No Cure but Love

by FilisMaze

Summary:

“You’re sure?” Thomas whispered, low enough it felt meant only for him.

Newt didn’t even know what the question was. The answer hadn’t changed. Of course he was sure. Never had he known certainty like this—nothing else held weight, only the boy staring back with those steadfast, familiar brown eyes.

or: The one where they get to ruin each other and burn the world down for it.

A sequel to Every Heart a Maze, a canon rewrite of The Maze Runner with lots of Newtmas

Notes:

Hi, I'm Fili and just like Thomas I love a good puzzle, so in this next installment, we’ll be taking apart Scorch Trials and Death Cure—both books and movies—and piecing them back together in a way that fits the narrative I’ve built in Every Heart a Maze, giving Newt the voice he truly deserves.

You don’t have to read Every Heart a Maze to follow this fic—I stick closely to canon and structure events accordingly—but you’ll likely have a deeper, more rewarding experience if you read it first ;)

That said, I’m so glad to have you along for the ride. I hope you enjoy the journey!

Chapter 1

   The drone of the helicopter engine throbbed low, like a pulse pressed to the base of Newt’s skull, syncing with the ragged rhythm of his breath. Thomas’ body was warm against his side—a fragile constant in a world that had gone cold. Fatigue tugged at Newt’s limbs, thick and relentless, a fog licking at the edges of consciousness. But he resisted it, jaw clenched, eyes flickering in restless half-focus. His leg ached in slow, dull pulses beneath the numbness. Each throb a reminder—of pain, of survival, of every step he could no longer take for granted.

Around him, silence had taken root. Not peace, but a brittle, wary hush of shared weariness. No one spoke. Conversation had died hours ago. Even their breathing felt suspended, like the world itself was paused—holding still to see if survival had truly meant escape.

His eyelids dipped once—traitorous, heavy. Sleep brushed against him like a shroud, cool and inescapable. Then—

   “Thomas! Newt!”

Minho’s voice cleaved the quiet in two, dragging Newt from sleep’s shallow grasp.

He jerked upright, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out. His mind reeled—caught in the no-man’s-land between dream and waking. Everything was motion and noise. The chopper’s swam in darkness, broken only by the blink of red emergency lights. Outside, the windows showed nothing but black—an endless night stretching in every direction.

Thomas was beside him—still, dazed.

Newt blinked hard, breath stuttering in his chest as he tried to orient himself, to remember where they were, what came next.

They were still holding hands. That was the first thing Newt registered—his fingers curled tightly around Thomas’.

Minho’s face appeared in the red glow, tight with urgency. His hand clamped down on Newt’s shoulder, firm and shaking.

   “Wake up! We gotta go! Come on!”

Before Newt knew it, Thomas was torn from his side—dragged away by two masked figures toward the open hatch. His warmth vanished in an instant. What remained was colder than the desert night.

Newt reached after him, scrambling to his feet, his palm slapping against the vibrating floor. His fingers struck something small, solid—smooth-edged.

Wood.

Chuck’s figurine.

It must’ve slipped from Thomas’ grip when sleep pulled him under. Newt clutched it reflexively, shoving it deep into his pocket just as another pair of arms reached for him.

He didn’t fight. He lunged forward, half-crawling, dragging his bad leg with a grunt. Pain burst behind his kneecap as it hit the ground outside.

The world was all sand and shadows. Spotlights swept across the dunes in great arcs, carving brief glimpses into the dark—glints of movement, warping silhouettes.

The noise outside swelled—shouts, frantic commands, the sharp cracks of gunfire snapping through the dark.

   “Let’s go! Move!” one of the masked figures barked, shoving him forward. “We gotta go!”

Thomas was struggling against another man’s grip, wild-eyed, refusing to be dragged away.
“Wait—wait, wait!” he shouted, frantic.

Then he broke free—ripped loose—and bolted back toward the chopper.

   “Where are you going?” the man yelled after him, lunging to catch his arm. “We don’t have time!”

   “Thomas!” Newt shouted, but the night devoured his voice. Instincts overrode the pain. He went after him—stumbling, limping, dodging grasping hands and shouts of protest.

His world narrowed to Thomas’ shape ahead and the small talisman thudding against his thigh—Chuck’s ghost in his pocket.

   “I got it!” Newt cried, but the helicopter’s roar tore his words to shreds, flinging them into the sky. Thomas didn’t react.

   “Thomas! Stop!” he shouted again, voice raw.

Thomas turned at last, his face streaked with wind and dust, lips shaping a silent What?

Newt raised his hand, the carved wood resting in his palm for Thomas to see.

   “Chuck…” The name slipped from his lips—fragile, wrapped in grief.

Thomas stepped forward, slow, as if pulled by gravity. Newt pressed the figure into his hand. Their fingers touched—calloused, trembling, reluctant to part.

Time thinned. The air split with the scream of blades overhead, but the world held still—a single heartbeat suspended between the ruin behind them and whatever waited in the shadowed distance ahead.

The moment shattered as a figure stumbled closer—gait unsteady, face grotesque beneath torn flesh. Newt’s mind reached for words: crazies, madmen—but they dissolved into the rising chaos, slipping away like smoke.

One of their masked rescuers yanked them from beneath the metal bird’s shadow and into the fragile promise of light.

    “Cranks! We got Cranks!” voices rang out, shouted warnings followed by gunshots.

Monstrous shapes lunged from every direction, closing in around them. Newt faltered—limbs leaden, heart heavier still—clutching Thomas with a fierce desperation, grasping at shards of safety scattered amid the madness.

Three more men surged forward, forming a shield of bodies and weapons, pushing them away from the helicopter’s edge. “Come on! Get out of here!”

They were swept off the landing platform. The sand beneath Newt’s boots was cold and gritty.

   “Go!” someone screamed.

   “Gotta move! Not safe out here, kid!”

   “Swarm to the flank!”

Sand whipped at Newt’s face, stinging, blurring his vision. He barely registered the hands pulling, pushing, steering him toward a distant glow—a building looming like a fortress, a beacon in the desolation. Salvation or trap, Newt couldn’t tell.

   “Keep moving! Keep moving!” the cries urged.

A flash of movement—a Crank snarled, inhumane, face warped, eyes glinting with something unnatural.

Newt didn’t dare look closer.

Thomas was running ahead of him now. And that was enough.

   “Tell him to take off! We’re clear!”

The last shout faded behind them, swallowed by the wind.

The group stumbled into the building like the final grains in an hourglass, spilled and spent. As the last of them crossed the threshold, the gates groaned shut behind them.

To Newt, it sounded less like safety and more like entombment—metal devouring metal, swallowing them whole with a final, grinding screech. The sound echoed through his bones, too familiar, too final. It dragged his thoughts back to the Maze—to the Doors slamming shut each night under the guise of protection, but in truth, to keep them penned in.

He stood frozen for a beat, heart thudding, breath shallow. The instinct to run—useless now—rose all the same.

They’d escaped one prison only to stumble blindly into another. He kept that thought to himself, but the feeling lodged deep, clinging to him like sweat, like blood-soaked cloth.

   Trapped. That’s how he felt. All over again.

The hangar rose around them in ribbed tiers and skeletal catwalks, a cavern washed in yellow and gray. The air was stale, heavy with the acrid bite of oil and the cold stink of machinery.

Overhead, faulty fluorescents buzzed and flickered, casting fractured light across the vast space. Now and then, sparks spat from exposed wires, sharp bursts that made the Gladers flinch—nerves too frayed for surprise, but not yet dulled to fear.

Forklifts zipped past in brief, noisy blurs, rattling the floor beneath their boots. Rows of battered boxes slouched against labelled barrels, while distant voices crackled over unseen comms, distorted by static and urgency.

Newt kept close to the others, who clustered near the gate, tense and quiet.

Thomas stood a little ahead, back straight, eyes sweeping the terrain—composed, somehow, despite the blood smeared on his shirt and hands, despite the weight carved into the set of his jaw and the dark hollows beneath his eyes.

Newt’s heart swelled at the sight. Thomas—unshaken in a way that felt almost impossible. That stubborn, immovable steadiness wasn’t quite bravery. It was a kind of defiance that refused to bend, even under the crushing weight of grief.

Newt felt it like a hook buried deep in his chest. It tugged at him, made him want to stand taller, breathe deeper, pull himself together. It was the burning, aching need to rise—to match the quiet strength Thomas carried so innately. To become someone worthy of standing beside him.

They were left to themselves—no trace of the people who’d brought them here. They’d stayed behind, on the other side of the sealed gate. Left to deal with those things.... Cranks…

The thought flickered and passed. He didn’t have the space to wonder what had become of them. Not now.

The low murmur of conversation died in an instant. Newt turned, alert, eyes narrowing as a man approached with the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention.

His hair was short and streaked with gray, the rough stubble on his jaw adding to the hardened look. A leather jacket draped over a gray turtleneck—clean, utilitarian—yet the precision of it only made him more unsettling.

He looked like someone who’d not only adapted to danger, but might’ve come to prefer it.

   “You kids doing all right?” the man called out, his voice carrying easily across the hangar. There was politeness in it, but it was razor-thin—like a blade just beneath the skin. “Sorry about all the fuss. We had ourselves a bit of a swarm.”

Thomas took initiative, placed himself between the man and the others, shoulders squared. His voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t waver either.

   “Who are you?”

The man’s mouth curved—just enough to suggest both reassurance and amusement.

   “I’m the reason you’re all still alive,” he said. “And it’s my intention to keep it that way.”

He turned on his heel, already walking, and motioned for them to follow. “Now, come with me. We’ll get you kids squared away.”

They hesitated. Some glanced at Thomas, waiting for his lead; others looked to each other, uncertain. 

When Thomas finally moved, the rest fell in behind him—stiff-limbed, minds running on fumes.

