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Sweet, tangy, metallic….blood….blood?
His chest heaved, teeth chattering, jaw aching from the tension. There was something quite indescribable to it: as if something….something was quenched. A thirst he was quite unable to satisfy finally grumbling with content in the pit of his stomach.
There was a slight crunch as bone, flesh, and sinew caught in between his teeth. Fresh, red, hot blood dripped…dropped….drip. His head was blissfully blank as his tongue licked his lips in hopes of catching the sweet, decadent, treat.
The texture of the fluid was akin to the juices of the strawberries that Zart and the Track-hoes had grown. Juicy with a bit of a crunch right after, the liquid dripping down in a smooth line from his jaw to his neck.
"Newt," the body below him said. "Newt, Newt, Newt." it babbled. His hand reached out towards the body, catching on the shivers racking through it.
"Newt…I…." the body said, as it then gurgled on the bloody strawberry—words merely hiccups as he choked, choked, and choked.
The warm body beneath him jerked, for the final time.
Then, silence.
And suddenly, it felt as if his world tilted on its axis. Because there—there—lay Thomas. Shucking Thomas who now looked as if he had been mauled by a particularly determined Griever who set his sights on him. Probably as a revenge act, given the state, probably the dead Grievers that Thomas and Minho had baited into falling down the cliff—disappearing…and dead?
Wait…
Thomas?
Newt felt sick. His mouth felt warm, the smell of iron enveloping the air. Distantly, he could hear the bombs going off as the Last City was torn asunder. He breathed in.
And suddenly everything came back in full clarity. Tommy, please, Tommy.
The knife had slid itself in between ribs just as it was meant to. Only, it hadn't been Newt's chest that it had found a home itself in but Thomas'. Thomas. Thomas. Tommy.
Suddenly, it was as if his breath had been stolen away. Suddenly, it felt like the stale winds from the top of the Maze's walls have come to haunt him, swishing his hair in mockery as tears fell, fell, and fell. Suddenly, it was watching the Runners return with a solemn shake of their heads, the reality of their lives set in stone: trapped. And all of a sudden, he remembred the moment that knew that he'd follow Thomas even to the gates of hell if need be.
But that was the thing, huh? Because the warm body he had been straddling had now begun to cool. The cold cement of the city now soaked in the warmth of blood. Blood that he had spilled with his own two hands—with his teeth, canines digging into that soft flesh. Tommy, wearing that stupid shirt of his—the same color as the one he had worn when he went up the Box, with his eyes full of confusion and fear—was laying in a pool of warmth.
In a pool of both his and Tommy's to be exact. He could see now. He could see as the black veins in his arms slowly disappeared, as if receding for an unknown reason. And he looked at Tommy. Really looked. His eyes were closed, a small smile marking his lips, as if he had merely been dreaming of Safe Haven—where Chuck, Winston, Alby, and so many other Gladers would've been living their lives.
He was smiling as if he had not been stabbed, as if his neck had not been chewed through. Huh.
Newt wanted to laugh. Rage, terror, agony ripped through his system as he felt himself lean forward. Falling right beside Tommy with his skull almost cracking on the cement—like the eggs that Frypan cooked during the lucky harvests in the Glade.
Then, footsteps.
And he felt even worse. His body dragging him down as his head refused to move to the source of the sound. Minho. Minho. Oh shuck.
"Newt!" He turned, it was slow, as if his joints weren't quite set in place. He didn't now how long he had been staring at the quickly cooling body beneath him before the multiple sounds of harried footsteps entered his periphery.
Minho was haggard. Not in the way he usually looked when he had finished his daily Maze venture but bone-deep exhaustion cloaked his face like a shadow. Like particularly sticky Griever saliva.
Then he looked. Minho looked. And his face fell. The hand holding the serum almost clenching it into pieces. Because as much as he wanted to deny the truth that had been set before him like a silver platter, there it was. Newt was straddling Thomas' body and if they had been somewhere else, in the Glade or some decrepit old hospital building with Cranks snapping at their heads one hall away, he would've cheered, "Shucking finally!" and collected his wins.
But no.
That still body lying beneath him was Thomas. It couldn't have been anyone but Thomas. That piece of klunk should've been the one to run for the serum, but instead, it was Minho, Minho who had spent his days trapped in simulations as the scientists poked and prodded at their results. He had wanted to smack that klunkface at the back of his head for making him run fresh after torture, but shuck.
His knuckles whitened around the vial, the cure that he and even Gally had run for despite their ragged states glowing blue in the dark.
But the cure was actually there, now cooling.
"Minho," Newt's voice quivered. "He…Tommy, He…I didn't….I…," his words came out in stutters, his head was blank. He couldn't think. "I…,"
Newt tried to stand up. To move away from the body but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Even as he watched Minho slowly look at the sky—painted red with the flames enveloping the city, as if it had wanted to be a sunset's mockery.
Tommy. Oh Tommy.
There had been so much that he wanted to tell him. His rage had him begging to be killed. He had wanted to live, in all actuality. He had wanted to live in the promise of Safe Haven with the remaining Gladers. He had actually wanted to live. Unlike the day when Minho found him with his leg bent at an odd angle in the Maze.
Repent. He had said, and maybe that was why Tommy was smiling.
Because even after building the Maze, even after being sent right into that cage, he had blamed himself. He had his guilt that gnawed at him. Sure, Newt knew.
Newt knew that as he looked at Thomas dead in the face in question if Thomas still believed in Teresa.
Well, he sure did. Because he let his blood, his being be consumed.
He had been Thomas. Brooding but bright Thomas.
He had been the one who put himself right in front of the gun. The one so stupid yet so brave, to the point that they had themselves questioning whether he truly had been a regular kid like they were.
He had viewed Thomas as some kind of unflinching force—shuck, that clunk fainted most times, got dragged around like a Griever's chew toy, even shot, yet he still stood—like some sort of superhero.
Now red, human, and dead—unlike Newt was a few minutes ago, inhuman as he was, but now, he was cursed to breathe as his purpose lay in front of him.
As if fate had wanted to laugh at them for the irony, WICKED was right—not good in any sense, but right. They were spot on right from the beginning. There really was a cure.
There really was a cure.
His name was Tommy.
The Cure's name wasn't one made up of code like the Flare had been. It was Thomas.