out of his way. None of them wear the face that he seeks. “Gally!”
Finally, the man in question stumbles into view. He has the vomit-like breakfast all over his shoes.
Minho demands, “Show me your hands.”
Gally obliges without a word, as if that's the most normal thing to be asked to do. He spreads out his hands as if reaching forward, or accepting a gift. They still look the same: strong and secure, rough from hard, manual work. No weapons, no fear. It's almost as if he trusts Minho.
That's crazy. He'd be insane to trust Minho after he literally put a spear through his chest. Minho killed him. He hallucinated that Gally brushed it off with No one's perfect, because that's an insane thing to say to someone who almost murdered you.
Minho turns tail and runs. This is too much, too nonsensical. But if it was a simulation, Gally would either be dead or trying to kill him. If this is truly real…
He ends up on the beach again, spraying sand behind him as he runs. It feels good to run again, to feel that burn in his legs and lungs. Minho runs until he reaches rocks too big to call themselves a beach and closes his eyes, turning his face towards the sky. The Sun struggles to warm his skin, the sea ebbing and flowing with indifference.
“MINHO!”
Minho blinks his eyes open, shocked at the cold lapping at his hips. His feet and hands are numb, and he's shivering. Illuminated by moonlight, Gally grips the sides of Minho’s face as if trying to keep his skull from falling apart.
“What the fuck, Gally?”
Gally lets him go, furious. His teeth are chattering. “Don't what the fuck me. You sleepwalk now.”
When Minho keeps staring at him, Gally grabs him by the bicep and pulls him toward the shore. The sea nudges them forward as if it agrees. The beach is a thin white line in the distance. There's no way he walked that far without waking — this must be a simulation and Gally is actually about to drown him.
But he doesn't. He walks Minho out of the water, continues walking him until they reach a small tent and he disappears into it, then reappears to throw a towel at Minho’s chest, then a pair of sweatpants.
“Keep them,” he says.
Minho closes his eyes. He's really got a robust imagination.
Minho opens his eyes with a gasp and rolls away. The hands that were on him a moment ago slip away. He's laying in grass, the tall green stems flattened in the shape of his body.
“Sorry, kid,” a man says. He crouches in the grass, keeping balance with his hands domed over the trampled ground. “I didn't mean to startle you. We couldn't find you, and when Gally told us you sleepwalk, we set out to search the area. Looks like you fell asleep here.”
Minho sits up, considering him. He remembers him vaguely as the guy in charge of the Right Arm, the what's-his-name… Vink? He doesn't look threatening, carries no visible weapons. Minho could take him if he lunged.
“Vince?” Someone shouts. “What's the situation over there?”
Right. Vince.
“Found him! Stop the search, tell them he's fine!” Then to Minho: “Let's go back to the village, shall we?”
As they walk, Minho takes in his surroundings. The same idyllic environment again. What is happening? Is this actually real? But then…
“Is Thomas awake?”
Vince shakes his head, sorrowful and troubled. “No. Hans now says that he's in a coma. The wound is healing well, but he's not responsive to anyone.” He pauses, considers. “Would you like to talk to him? You seem close. It might help.”
“I think I'm not the one he wants to hear,” Minho hears himself say, “but I can try.”
“Oh, good!” Vince sounds as surprised as Minho is. Who does he think he is, an insane man trying to bring someone back to reality? “Thank you. Another thing, though, before I let you go. You might wanna consider sleeping with someone.”
Minho chokes on his breath. Did he hear that right?
“Not in that way!” Vince clarifies, laughing. “Not that it's any of my business if you do. What I meant to say is that most people, especially you Immunes, are sleeping in pairs. Some do it because it's cold, others for a sense of security. It's comforting to wake up and have someone you trust next to you, especially after all you went through. Now, I'm saying all this because this isn't the first time someone's found you sleeping in a random place. If you sleepwalk this often, it might be good for you to have someone near who would notice you getting out of bed. You could've hurt yourself. So think about it, okay?”
They stop in front of Thomas's tent. Minho reels, unsure of what to make of all this. Newt's necklace is still in his pocket.
A powerful sense of deja vu overwhelms him as he slips into the tent. There Thomas is, just like the last time Minho was here. No reclusive surgeons hiss at him to leave this time. They're alone.
Minho pulls up a chair next to Thomas's bed. Sits down, stares at his friend. His chest rises and falls, but his face is impassive, like that of a corpse. An involuntary shiver shakes Minho’s spine.
“Hey, shank.”
Nothing.
“Rise and shine, Greenie.”
Nothing again.
“Thomas?”
Not even a twitch of an eyelash.
This is bad. Bad enough for it to not be real. Maybe this is a repeat simulation — the first time he was here was just a way for them to feel around it, to see how best to break him. Because if he believes this to be real, then one of his best friends is dead and another is in a coma, and he can't wake up from it. And if it isn't, then WCKD has knocked this one out of the fucking park.