Newt followed, limping. Every movement made his muscles ache, like his body was personally offended he was still moving and had made it its mission to file a formal complaint with every step. His leg was the worst of it, but there wasn’t much to do about that now. Minho kept pace—quiet for once—but his eyes were sharp, watchful. As they passed beneath a rattling overhead pipe, he muttered something wry about the place barely holding together.

Newt snorted despite himself.

They climbed metal walkways that spiralled upwards, winding around stacked crates and shadowed platforms. The hangar stretched into tiers, the air growing warmer the higher they went. People moved around them—workers in grease-smudged jumpsuits, barely sparing a glance at the newcomers as they carried out their strange rituals of maintenance and order.

Newt’s Runner-trained instincts catalogued every route, every blind corner, mapping it out without thinking. He knew Minho was doing the same.

   “You can call me Mr. Janson,” the man said, facing ahead. “I run this place. For us, it’s a sanctuary—safe from the horrors of the outside world. You should think of it as a way station. Kind of a home between homes.”

   Home.

The word snagged in Newt’s mind. It sounded wrong here, bouncing off steel walls and dusty vents. 

He glanced back. Frypan, Winston, and Jack stayed close, eyes wary, heads turning, taking in every detail. Teresa walked a few steps apart, her gaze unreadable. They all wore the same hollow look, like they’d survived something that still hadn’t caught up to them. Because they had.

   “Does that mean you’re taking us home?” Thomas asked.

Janson didn’t slow. “A home of sorts. Sadly, there wouldn’t be much left of wherever you came from. But we do have a place for you. A refuge. Outside the Scorch. Where WICKED will never find you again. How does that sound?”

Minho frowned. “Why are you helping us?”

The man’s smile never touched his eyes. “Let’s just say the world out there is in a rather precarious situation. We’re all hanging on by a very thin thread. The fact that you kids can survive the Flare virus…” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “It makes you humanity’s best hope. Unfortunately, it also makes you a target, as no doubt by now you've noticed.”

Newt exchanged a quick glance with Thomas—just a flicker of eye contact, but enough. A silent check-in: Are you buying this? I’m not sure I am.

At last, they reached a large door. Janson pulled a card from his pocket and slid it into a slot beside a keypad. A chime sounded, and the door hissed open like an exhale, revealing a corridor lined with white panels, flooded in sterile light.

   “Beyond this door lies the beginning of your new lives,” Janson said, turning and clapping his hands sharply. “First things first... let’s do something about that smell.”

Notes:

I try to update regularly, but Every Heart a Maze was mostly written beforehand—I just had to flesh it out and edit. No Cure but Love is still very much in progress, so updates might be a bit slower. I’m also currently working on two fics for this year’s Fandom Trumps Hate, which are my top priority for now. But once those are finished, all my focus will shift back to this story!

In the meantime, I’d love it if you checked out my other fics. Your comments truly motivate me, and I’m always happy to hear your thoughts.

Chapter 2

   They followed Janson deeper into the building, their footsteps echoing down the sterile corridor like murmured regrets in a mausoleum. The walls—blanketed in a lifeless smear of grey-white—seemed to breathe with quiet surveillance, as though something unseen watched from behind the paint. Overhead, the fluorescents flickered with mechanical unease, stuttering shadows across their faces in long, skeletal lines.

They were led to what passed for living quarters—a dormitory grafted to a washroom, both scrubbed so clean they bled warmth from the air. The dormitory looked like it had been pulled from the half-formed dream of a soldier too long buried: row after row of metal-framed bunks, identical and pitiless, tucked with thin blue sheets. The air hung heavy with bleach and something older—something recirculated, exhausted. Like the breath of a place trying to forget it had ever held people.

They crossed the threshold in a fog, every movement sluggish and slow, as if the floor itself were water and they had grown too tired to swim. Silence pressed in. The only sound was the low, halting buzz of the lights above, stammering like a machine attempting—and failing—to mimic human breath.

Footsteps echoed behind them—measured, purposeful, but not harsh. A woman approached, her heels tapping a soft rhythm against the tile. Her white robe moved with her like a hush of fabric, more apparition than nurse—a spectre in polished shoes. Everything about her seemed deliberate—hair neatly pinned, hands folded in front of her, gaze open but not searching.

She stopped beside Teresa with a small, practised smile—genuine in shape, if not in depth. The kind of smile meant to reassure without asking questions.

   “I’m Dr. Crawford,” she said, her voice low and even, each syllable rounded and calm. She didn’t offer a hand, yet her presence felt like an invitation. With a slight incline of her head, she gestured down the corridor. “Please, follow me.”

Teresa glanced at the others, then back at the woman. Her jaw tightened, then eased. She gave a nod—small, almost imperceptible—and stepped away from the group, shoulders held steady, eyes unreadable.

Thomas shifted beside Newt, tension drawing through him like a bowstring stretched to its limit. “Wait, where are you—”

Teresa paused. Turned.

Her smile was soft, slanted. The kind that wore the shape of reassurance without any of the substance. It tugged at the corner of her mouth like an old scar—faint, tired, not quite healed. “It’s alright, Tom,” she said. “Not exactly dying to bunk with that lot.” She tipped her chin toward the Gladers—half a tease.

Thomas opened his mouth, but no words came. His jaw locked. The muscles there worked once, twice, then stilled. Newt felt something like relief stir in his chest. Quiet. Complicated. What was there to fight? Privacy was a rare kindness. Teresa probably earned it.

She didn’t look back.

Janson, too, turned away, his voice trailing behind him. “Shower. Change. Someone’ll come get you in an hour—for dinner.”

The door sealed with a soft hiss—an exhale, low and mechanical.

They were on their own.

Newt stood still, taking it in with a kind of muted emotion. Wonder, perhaps, but dulled. Muffled. He was long past the reach of astonishment.

The room was symmetrical, stripped bare—comfort reduced to its outline. It looked like something designed by someone who remembered the shape of warmth, but not the feeling. 

The air caught in his throat, acrid with a biting chemical scent that mingled with the faint metallic tang seeping from the vents. He tried breathing through his mouth, but it made no difference. The taste of it sat cold and bitter on his tongue. 

His eyes drifted over the beds, each one tucked with quiet precision. Nothing personal. Nothing lived-in. Just a room full of blank promises in a world that had devoured its own rules. All of it neat. The illusion of normalcy laid out like offerings at an altar no one truly believed in anymore.

It wanted to be kind, this place. Or maybe it wanted to be seen trying. That was worse, somehow.

The others stood around him like spirits—present, but already fading, caught in some realm just out of reach. He lingered at the edge, as if to cross into the room would be to accept it. And he wasn’t ready for that.

Minho planted his hands on his hips and tilted his head in a pantomime of scrutiny. He squinted. Sniffed the air.

   “Seems I’ve been shucked and gone to heaven,” he muttered—voice dry as old paper. 

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a grin. Almost.

It didn’t hold.

But it was enough.

As if on cue, the others began to stir—quiet, unspoken agreement rippling through them. They peeled off into motion. Beds were claimed. Neatly folded clothes gathered as they, one by one, drifted toward the adjoining washroom with the slow urgency of the half-dead chasing something like resurrection.

Their voices rose—tentative, disbelieving, tinged with the brittle edge of laughter. The sound bent strangely in the air, as if heard through glass or water. Warped. Fragile. Almost joyful.

Almost.

Newt still wasn’t moving. He couldn’t. Joy felt like a trespass.

To let relief settle in his chest would be to loosen his grip—and what would that mean for everything they’d lost? For everyone who hadn’t made it?

Alby. Chuck. Zart. Gally.

Not ghosts in the storybook sense—but in the way they stayed. In the way they hung on. Clinging to his skin, stitched into his thoughts, tucked inside every breath. They lived behind his eyes. Pressed cold fingers to the inside of his ribs.

He carried them. Every step forward was a step away. And he wasn’t ready to walk that far.

Thomas hadn’t moved either.

He stood like a sentry carved from grief and stubbornness, planted in his own shadow. His arms hung slack, shoulders drawn tight. His eyes swept the room, tracking the others in motion, but their focus was elsewhere—turned inward, fixed on some private thought no one else could reach.

Yet he radiated something—something that still smouldered deep inside him, and that Newt, despite himself, could still feel. Trust, maybe. Or faith. Or whatever remained of it after too much time and too many losses. A last, defiant echo refusing to fade.

Even now—after everything—Thomas was still trying. Still carrying that foolish little light like it might mean something. Still choosing to believe in forward.

And somehow, impossibly, that stirred something in Newt. A flicker. Fragile, untrustworthy. But there all the same. A warmth scratching at the inside of his chest, aching to rise.

The air shifted with steam, the scent of soap drifting faintly through it. Water hissed beyond the walls—sputtering and sighing like breath forced through broken lungs. Frypan laughed at something Jack said. Winston had already curled into one of the beds, folded in on himself like a child. It should have been comforting.

But Newt had grown too used to the weight of despair. These rare, quiet moments of peace unsettled him, like a strange tide lapping against a battered shore.

They were alive.

But not whole.

Newt closed his eyes for a moment, then followed Thomas into the washroom, the dull throb in his leg ever-present—a low, insistent growl of pain threaded through each step.

They were the last ones in. The room was as impersonal and functional as the dormitory: rows of closed stalls, pale tiled walls, puddles bleeding across the floor. Steam hung heavy in the air, curling against the ceiling like breath held too long.

He undressed slowly, each movement unthinking, muscles taut, every motion tight with fatigue.  The fabric clung like old skin, damp with sweat, fear, and blood—resisting every pull. He stripped it away piece by piece, as if shedding it might ease the ache beneath.

Laughter lingered still—bright, jarring. The others shouted beneath the spray, trading jibes like kids in summer rain. To Newt, it didn’t sound real. It scraped against his nerves. Too loud. Too alive. He couldn’t join in. Didn’t want to pretend. Wasn’t sure he remembered how.

He stepped under the stream. The water ran cold. Warmth was a twist away—but he didn’t reach for it.

He washed like it was a chore. Each droplet carried away sweat, blood, the grime of survival—but none of it touched the tension knotted beneath his ribs. That stayed. Clung to him, stubborn and intimate. Water couldn’t reach it.

When he’d finished, he dressed and lingered by the sinks, waiting for Thomas. The mirrors were blind—offering back a pale, fogged up reflection. One by one, the others had filtered out, their laughter fading behind the door that divided the washroom from the dormitory. Their voices drifted through, muted.

Newt fixed his attention on the steady rhythm of Thomas’ shower and the low hum of the fluorescent lights above—like static threading through his veins. He let the quiet hold him, seeping into the cracks where feeling had been worn thin.

He simply stood there—adrift in tile and steam and white noise. Not thinking. Just breathing.

Waiting.

Thomas emerged from the mist, a towel slung low on his hips, water tracing slow, glinting paths down his chest, catching in the dark hair. The air shifted—warmer, denser. As if his presence had rewritten the atmosphere.

Newt turned away too fast. Black dots danced behind his eyes. Heat flared in his cheeks—sudden, involuntary. 

Thomas said nothing. Not at first. The silence stretched—not empty, not with him in it.

Thomas dressed without hurry—light blue shirt, pale trousers, the same uniform as the rest. Newt leaned back against the counter, head lowered, catching half-glimpses of him in motion. Thomas didn’t seem to mind changing in front of him. Newt tried not to look. He did an acceptable job.

Thomas’ back. The way the low light kissed the line of his collarbone. Broad shoulders moving.

Newt didn’t look. Not really.

Mostly.

Then Thomas stepped closer—just enough to shift the air, to tilt the axis of Newt’s world.

   “You’re bleeding,” Thomas said, stepping even closer, his voice low—wistful, tired.

Newt blinked. It took a second to register. The cut—reopened, probably in the shower. His hand lifted to his cheek, but at the same moment, Thomas moved too.

They froze. Arms half-raised, hands suspended in the still air, caught between intention and restraint.

Silence held. And in it, Newt could feel everything—Thomas’ nearness, the shape of him, the warmth, the breath between them.

Too much.

Not enough.

Newt dropped his gaze—and that was when he saw it.

A bruise circled Thomas’ wrist—livid and purple, like an ugly bracelet. Near it, crescent-shaped welts where fingernails had broken the skin. His fingernails.

A mark of panic. Of selfish desperation. Of holding too tight in a moment meant to save, not hurt.

But it had hurt.

And it had left proof.

Newt stared at it like it was a confession.

Because it was.

He had done this. He had hurt Thomas.

A slow ache pooled in his chest, deep and spreading. It moved like something old—familiar in the worst way. Self-loathing crept in through the cracks, soft as rot.

He reached out.

His fingers brushed the bruise—gentle, reverent, as if an apology could live in touch where words had failed. His hand trembled. Thomas didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Didn’t pull away.

   “I’m sorry,” Newt said at last. His voice was barely sound—more breath than speech, ragged and raw. “Not for what I did. I’m not apologising for that. For holdin’ you back. I’d do it again. I would.”

   “I know,” Thomas said—and for a heartbeat, Newt was terrified he meant it. That he really knew.

He looked up and met Thomas’ eyes. “I’m just… I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Thomas didn’t blink. His eyes held steady, guarded, unreadable. “I’m glad you did,” he said. The words were quiet, simple, but they left no space for doubt. “Glad I’m still around.”

Newt swallowed. His throat was tight. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me too.”

The moment stretched—like a breath held between two heartbeats.

A bridge suspended over a chasm neither dared conquer, built from everything unspoken and woven into the fragile threads of their shared survival.

Outside, the world went on. Voices drifted faintly from the dormitory, muffled and indistinct. The world kept spinning, indifferent to their stillness. 

And Newt stayed breathing.

Somewhere—far from metal walls and chemical air—ivy would be breaking through stone. Leaves would uncurl without asking permission. Sunlight would reach, silent and steady, toward everything still growing.

Hope was like that.

Small.

Stubborn.

Fragile.

But alive.

Chapter 3

   Dinner was served in a pale-walled room just down the corridor they’d come through earlier—a boxy space filled with steel-legged tables and dented metal chairs, all arranged in obedient rows. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped wasps, humming through long tubes that stretched the length of the ceiling.

Two men had come to collect them. They now stood guard by the door, but Newt barely noticed—just as he barely registered the strangers in white coats drifting past the glass wall that stretched the length of the cafeteria.

The food was warm but bland. No one complained. They ate in silence—shoulders hunched, faces drawn, exhaustion carved deep into the bone. Eyes dull, fixed on trays—or on nothing at all.

Teresa wasn’t there. Thomas inquired. No one cared to answer.

Her absence stirred something like relief in Newt, though he didn’t examine it too closely. Couldn’t afford to. Not with Thomas beside him, solid and quiet—more comforting than the food, the fresh clothes, or anything else this place had offered so far.

Minho sat across from them, hunched over his tray, dark crescents carved beneath his eyes. Frypan, Winston, and Jack formed a loose arc around the table—close, but silent.

The noise had been stripped from them, like feathers plucked from a bird. Even Minho had gone still.

Afterwards, they were herded back to the dorms and told it was time to sleep.

No one argued. No one had the strength.

Minho climbed into the top bunk over Thomas without a word. Newt ended up beneath Frypan. The lights shut off all at once, plunging the room into a dull, washed-out gloom. Not darkness—never quite that. Just the ghost of night, shaped by humming vents where crickets should’ve been. Machinery moaned in the walls, low and endless. A lullaby of circuits.

Newt lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his chest like a corpse in a casket. The blanket scratched at his skin, too thin to matter. The room wasn’t cold, not really—but he was freezing from the inside out, and no blanket in the world could’ve touched that. The chill had settled deep in his ribs, heavy and unmoving.

His leg throbbed—a dull, familiar ache.

His heart ached worse.

There was no wind rustling the trees now. No bleating goats in their pens. No low growl of Grievers beyond the stone walls. He didn’t miss them—not the monsters. But the night here was a stranger with hollow footsteps—echoing in places he hadn’t known could feel empty.

Frypan had already started snoring. Off to the right, a whisper—Tim’s voice, barely audible, murmuring to Jack. A cough, the rustle of limbs. But mostly, the breathing of boys trying not to cry. Or too tired even for that.

Above him, the metal frame creaked.

   “Hey, Newt,” came Minho’s voice.

   “Yeah?” Newt’s throat burned. His voice sounded distant even to his own ears.

   “What do you think happened to the ones who stayed behind?”

Frankie answered before Newt could. “Considering how many of us died getting here ... I wouldn’t want to be one of them. Grievers are probably swarming all over the place.”

Minho scoffed. “I deactivated the Grievers,” he muttered. “And Janson’s people killed the Creators. So... hopefully no one’s ever gonna reactivate those fuckers.”

There was something brittle in his voice—an edge, a crack running beneath the words. Guilt, maybe.

Newt didn’t ask.

He turned away from the conversation, letting the voices dissolve into background static.

His attention drifted sideways—to the next bunk. Thomas lay there, head angled toward him, just a few feet away. Their heads nearly aligned across the narrow aisle. Newt could make out the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder beneath the blanket. One hand was tucked under his chin, fingers curled like they’d been caught mid-thought. His breathing was soft, steady. But Newt could tell he wasn’t asleep yet.

   “You think we’re safe here?” Newt asked, his voice barely above the hum of the vents.

Thomas turned his head, just slightly. Their eyes didn’t quite meet. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I think we are.”

   “You don’t sound sure,” Newt murmured, eyes falling shut. He wanted to believe it. Needed to.

   “I’m just tired,” Thomas said, the words soft, almost sheepish. “Maybe I’ll sound more sure in the morning.”

Newt let out a breath—half a laugh, too soft to count.

   “Reckon I’d settle for that.”

Thomas shifted—just enough for the mattress to creak, the blanket to rustle.

Newt let the stillness settle again. The low hum of machinery filled the space. The dry tang of recycled air clung to the back of his throat. And the weight of Thomas nearby—so close. Too far.

Around them, the others murmured now and then—voices dulled, softened into the ghosts of conversations.

Sleep came in pieces—thin, translucent things that barely held. Newt drifted in and out, consciousness slipping like water through cracked hands. His mind wandered where it had no right to go.

Walls rose around him—impossibly high, ivy-clad. The vines curled like nooses, winding around his ankles, wrists, throat. Somewhere, Alby’s voice echoed through the stone—his name shouted, fractured. Gally’s eyes stared at him, wide and helpless. Chuck’s laughter rang out, fleeting and bright, then gone. Silenced.

And ahead—always ahead—a figure running. Not a memory, not truly. Just a shape carved from motion, flickering at the edges of vision. A boy with dark hair and sure feet, never turning back. Thomas.

Thomas …

Newt must’ve cried out. He wasn’t aware of it until a hand shook his shoulder, gentle but firm.

   “Newt.”

He jolted, breath snagging in his chest. 

Braced against the metal frame, Thomas leaned across the narrow aisle between their bunks. His face was half-lost in shadow, but still unmistakably him—voice low, steady.

   “Sorry,” he murmured. “You were screaming. Didn’t want you waking the others.”

Newt swallowed. His throat felt raw, scraped out. Shame curled hot in his chest.

   “Did I wake you?”

Thomas shook his head.

Newt blinked, letting his eyes adjust. The room was dim—sickly green light from a panel near the door spilt across the walls, casting everything in a sterile, unnatural glow. In it, Thomas’ face looked too sharp. Too young. Faint tear tracks marked his cheeks.

Newt felt like crying, too. But nothing came. The tears were long buried—calcified into something ancient—fossils of grief.

   “I’m sorry, Tommy. I really am. ’Bout Chuck,” Newt said, voice hushed.

He didn’t look at Thomas when he said it. Didn’t need to. He knew—out of all the losses—Chuck’s was the one carving Thomas open from the inside. The one that wouldn’t let him sleep.

   “He was a good kid,” Newt added, quieter still. “Bloody irritating at times—but good.”