Minho exits the tent in a daze. The world is crumbling beneath his feet, and yet he keeps walking. People part around him again, track him out of the corners of their eyes like he's a wild animal. Even his friends smile at him with cautious pity as he passes by.
He walks until he finds Gally.
“Morning.” Gally wipes the sweat from his forehead and throws away the pieces of wood he's just chopped. “Slept well?”
He puts another log onto the stump and swings his axe, cutting it clean in half. Minho’s stomach swoops unpleasantly, but it's not out of fear or unease. He can't help but notice that Gally’s breathing too hard; if it's exerting him this much, why is he doing this to himself? Why isn't he freaking out around Minho like everyone else?
“You know,” Gally says, burying the axe into the stump and turning to Minho, “it's weird to be the only one talking. If you don't tell me anything, I’ll assume you're asleep.”
“I'm not asleep,” Minho retorts, his voice hoarse for some reason.
“Good! Now we're getting somewhere.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, his muscles vainly stretching the sweat-soaked material of his shirt taut. Suddenly self-conscious, he relaxes his arms, letting them hang awkwardly around his frame.
“I've actually wanted to suggest something.”
Minho arches his eyebrows. “Like what?”
“That you share my tent. It's big enough for two.”
Yeah, right. “Did Vince talk you into this?”
Gally frowns. “Who?”
“Vince. The leader.”
“Oh, that's his name? No, what does he have to do with my tent?”
“He literally just told me that I should sleep with someone.”
Gally narrows his eyes. “There's no way a grown man told you that you should fuck. And it's— it's not what I meant.”
Minho ignores the weird pang behind his sternum. “‘Course not.”
“What I meant,” Gally looks him in the eye, “is that I wake up easily. I've found you sleeping on the beach several times.”
“And fished me out of the sea.”
“Yes,” Gally says, relieved, as if he didn't think Minho would remember it. So that was real?
But that makes no sense. How could Gally have found him all those times? At the same time, he's never had another simulation referenced inside of one before. This has to be real. Right?
“Are you for real?”
“Yes.”
“What's wrong with you?”
Gally frowns again. “Excuse me?”
“The fuck is wrong with you? Why would you want me in your tent?”
“You can just say no.”
They're just talking. Gally is alive and isn't trying to kill him. He doesn't look afraid, but Minho needs to know for sure.
He swings a fist at Gally, who stops it with a single hand. No fear, no confusion, not even a flinch. He looks like he understands.
Minho steps back. Even though he's pretty sure, he asks, “Is this real?”
“It is.”
Minho closes his eyes. There's no waking up from this.
Minho opens his eyes and bites his tongue to stop a scream from tearing out of his throat.
Gally is dead.
Minho is sleeping in his tent now, just like they sort of agreed. The tent is big enough for two only in the sense that it fits two beds side by side with just enough space for one leg between them. This also means that Minho has an ultra detailed view of Gally’s dead-eyed stare as he lays in exactly the same position Minho left him in, when they were helicoptered out of the Maze. Minus the spear.
So this is a simulation after all. What an elaborately horrifying introduction to the gut-punching grand finale — Minho’s got to applaud them for the effort. Mission accomplished: Minho is sufficiently destroyed!
With a trembling hand, he reaches out. He didn't get to do it then, and even though it doesn't matter now that it's not real, he still wants to close Gally’s eyes. It's the kind thing to do. He has no right to such kindness, being the one who killed him, but hey, it's all pretend over here, isn't it? He can pretend that he's kind.
His fingers reach Gally’s eyelids. Impossibly, Gally blinks. Frowns even, batting Minho’s hand away.
“Ow, whaddafuck Minho?”
Minho freezes. They brought him back just so he could kill Minho. It's their favorite thing to do — to show Gally dead, then revive him only to try to force Minho to kill him again. Joke's on them: Minho won't fucking do it.
Gally rubs his eyes, which are actually squeaking inside his skull. Then he looks at Minho, eyebrows knitted in confusion. Places a warm hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, Minho goes lax.
“Minho? Are you awake?”
No. Yes? Usually, Gally would already be beating him to a pulp. What's taking him so long?
But then Gally snaps his fingers in front of Minho, causing him to blink. He repeats, “Are you awake?”
“I don't know. Am I?”
In true Gally fashion, he seriously considers it. He concludes, “You are.”
“But you were dead.”
“Clearly not.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Was I breathing?”
Okay, good point. Minho hadn't checked. In his defense: “But you were staring at me like a dead person.”
“Was I?” Gally rubs his chin. His other hand is still on Minho’s shoulder. “I guess that explains why my eyes are always so dry.”
“You've never slept with your eyes wide open.”
“And you've never sleepwalked.”
What wonderful souvenirs they've gotten by staying alive. Which they are — no simulation would let him have this, not even so they could take it from him. There were no breaks in suffering at WCKD.
Minho closes his eyes. Gally keeps his hand on Minho’s shoulder.