Thomas exhaled, but the breath caught partway through. “He could be so annoying.”

Newt huffed—something close to a laugh, but not quite. More a memory passing through his chest than a sound. Chuck slipping spice into Minho’s drink. Chuck jumping out at Gally from the bathroom stall, nearly getting punched for it. Those things flickered through his mind like light through slats. “Yeah. He really could. Always up to somethin’. Thought he was clever as hell.”

   “It hurts,” Thomas said quietly. “Like I lost a brother.”

Newt eased back against the mattress, the metal frame digging into his spine. His chest ached—not sharp, but deep and worn, like a bruise pressed too many times. The place where his heart should’ve been felt void, thinned by grief that never fully healed.

He’d lost too many brothers already.

   “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

   “I promised—”

   “Tommy, stop.” The words came fast, cracked and raw. “Don’t go there. Half of us made it.”

   “But Chuck didn’t.”

   “More of us would’ve died if we’d stayed.”

   “But Chuck—”

   “He died saving you.” Newt’s voice was firmer now, though it scraped against something raw inside him. “That was his choice. Just... don’t waste it.”

And shuck all, he meant it. Even if it made him a liar, a bloody hypocrite—because he beat himself up just as hard, maybe harder, for the very same blame he told Thomas to abandon. If it were possible to take that weight from Thomas—to tuck it under his own skin and carry it all himself—he would’ve. In a heartbeat. Worn it like armour. Let it crush him instead, just to spare Thomas the burden.

Thomas didn’t respond. A tear slid down his cheek, catching the pale green light from the wall panel. It fell without a sound.

Newt had the useless, ridiculous urge to reach out and wipe it away. As if that would help. As if it would undo anything.

But he stayed still. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

   “Don’t ever waste it, Tommy,” he said again, quieter now. Almost like a prayer.

A minute passed. Maybe two.

Newt didn’t want the quiet to stretch too far. Didn’t want the moment—this fragile tether between them—to slip away. He wanted to hear Thomas’ voice again. Just a little longer.

   “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he asked softly.

Thomas exhaled, the sound tight and tired. “What do you think?” His voice had an edge to it—not cruel, just worn. “I keep seeing Grievers. Still hear them moaning. It was way too close for comfort, Newt. How’re we gonna get something like that out of our heads?”

Newt didn’t have an answer. Not really. He saw them too—those hulking shadows, the slick glint of metal limbs, the awful groan of machines hunting flesh. The Maze hadn’t just held them—it had scarred them. Every last one.

He figured most of them would carry those marks for life. Deep ones. Some would crack sooner than others. Maybe they all would, eventually. He hoped whoever had brought them here had thought ahead—had someone ready who could help. Someone who understood trauma, even if they couldn’t give their memories back.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Newt knew no therapy in the world could really erase what they’d seen. What they’d lived through. What they’d lost.

Still, what he said was, “It’ll fade, eventually. Bit by bit.”

Thomas gave a soft, disbelieving sound. “You’re so full of it.”

And somehow, that made something in Newt ache with affection—not the loud kind. Not dramatic or tragic. Not even the kind that begged to be noticed. Just the quiet pull of being seen by someone who didn’t ask for more than he could give.

   “Maybe,” Newt said, trying not to smile. Even though Thomas couldn’t see it, the feeling was embarrassing all the same. “But it’s the truth I’m choosin’ to believe.”

After a pause, Thomas spoke again. “I know I never said it before, but... I’m sorry about Alby, too. He was your friend. It sucks he didn’t make it.”

Newt’s smile, such as it was, died there. “Thanks, Tommy. Means a lot.”

There was more he wanted to say—things buried deep beneath the bone. About loss. About love. About how much it still hurt. About how badly he needed Thomas to stay close, stay here. But the words curled tight in his chest, too soft to survive being spoken.

   “Wonder what tomorrow’ll be like,” Thomas murmured.

   “We’ll find out in a few hours.”

A beat. Then, “Newt?”

   “Mhm?”

   “Let’s just be safe for now.”

Newt considered that. Food. Beds. Clean clothes. Walls that didn’t shift or twist. Maybe that was enough. For once, he wasn’t going to sleep with the fear of being dead by morning. It felt ... safe.

   “Maybe we are,” he said softly. He wanted to believe it. Shuck, he needed to.

Silence stretched between them. Newt closed his eyes again, almost drifting…

   “You think Teresa’s alright?”

Something tightened in Newt’s chest. Of course he’d think of her now—proof of the part of Thomas’ heart Newt couldn’t touch. Probably never would.

Bitterness curled at the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. He almost didn’t answer. Thought about lying. Or pretending to sleep. But Thomas was asking for comfort, and who was Newt to withhold it?

   “Don’t worry ‘bout her,” he said, maybe a bit colder than he meant to. “You’ll see her come mornin’. Then you can tell her just how much you missed her.”

Thomas made a small sound—noncommittal. Not a laugh. Not agreement. Just noise.

   “I just hate that they separated us,” he said. “That’s all.”

Newt nodded into the dark. He understood why Janson did it. Teresa was the only girl, and the rest of the Gladers were teenage boys—shanks they didn’t know whether to trust yet.

   “Guess they did it to protect her,” he said. “Not that she needs it. I’d put my money on her against at least half these shanks.”

That finally pulled a chuckle from Thomas. “Yeah. I guess.”

A long pause followed.

   “Try and get some sleep now, yeah?” Newt said.

   “Yeah. Well… goodnight, Newt.”

   “Goodnight, Tommy.”

The vents hummed on. And sleep, jagged but inevitable, rose again to claim Newt

Chapter 4

   When Newt woke next, time felt unmade, dismantled, as if its bones had been pulled apart and scattered into dark corners of the room.

He didn’t know what hour it was, only that something had pulled him from sleep—a pressure in his chest, a phantom weight left by a dream already dissolving. The kind that vanished on waking but left the body steeped in its residue. He shifted on the thin mattress, the blanket twisted like rope around his legs, limbs heavy as if packed with wet sand. Ache pulsed dull and steady beneath his skin—his leg, always the leg, but also his back, his ribs, his jaw, clenched so tightly in sleep it had stiffened. 

The darkness felt too close, like the air had thickened, turned viscous, pressing in on him with a patient kind of cruelty. For a breathless moment, panic surged.

   The Maze, his mind whispered, unbidden.

Stone corridors. Shifting walls. The mechanical whir of a Griever drawing near.

His eyes flew open.

It took a few rasping breaths before the room settled into clarity. The dim green glow bleeding from a fixture on the far wall. The silhouettes of bunk beds, quiet heaps of sleeping boys. The scent of detergent, old sheets, and warm bodies. This wasn’t stone. It wasn’t ivy. There were no Grievers lurking in the dark.

It wasn’t the Maze.

Just the dormitory—still and quiet, with a kind of silence that pulsed. Not empty, but full of life at rest. Of breath and heartbeat.

He sat up slowly. His eyes found Thomas without thinking, drawn by instinct. His silhouette lay outlined in faint green light—shoulders slack, chest rising and falling in even rhythm. Newt watched him a moment longer than he meant to. Something tight in his chest loosened at the sight.

They were safe. For now.

Newt let himself sink back into the mattress and closed his eyes, trying to follow the thread of sleep back down—but it wouldn’t take him.

His skin felt too hot, his throat dry.

After a few more minutes of stillness, he gave up, pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Pain flared in both knees the moment his feet hit the floor.

Even his good leg was acting up now.

   Bloody charming.

Newt moved quietly through the bunks, barefoot, careful not to rouse anyone. The air wasn’t warm or cold—just neutral. An absence of sensation, as if the temperature had been set precisely by an unseen hand. Beneath it, something deeper: a low, steady thrum that pulsed through the floor and walls. The building itself seemed to exhale—a quiet, mechanical breath just beneath the threshold of hearing.

He reached the bathroom. The door was shut. A blade of light spilt across the floor from underneath. From within, the low rush of running water. A shower. Someone else was up.

Newt glanced back. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell which bed was missing its occupant.

He slipped inside. Let the door hush closed behind him.

No need to announce himself. Whoever was here probably just needed the quiet. Time alone. Newt could relate.

Steam drifted from the far stall, curling in pale spirals up to the ceiling where it clung like fog. The air carried a faint metallic scent—old pipes, chemical scrub, rust lingering just beneath the surface. Newt stepped across the cold ceramic floor, the chill nipping at his bare soles. He reached the sink and twisted the tap open. Water spilt out in a hesitant trickle. He cupped his hands beneath it, letting the stream fill his palms. Lukewarm. A faint taste of rust and chemicals, but it cleared his tongue, scrubbed the cotton from his throat. He drank until the water overflowed, dripping down his wrists.

Then he looked up. Caught sight of himself in the mirror—and paused.

He hadn’t seen himself properly in… he wasn’t sure how long. There’d been no mirrors in the Glade, only fleeting glimpses since—reflections warped in passing glass or the glint of a blade. But here he was now.

His face was thinner than he’d expected. Angular, yet still somehow youthful. He knew he was supposed to be seventeen or eighteen, maybe nineteen at most. But he felt much older—and that didn’t match what he saw.

The scab on his left cheek had crusted into something angry and red. His lips were cracked and dry. Dark shadows ringed his eyes—bruises left behind by restless sleep.

Not a stranger. But not quite familiar either.

He looked… tired.

He felt tired.

Newt leaned closer. Freckles dusted the bridge of his nose, scattered across his cheeks like cinnamon shaken over cream. He hadn’t remembered having so many.

He blinked. Brown. His eyes were so dark they nearly looked black in this light. Somehow, that startled him—not the colour itself, but the depth behind it. A question stared back at him.

   Who are you now?

The thought wasn’t dramatic. Not even sad. Just quiet wonder.

Newt had never felt entirely whole—not in the Glade. He’d worn the role of second-in-command, steady and reliable. But it had always felt borrowed. Like he was reciting someone else’s lines.

Who had he been before the Maze? Before the memory wipe? Before…

Thomas.

His arrival had been a sudden click, the clean, unmistakable sound of something locking into place. A missing piece in the fractured puzzle of Newt’s mind.

Thomas didn’t complete it, not by a long shot, but he fit. Gave shape to the blur of who Newt was trying to be. Let him breathe again, even if the air still caught in his chest, dragging across jagged edges, echoing through hollow spaces. No matter how tightly Newt clung to those around him, some part of him was always missing—something silent and unreachable, hovering just out of sight.

Thomas had mended part of the fracture, yes—but not all of it.

And so Newt bore the quiet burden of the unknown. What else had slipped away before he even knew to mourn it? How many pieces had vanished without leaving a shape behind? Or worse—what if some had been taken from him, cleanly cut, leaving only the ache of something essential that would never return?

His thoughts drifted, involuntarily, toward the idea of family. A mother, surely. A father, maybe. But no faces came. No voices. No flickers of memory. Nothing.

In the early days, that emptiness had been unbearable. With no clue where he’d come from, Newt had wrestled with a loneliness so vast, no amount of companionship could reach the edges of it. He’d tried to imagine a family, but without memories to anchor them, the images never held. He was adrift, like a ship cut from its moorings, lost in a sea with no stars to steer by.

It wasn’t just that he’d forgotten them. No—whoever they were, they’d been taken from him, stolen clean away. And the longer he lived without them, the more it felt like they’d never existed at all.

Who was to say they hadn’t forgotten him, too?

That thought—cruel as it was—over time had hardened into a kind of armour. A lie he needed. Because imagining them meant wanting them. And wanting always led to grief.

And grief was dangerous when you didn’t even know what you’d lost.

Eventually, he’d stopped trying. It was easier to shut that door completely—easier to believe no one was looking for him than to hold out hope for a family that had abandoned him to a place like that. If they knew where he was and hadn’t come … maybe they hadn’t wanted him at all. 

Now, faced with the truth of what lay beyond the Maze—the world in ruins, hope burned down to ash—that empty past weighed heavier than ever. There truly was no one out there remembering him. No home to return to. Just the unknown, and the bitter understanding that whatever family he might have had was gone, claimed by the same destruction that had taken everything else.

The last three years had shaped Newt into someone others could rely on—or at least, someone who knew how to look the part. He’d learned early how to stop needing things himself. Needing made you weak. Wanting made you reckless.

Until Thomas. Especially with Thomas.

Thomas, who slipped past his walls without even meaning to. Who made it possible, just now and then, to feel whole. Even if he never really was.

The past was a void, but the present wasn’t.

He had his people. He had Thomas.

That was enough.

A quiet promise that even without a past, they’d make a future.

Maybe he had no living relatives left in the world. But he still had a family.

The water shut off.

Newt turned, shoulders tensing. The sudden silence was jarring—louder than the spray had been, louder than footsteps or breath. It thudded in his ears like a dropped heartbeat.

He took a small step back from the mirror just as the stall door creaked open.

Minho stepped out, steam clinging to him like smoke. He hadn’t bothered with a towel. His shirt—damp and translucent in places—stuck to his frame, and his hair hung limp over his forehead, stripped of its usual spikes and swagger.

Then their eyes met.

Minho froze.

Newt’s breath snagged—not from awkwardness, but from the look on Minho’s face, the rawness written there. Red-rimmed eyes. Water—shower or tears—traced slow paths down his cheeks.

He’d never seen Minho shed a tear before—not when George lost his mind, not when the first Gladers died, not even after Alby was taken. This was the same Minho who found Newt at his lowest and carried him back to the Glade. The one who tossed out jokes that often missed the mark, but kept the group moving forward.

Behind Newt, the tap still dripped, slow and arrhythmic. The lights buzzed overhead, casting cold haloes across the tiles. The air hung with steam and metallic dampness, a stillness so complete it felt suspended, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Minho looked away first. His gaze flicked to the mirror. He said nothing. Just walked past, posture stiff, as though every step cost him something. He moved to the farthest sink, planted his hands on the porcelain. His shoulders rose and fell once, slow, as if bracing against something invisible pressing down.

Newt stayed still. In the mirror, he caught the deep furrow between his brows—an expression that felt permanent by now. Something that had etched itself into place over years of surviving. 

Minho’s knuckles whitened against the sink. Newt noticed the faint tremble in his shoulders, the way he refused to meet his gaze.

   “You look like hell,” Newt said quietly.

   “Who’s talking?” Minho snorted softly. “Guess it’s Maze o’clock. Doors would be opening any minute now. My body just hasn’t caught up with the fact there’s nothing left to run.” He flicked a sideways glance. “You get any sleep?”

   “Nightmares,” Newt said, as if that explained it all. Maybe it did.

   “Suppose we’re bound to have a few of those,” Minho replied.

His jaw twitched. His mouth opened, like he wanted to say more, but the words never came. Instead, he stared at his reflection, revulsion creeping over his face like a dark shadow.

Then, without warning, his fist slammed into the glass.

The mirror didn’t shatter—just fractured, violently. A web of jagged lines radiated from the impact point, distorting everything. Minho’s face splintered across the shards.

He didn’t lash out again.

He just stood there, chest heaving, a raw sound catching in his throat and dying before it escaped. His hands trembled where they gripped the edge of the sink again.

Newt stepped closer, deliberately slow. When his hand settled gently on Minho’s shoulder, he recoiled. So Newt let his hand fall away, silent.

Somewhere in the dorm, a bed creaked, followed by the soft tread of footsteps.

A voice, rough with sleep: “What the shuck’s going on?”

Newt didn’t look away. His eyes stayed locked on the mirror, on the reflection of a face that was always brave, always brash—now splintered beyond recognition.

The bathroom door inched open.

   “Minho? Newt?” Frypan’s voice this time, uncertain. “You guys alright in there?”

Minho didn’t turn. “Fine,” he muttered. 

Newt gave Frypan a brief glance and a slight shake of the head—don’t push it.

The door creaked open wider, and Thomas stepped into the frame beside Frypan, his eyes darting between Minho’s bloodied knuckles and the fractured mirror. He opened his mouth, a question already forming on the edge of concern—but before the words could come, the dormitory lights blazed on all at once, flooding the space behind him with sterile, unforgiving brightness.

A chorus of sleepy groans and protests rippled through the bunks.

   “Not so early, please…”

   “Give us five more minutes…”

   “Mornin’ already?”

The chatter dimmed when a clipped voice cut through the unrest.

Newt shoved past Thomas and Frypan, and found Dr. Crawford standing between the bunks—clipboard in hand, white coat immaculate, expression unreadable.

   “Good morning, everyone,” she said, her voice flat. “I see most of you are rested up and ready to start the day.” She let the words hang briefly. “That’s good. Rest is important.”

After another brief pause, “I know you must be hungry, but you’re scheduled for medical appointments first thing this morning. We’re on a tight schedule and need to clear some things quickly. I trust you won’t mind a delayed breakfast.”

Murmurs rippled through the Gladers, some resigned, others clearly irritated, a few exchanging uneasy glances. The suddenness of it all left no room for protest.

Her gaze swept the room, as if cataloguing every weary soul before moving on. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Chapter 5

   Fifteen minutes later, they were all on their feet. Bleary-eyed and sullen, the Gladers moved like a single slow body, trailing behind the two escorts who marched ahead.

The corridors unfurled endlessly before them, indistinguishable from the last. Concrete walls loomed on either side—dull, grey, cold to the eye—broken only by sleek seams of metal panelling. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzzed with an unfeeling whine, casting a sterile pallor that flattened every face, erased every shadow.

There was no sense of morning here. No scent of dew or sun-warmed stone. No breeze brushing against skin. No windows, no rooster crow—only the hum of electricity and the soft scuff of boots against floor.

One of the escorts wore a watch: 06:32 a.m. it claimed, but Newt’s body didn’t believe it. 

Back in the Glade, the sun had been their compass—fixed and faithful, a silent sentinel carved into the sky. It gave them more than light; it gave them order. A pulse to their days. It told them when to rise, when to run, and when to rest. Its constancy had been a quiet kind of mercy.

Here, everything felt wrong. Not just unfamiliar, but fabricated. It was the absence of windows that needled at Newt most—a small thing, but it hollowed the space, made the air feel close and too still.

He hadn’t expected it to throw him off this badly. But the disorientation rooted deep in his chest, a quiet imbalance that refused to settle. His internal clock spun without bearings, and beneath his skin, the unease buzzed—low and constant—like static tangled in his nerves.

He limped down another hallway with the others, careful not to let it show. But the anxiety clung to him, stubborn and shapeless.

Thomas walked beside him, eyes cutting to every corner, every flicker of shadow, like he couldn’t stop bracing for something to strike. Frypan moved in a haze, yawning into his sleeve, his body on autopilot. And Minho, a few paces ahead, walked with his shoulders wound tight, every step taut and rigid.

Newt kept his eyes on Minho’s back, watching for a sign—a glance, a shift, anything. But Minho gave him nothing. His silence was a wall. And Newt, aching to know what storm brewed behind it, could only guess.

No one spoke. The silence followed them like a third escort.

Eventually, they came to a stop outside a sealed door. One of the escorts stepped forward, swiping a keycard across a sleek black panel—the same kind Janson had used the day before. A soft beep. A hiss. Then the door slid open without ceremony.

Inside waited a chamber that barely looked like a room at all. Wide, gleaming, and mercilessly bright, it buzzed beneath a flood of artificial light. Curtains hung in partitions between tall metal columns, slicing the space into invisible grids. Everything shimmered faintly under the fluorescents, as if scrubbed raw.

The walls, the floor, even the glint of chrome on the equipment—all of it was cast in a sterile blue. Not the kind that soothed. This blue was cold, clinical. 

The air tasted of disinfectant, undercut by a faint metallic tang. Ionised, almost electric. It scraped the back of Newt’s throat and clung to his tongue. His empty stomach gave a twist, sharp and sour.

The Gladers stepped in, one by one, forming a slow, uneven line. They barely had time to take it all in before a team approached—figures in blue coveralls, some layered with stark white lab coats. A few wore masks that concealed everything but their eyes. Even those looked dulled, glassy with fatigue, or worse, indifference.

Doctors, Newt assumed. But they moved more like technicians. Efficient, dispassionate. As if they were maintaining machinery, not tending to the living.

Maybe that’s what the end of the world did. Stripped away everything but utility. 

A bald man stepped forward, clipboard in hand. Late forties, Newt guessed. Clean-shaven except for a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard. His expression wore the polished warmth of someone trained to appear kind—though time had worn that kindness thin, reduced it to routine.

   “I’m Dr. Kline,” he said with a slight nod. His voice was calm, practised, professional to the point of numb. He gestured for Newt to follow. “Come with me.”

Newt hesitated. His eyes swept the room on instinct, searching—anchoring—but Thomas was already halfway across, vanishing behind one of the blue curtains, a woman in a lab coat at his side. Minho, too, led off without a word. One by one, the others peeled away, tugged from the group like threads unravelling from a frayed hem.

Newt cast one last glance toward Thomas, then turned and followed Dr. Kline.

The doctor led him to a small examination pod: a metal chair bolted beside a low table lined with neatly arranged instruments, every edge gleaming beneath the fluorescent light.

Newt sat—not from obedience, but because his leg refused to hold him any longer. As he shifted his weight, a sharp breath slipped through his teeth. Pain sparked under the skin—dull, deep, and grinding.

Dr. Kline’s eyes flicked down, brief but clinical. “Old injury?”

Newt didn’t answer right away. He kept his eyes fixed ahead, away from the doctor, the instruments, the light. The chair creaked beneath him, its joints as unsteady as his own.

   “Snapped in three places,” he said finally. “Didn’t heal right.”

Kline didn’t comment. He simply turned to the tray on the side table. Glass clinked gently as he rifled through his tools. Newt tried to catch a glimpse of what he was doing, but the doctor’s frame blocked the view.

The sounds unsettled him: a dull scraping, a cap unscrewing with a sharp twist, liquid sloshing in a small vial. His scalp prickled—a warning, or just nerves.

When Kline finally turned back, he held a syringe in his hand.

It was large. Larger than necessary. The needle gleamed cold and long, the liquid inside an unnatural, faint blue, almost glowing.

Newt’s body tensed. “Wait—what is that?”

   “Rebalancer,” Kline said smoothly, as if reciting a script. “Vitamins. Electrolytes. Mineral boosters. You’re depleted. Trust me, you’ll feel better after this. Try to relax.”

Newt didn’t move. He didn’t trust Kline—but he didn’t resist either. What was the point?

The doctor found the crook of his elbow, tapped twice, and slid the needle in with practised ease.

Newt winced—not from pain, but from intrusion. A cold foreignness threading through his veins, staking claim to space that felt his own.

By the time it was over, his fingers tingled faintly.

Vitals came next.

Pulse. Blood pressure. Oxygen levels. Retina scans. A digital probe pressed to his temple, flashing red, then green. Every part of him recorded, catalogued, filed away.

The exam was thorough, methodical—unnervingly so. Nothing like the cursory checkups Clint and Jeff had run in the Glade. Nothing like the rushed scan right after their escape in the helicopter. This felt less like care and more like inventory.

And it made Newt’s chest tighten with anxiety all over again.

Dr. Kline spoke little during the procedure. His eyes rarely left the flickering numbers on the screen—barely a glance for Newt.

   “We’ll need blood samples, too,” he said at last, reaching for a row of vials.

One by one, the tubes filled with Newt’s blood. The third made his head swim. By the fifth, the chair wobbled beneath him, dangerously unsteady—though it never tipped.

Newt said nothing. Pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, willing the dizziness to pass. Kline was a doctor, after all. He had to know what he was doing... presumably.

When the man finally crouched to examine Newt’s leg, he rolled up the long pant leg with clinical detachment. The skin beneath was pale and unmarked—no trace of the bruises from months ago, only the stubborn memory of pain beneath the surface.

His fingers pressed carefully along the bone as he jotted notes without meeting Newt’s gaze.

   “How’d that happen, boy?”

The word scraped across Newt’s nerves like a jagged edge. Boy. Small and dismissive, especially after everything they’d survived.

   “Fell,” Newt said, voice tight.

Kline looked up, eyebrow arching. “From how high?”

Newt shrugged, avoiding the doctor’s eyes. “Fourteen, fifteen metres. Maybe more.”

   “You’re lucky to be alive,” Kline said quietly. “A fall like that could’ve been fatal.”

   “Blimey,” Newt muttered, bitterness bleeding through before he could stop it. “Imagine that.”

Kline didn’t respond—just scribbled a few more lines on his clipboard, his silence sharper than any words.

Finally, the doctor set the clipboard down. “We’ll need X-rays. Come with me, please.”

Newt rose slowly, the room tilting slightly to the left. His balance wavered, subtle but unsettling. Above, the fluorescent lights buzzed louder. Or maybe it was the ringing in his ears.

They moved in silence, weaving between half-drawn curtains. Newt’s eyes flicked to each compartment, catching glimpses of half-familiar faces blurred by distance.

Minho was on a treadmill, electrodes plastered to his chest. Whatever the test, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes narrowed with quiet defiance. But Newt caught the slight tremble in his arms.

Frypan, Winston, Frankie, Tim, Jack, Stan, Clint—more Gladers. But no Thomas.

A tight knot formed in Newt’s chest. He didn’t like this. Not the tests, not the needles, and especially not the absence of Thomas.

Still, he followed Dr. Kline into a smaller room at the back. The lights were dimmed to a cold, bluish haze. The air smelled faintly of ozone and scorched metal.

Machines lined the walls like dormant insects—sleek, sterile, waiting.

   “Lie back,” the doctor instructed. Newt lowered himself onto the cold radiology table, the vinyl surface firm beneath him.

   “Keep still,” the doctor said, voice low and steady.

The x-ray machine hummed to life, casting a pale, ghostly wash over the room. Cold light pressed against Newt’s skin, making his scalp prickle. He lay rigid, willing his heart to slow. The Maze had walls, but above them, the sky had been real. Here, the ceiling hung low and unyielding.

The scan finished with a soft chime. Dr. Kline turned toward the monitor, arms crossed, eyes fixed, staring too long.

   “You’re lucky, in a way,” he said, not turning to Newt. “I cannot detect a triple fracture.”

Newt blinked, surprised. “But—Clint and Jeff told me—”

   “You weren’t wrong to assume the worst,” Kline cut in smoothly. “Given what you had to work with in the Maze, it was a fair assumption. But now that we’ve imaged it properly…” He rotated the screen. “It’s a tibial plateau fracture. Here—upper part of the shinbone, just beneath the knee.”

He tapped the spectral image with one finger. “It’s mostly healed. But the impact compressed the joint and drove the fracture upward. You’ve got cartilage fragments floating in there. Soft tissue damage. Possibly a meniscus tear. Ligament strain, too—likely from when your leg caught in that ivy.”

   Wait—

Newt sat up quickly on the table, a flicker of black flashing before his eyes.

   “I think I didn’t—”

   “You’re walking, which is promising,” Kline cut him off. “But the joint surface is irregular now—pressure doesn’t distribute the way it should. Every step only aggravates it.”

   “So it’s permanent.”

The doctor tilted his head as he kept examining the scan. “There’s always a chance for improvement. Physical therapy. Care. Time. But with an injury like this … even with surgery—which I’m guessing you didn’t have—some things don’t go back the way they were.”

Newt nodded slowly, silent. His eyes stayed on the image, ghost-white against the screen. It meant nothing to him, really, just a ghostly outline of pain.

   “You’ll manage,” Kline said, “but you’ll feel it. In the cold. On stairs. After long days. Some days, it’ll ache for no reason.”

   “Good to know,” Newt said flatly.

Kline studied him a moment longer, then switched off the screen. “Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”

He left without shutting the door.

Newt sat in the quiet, the machine humming faintly in the background. He didn’t move. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled tight.

None of it surprised him. But hearing it from a stranger—laid out clinically, like an inventory of damage—hit differently. There was a finality to it now. 

   Deserved, a small part whispered. You knew what you did. This is just the shape of consequence.

Still—how had Kline known about the ivy?

Before Newt could sit with the thought, the doctor returned. In his hands he carried something metallic.

It gleamed along the edges—silver with matte black across its body. Lightweight, almost skeletal in structure. Rows of jointed segments curled like mechanical vertebrae. A thin mesh lined the interior, pliant and soft.

   “This is a kinetic stabilisation splint,” Kline said, kneeling before him. “Multi-joint support. Adapts to your muscle patterns and gait. Designed for imbalance, post-trauma. Your kind of injury is an ideal candidate.”

Newt raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of fancy words for ‘brace.’”

Kline didn’t smile, but a flicker of amusement softened his eyes. “Not just a brace. Think of it as scaffolding your body can learn from. Dynamic support—microadjustments based on your movement. Training wheels for your knee. Except smarter.”

He slid it into place with quiet precision, the lightweight frame clicking softly as it locked around Newt’s leg. The mesh hugged his skin, moulding to every contour. The metal cooled briefly against him before settling—snug, secure, almost… reassuring.

   “Try standing,” Kline said.

Newt hesitated, then pushed off the table.

He braced for the pain—that familiar jolt of sharp heat through bone—but it didn’t come.

His foot met the floor. He adjusted his weight. Then he walked.

One step. Two.

A third. A fourth—cautious at first, then gathering confidence.

It was like the pain had been muted. No stabbing ache. Just a dull pressure, the sensation of weight caught and redistributed. The brace flexed with him, smooth and comforting.

   “I can—” Newt stopped short. He stared down at the brace, breath caught in his throat. It flexed with him, seamless—not stiff, not robotic, but close. Like it understood how he moved.

   “Bloody hell. I can put weight on it.”

   “You’ll still need to be careful,” Kline said quietly. “It’s not healed. But it’s stable enough for your body to recover while the healing continues. Enough to keep you upright.”

Newt said nothing at first.

His throat tightened—not from pain, but from the sudden, unfamiliar relief. It hit him like a wave, unbidden and confusing. For so long, his body had been a prison of ache and limitation; the constant reminder of failure and loss. And now, this fragile reprieve felt almost like a betrayal—like the universe was mocking him with a kindness he hadn’t earned.

He didn’t feel like he deserved it.

   “I thought it was permanent,” he murmured.

   “It still is,” the doctor replied. “This kind of damage never truly goes away. It disrupts weight-bearing, wears down cartilage, and often leads to chronic pain, stiffness… and long-term problems like post-traumatic arthritis. But with this”—he nodded to the brace—“you’ll regain some mobility. That’s the least I can offer.”

Newt nodded faintly, then took another careful step. Slow. Cautious. His limp reduced to a bare hitch.

When Newt stepped back into the main ward, the overhead lights felt too harsh, the antiseptic air still biting at his throat. But something inside him had shifted. 

Each step felt strange—unnaturally smooth, almost effortless. The brace around his leg adjusted seamlessly with every movement, its internal mechanisms humming faintly, like a whisper of breath beneath against his skin. It was cod, but in an oddly pleasant way. Not just support—it participated, sensing, syncing, almost learning him. 

For the first time in months, he didn’t wince when his foot struck the floor. Didn’t grit his teeth before every step. There was no delay between thought and motion.

He kept his gaze low, reluctant to draw notice. Part of him still braced for pain’s return.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Thomas, just crossing back through the main entrance.

His mouth was a tight line, eyes shadowed with something Newt couldn’t place. What the hell had he done now? Where had he gone?

Newt’s heart lurched at the sight of him, a wild surge of worry and relief crashing through his chest. Beneath it all, the quiet euphoria of walking without pain swelled inside him, and when their eyes finally met, he couldn’t help but grin—a small, genuine beam.

For a flicker, Thomas looked confused, as if trying to place something just beyond reach. Then that guarded expression shattered, the edges softening like ice melting under a slow sun. A smile bloomed across Thomas’ face—lopsided, ragged with weariness, but fiercely real.

In that moment, something inside Newt cracked wide open. The ache, the loneliness, the fear—they all poured out, leaving behind nothing but pure joy. It was a happiness he hadn’t felt in years—bright, wild, and unrestrained.

It made him wish he could hug the whole world, so he hugged Thomas instead.

Thomas made a surprised sound—half startle, half laugh—but didn’t hesitate. His arms rose sure and steady, wrapping around Newt, hands settling at the curve of his back. Warmth spread through Newt like wildfire. The hug stretched on, too long by any measure, but Newt didn’t care. Not one bit.

Here, in this quiet hold, the world felt like it might just be okay.

Thomas didn’t pull away. His voice was low, teasing at the edges as it brushed the sensitive skin just beneath Newt’s ear. “I wasn’t even gone that long.”

Newt laughed, soft and a little breathless. “You picked the wrong moment to vanish. Missed my miracle moment, Tommy,” he said, pulling back just enough to lift his pant leg and flash the brace. “High-tech crutch. Walks like a dream. Looks like something out of a bloody sci-fi film.”

Before Thomas could answer, Minho’s voice cut through: “What the shucking hell is that thing? ”

He jogged over, Frypan and the others close behind. Tim and Jack followed at a slower pace, though even they looked stunned.

Newt angled his leg out a bit, showing off the sleek, jointed support wrapping his knee. “Apparently it’s called a kinetic stabilisation splint,” he said with mock formality. “Fancy name for a leg-huggin' robot, far as I can tell.”

Frypan crouched to examine it. “Neat.”

   “Does it hurt?” Jack asked, a little hesitantly.

   “No,” Newt said. “That’s the whole point. It doesn’t. For once.”

Thomas’ gaze lingered on Newt’s face, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

Minho broke the quiet first, clapping a hand to Newt’s shoulder. “Don’t get cocky, shank. I’ve always been the fastest between the two of us—no leg-huggin’ robot’s gonna change that.”

Newt smirked. “You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

   “We’re placing bets now?” Frypan cut in. “I’ll put a week’s worth of my own breakfast on Newt outrunning all of us by next week.”

Right on cue, Jack’s stomach let out a loud growl. He clutched his gut with a groan. “Great. Love that we’re gambling with food we don’t even have.”

   “Jack’s got a point,” Frankie said. “I might actually drop dead if we don’t get anything to eat soon.”

 

Notes:

I know the sky in the books wasn’t real at all, but if you’ve read this far, you’ve probably noticed I prefer the movie version of the Maze—especially with Newt’s letter mentioning the sun slipping beneath the walls. I just couldn’t bear the idea of that one happy memory being fake because of the sun's artificial nature

Regarding Newt’s leg: Fever Code shows that there were at most six months between Newt’s attempt and Thomas' insertion. At that point, with that timeframe and the limited access to medical care in the Glade, it’s unlikely Newt would be walking with only a slight limp if his leg had truly been broken in three places. That said, it does make perfect sense that Jeff and Clint would diagnose it that way, given their limited medical knowledge and equipment. They did their best, and Newt’s leg probably hurt in multiple places, making their assumption valid.

I’m also aware that in the movie, Newt tells Thomas his suicide attempt was relatively early in his time in the Glade, only shortly after he came out of the Box. But that didn’t quite add up when you consider Thomas watching him through the screen and setting everything in motion to join Newt as quickly as possible. If Newt’s attempt was that early, it would mean Thomas took almost three years to reach him in the Maze, which doesn’t fit the timeline either. So, this is my approach to bridging yet another plot hole.

Through this chapter, I also wanted to show that not everyone at WICKED is cruel and cold-hearted. Dr. Kline may be detached, but he genuinely wanted to help Newt and showed a little kindness despite everything.

And, well, this is my explanation for why Newt’s limp seems to disappear between the first and second movie lmao

Thanks for reading! I’d love to read your thoughts and comments <3

Chapter 6

Notes:

Thanks so much for your patience waiting for this chapter! It’s been a hectic week, and I barely found time to write. Today, I gave my horses a well-deserved day off—it's nearly impossible to get anything done outside in these temperatures anyway—and spent the whole day focused on this chapter. I really hope it’s worth the wait and lives up to your expectations :)

   Frankie—and everyone else, for that matter—was thankfully spared the cruel fate of starvation, as just minutes after his complaint, one of Janson’s colleagues appeared in the doorway. A woman in her thirties with carefully styled hair, a crisp uniform, and a smile polished just enough to pass for genuine.

   “Good morning, everyone,” she called out brightly. Her voice was warm, inviting, but carried a clipped edge that reminded them exactly who held the leash here. “If you’ll come with me now, breakfast is waiting.”

That was all it took. The promise of food was enough to jolt the Gladers into motion.

Newt hung back with Thomas, who trailed at the rear, more drifting than following, his mind clearly elsewhere. The corridor they filed through smelled of stale air; the overhead lights hummed with a sterile glow that made Newt’s temples ache.

He shot Thomas a sideways glance.

   “Where’d you disappear to earlier?” Newt asked, his voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry.

Thomas didn’t answer at once. His stare stayed fixed on a point in the distance. “Janson wanted to talk,” he said finally. “Wanted to have a word—private. Away from the others.”

Newt raised an eyebrow, suspicion crackling under his skin like static. “Why?”

Thomas shrugged, but it was the stiff, defensive shrug of someone trying to cage in more than they’d say out loud. “Asked what I remembered. About WICKED. Which side I’m on.”

Newt’s boots scuffed the polished floor as he slowed his pace. “So he knows you worked for them?”

Thomas gave a half-nod. His jaw tensed, like he was biting back words he hated to own. “Yeah. Told him I used to work for WICKED. That it didn’t stop them from tossing me in the Maze, though.”

He flicked Newt a look—sharp and fleeting. A silent message. A warning? A confession? Newt couldn’t read it. Didn’t like not being able to. There were still corners of Thomas’ mind that stayed locked tight, things maybe the Changing had shown him—and maybe he’d never share.

They reached the canteen, and the conversation dissolved into silence as the smell of food hit them—eggs, toast, something else, hearty and rich.

Newt grabbed a tray. Around him, the others dug in like starved wolves. Frypan already had his face buried in a plate of eggs, shovelling them in with single-minded devotion.

Newt sat down to Thomas’ right, across from Winston. He picked at his food without really tasting it, pushing a limp strip of bacon in aimless circles while his eyes drifted to the hallway beyond the wide interior window. People passed in and out of view—guards, technicians, staff in pale uniforms. No one made eye contact. No one lingered. The glass threw back faint reflections of their own faces—ghostlike, insubstantial.

No windows to the outside. Still no daylight. Just walls, buzzing tubes, locked doors. No way to know what time it was. No proof that the world still existed beyond this place.

Newt had just dropped his eyes back to his plate when Thomas spoke. “What the hell?” The words were a splinter of sound, just a whisper, but sharp enough for Newt to catch through the low hum of chewing and scraping forks.

Thomas got up. The sudden movement jolted Newt’s nerves. Minho looked up, a half-chewed mouthful frozen mid-bite.

Thomas didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

Newt followed his line of sight—and then he saw her.

Out in the corridor, framed by the glass like a moving portrait, a girl walked past in a cluster of white-robed figures. Dark hair, loose at the shoulders. A careful, measured step.

   “Hey—Teresa?” Thomas called, his voice cracking. The girl didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t hear him. She just kept walking.

Newt stayed frozen in his seat, watching as Thomas shoved away from the table and crossed the canteen in quick, determined strides.

He called again, louder this time. “Teresa!”

She turned her head at the last second—a flicker over her shoulder, a pale face, blue eyes catching the light—before her group rounded the corner and slipped from view. Just a glimpse, then gone.

Newt saw it too—there was no mistaking her face. He knew it the same instant Thomas did.

It was her.

Teresa.

Thomas was already at the doors when two men stepped forward, as if summoned by an unspoken signal. Newt hadn’t really noticed them before. They’d been leaning against the wall, blending in with the dull monotony of the facility. Not guards, exactly, but not passive observers either.

   “Hey, hey—easy,” one of them said, intercepting Thomas with a placating hand, calm control wrapped in forced friendliness. Professional, but the cold edge in his eyes stayed put. “Where do you think you’re going?”

   “Where are they taking her?” Thomas demanded.

   “They just have to run a few more tests,” the man replied evenly. “Don’t worry, they’ll be done with her soon.”

Newt didn’t move. He watched Thomas—watched the rigid line of his shoulders, the defiance in his stance. 

   “Is she okay?” Thomas pressed.

   “She’s fine,” the man said, the edge of annoyance slipping through his put-on calm.

Thomas’ fists bunched at his sides. He didn’t believe it. Neither did Minho, judging by how he let his fork clatter to the plate and leaned back, eyes narrowed.

Thomas returned to their table, reluctant, shoulders still stiff. He didn’t touch his food after this. Newt didn’t blame him. His own appetite had waned too, buried somewhere beneath the uneasy weight pressing against his ribs.

A little later, they were marched back to their dorm, the buzz of the overhead fluorescents droning in the hush that filled the hallways. Newt drifted in a strange limbo—caught between the euphoria of walking properly again and the steady dread this grey, windowless place lodged in his chest. But the moment they stepped through the door, any thought of it dissolved.

A faint flush. Water rushing behind the thin bathroom door.

Someone was in there.

Thomas froze mid-step, the last of the Gladers bunching up behind him like a dammed current. He tilted his head, listening hard. “Teresa?” The name slipped out, half-hopeful.

No answer.

Tim and Frankie pushed past him. Frypan dropped onto his bunk with a groan, his boots hitting the metal frame with a dull clang. Newt followed them in, eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door as he sank onto his own bed. Thomas just stood there, staring at it like he could will it open.

Their escort explained nothing. The man had just left the dorm when the bathroom door opened.

It wasn’t Teresa.

A boy emerged, pausing in the frame as he took them all in. He looked as startled to see them as they were to see him—olive skin, short brown hair matted like he’d just splashed water on his face, the same drab shirt they'd all been given hanging loose around narrow shoulders. His eyes swept the room, confusion shifting into guarded defiance under the weight of two dozen stares.

Minho’s reaction was instant. His eyes locked on the newcomer with raw suspicion. He surged forward a step, fists clenched at his sides, tension rolling off him like heat off sunbaked stone. “Who the shuck are you?” 

The boy flinched but didn’t back down. Instead, he planted his feet on the scuffed floor, arms folded tight across his chest like armour that didn’t quite fit. “Who am I? Who are you?” His voice trembled at the edges, but his chin lifted an inch higher, daring them to come closer.

Minho snarled something under his breath, looking seconds away from launching himself across the floor. Newt stepped in fast, catching him by the arm. “Easy,” he murmured, voice pitched for Minho alone.

Under his palm, Minho’s muscles were taut and trembling, a restless energy thrumming just beneath the skin. Newt could feel it—like holding on to a live wire that might break loose any second.

He thought of the mirror that morning—Minho’s fist buried in the glass, blood on his knuckles, eyes gone wild. He thought of the Maze, how Minho used to run himself ragged every day until the anger bled out with the sweat. Now, with no running and no routine to drain it off, all that rage just sat there, coiled tight with nowhere to go.

Newt tightened his grip, heart knocking against his ribs. Please don’t do something stupid, he thought, forcing the worry down as he shifted his focus to the boy, schooling his face into calm he didn’t quite feel. When he spoke, his voice dropped to a low, measured drawl—the same tone he’d used to talk down jumpy Greenies more than once.

   “Don’t bloody mess about, all right? There’s a lot more of us than there are of you. Just tell us your name.”

For a second, the boy’s mask cracked—Newt caught the flicker of irritation, quick and unguarded—then it vanished, his chin lifting again. “Aris,” he said, spitting it out like a challenge. “What else do you want?”

Minho let out a humourless bark of a laugh, eyes narrowing as he sized the kid up from head to toe. “How ‘bout the truth, tough guy? You got any of that on you?”

Aris’s mouth twitched—a grim line that might have been a smirk, if it weren’t so shaky.

Newt held Minho back with a firmer grip. He felt the eyes of the others behind him, gathered in a loose circle—Thomas hovering close, Frypan peering from his bunk, brows furrowed, Frankie and Jack near the doorway, and Tim, Winston, and Clint scattered quietly around the room. The air thrummed with held breath, punctuated only by the faint scrape of a boot against the floor and the soft creak of a bunk settling.

   “You wanna make friends, you’ll drop the attitude fast,” Newt said, voice softer now, but the warning unmistakable. “Start with who brought you here.”

Aris didn’t answer at first. He just stood there, thin shoulders squared, unmoving. For a heartbeat, the room fell so silent Newt could hear his own breath—hear Thomas shift closer behind him.

When he spoke, his words came clipped, half-accusation. “How’d you get here? What do you want? Where’s Teresa?”

   “Teresa?” Aris repeated, his eyes flicking to Thomas. “I was the only one here when I got dumped in. Haven’t seen anyone else since—maybe two hours ago?”

Minho scoffed. “Bull.” He shook Newt off, shouldering past him. “Keep your answers honest, hero. You lie once, I’ll know.”

Aris dropped his arms, hands splaying helplessly at his sides. “Look, man, I don’t know what to say. They dragged me in here a couple hours ago. I showered. I passed out on that bed.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder towards the bunk Frypan had claimed. “Woke up needing to piss. That’s it.”

Thomas stepped forward, eyes locked on Aris, hard and unblinking. Newt watched closely, noticing something in Thomas go unnervingly still.

   “I don’t believe you,” Thomas said flatly, narrowing his eyes.

   “Then don’t.” Aris shot back, but his voice cracked at the edges—a faint fissure in his masquerade. “Got nothing else to tell you.”

Thomas threw a helpless glance over his shoulder, catching Newt’s eye. Newt answered in a half-shrug—Could be telling the truth. Could be lying. No way to tell yet.

Minho spat a humourless laugh. “Where’d you come from, then? Fairy godmother drop you through the ceiling?”

Newt turned back to Aris. “You said you were dragged here. Who brought you in?”

Aris exhaled. “I don’t even know, man. Bunch of people with guns. Said we were safe now. Said we’d been rescued.”

   “Rescued from what?” Thomas asked.

For the first time, Aris faltered. His gaze dropped to the floor, his whole frame folding under some invisible weight, like a wave of terrible memory crashing over him. He sighed, then finally looked back up and answered.

   “From the Maze, man. From the Maze.”

A hush rippled through the room, cold and sudden, like water seeping under a locked door.

Thomas’ voice softened, careful and probing. “Maze? You’re serious?”

Aris nodded once, a shadow passing over his face. 

Newt felt something twist deep inside his gut. He’d seen that look before—the hollow horror buried behind the eyes. The kind you don’t fake. The kind that stuck with you. This kid wasn’t lying—he could just tell.

   “You should sit down,” Thomas said after a moment. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Aris hesitated, brow furrowing. “What do you mean? Who are you guys? Where’d you come from?”

   “The Maze,” Thomas said again. “Same as you.”

   “You’re lying,” Aris muttered, disbelief lacing his words.

   “No, we’re not,” Newt said firmly. “Tommy’s right. We need to talk. Sounds like we’ve come from similar places.”

Minho muttered a few unintelligible words, clearly unconvinced.

Frypan rubbed his eyes. “Alright, let’s get this storytelling started so we can get to the real problem—there’s no bunk left for that shank. And I’m not sharing mine.”

A couple of the Gladers snickered.

   “Good that,” Minho said, waving a dismissive hand at Aris. “Talk. Everything. Start now.”

The new boy had drifted toward the far wall, like an animal torn between bolting or biting. He shook his head.

   “No way. You guys go first.”

   “Yeah?” Minho’s eyes darkened. “How about we all just take turns beating the living klunk out of your shuck face? Then we’ll ask you to talk again.”

   “Minho,” Newt said, voice low and admonitory. “There’s no reason—”

   “Dude, please,” Minho snapped. “That shank shows up outta nowhere, no warning, and we’re just supposed to trust him? I’m sick of him acting all snooty when we’ve got twenty guys to his one. He should talk first.”

   “Yeah, and threatening him’s gonna work so bloody well,” Newt muttered under his breath. One thing he knew for sure was that the kid would never open up if Minho terrified him. He sighed and glanced at Aris. “Minho’s got a point, though. Just tell us what you meant about comin' from the buggin’ Maze.”

   “Yeah,” Winston added, folding his arms. “Because that’s where we escaped from, and we obviously haven’t met you.”

Aris rubbed his face. “Fine,” he said, voice tight. “Listen, there was this massive Maze. Stone walls. Huge. I don’t remember anything before—just my name. There were maybe fifty of us. All girls. I was the only boy.”

   “Wait—what?” Frypan sat up straight, blinking like he’d misheard. “All girls? You’re kidding.”

Aris ignored him. “We lived there. Survived. Figured it out. Broke out a few days ago. Some people helped us—kept us in this gym, fed us. Then others showed up. There was a fight. I got grabbed in the mess. Next thing I know, I’m here. Nobody tells me anything.” His voice cracked. “I don’t know what happened to the others.”

Aris had dropped it as casually as if reporting a trip to the beach. Another Maze. But this time, reversed. It seemed impossible. Monumental—if true.

Newt barely processed the last part; his mind reeled, crashing against what he’d just heard. The room hummed with shock and disbelief.

Thomas’ stare had gone glassy—somewhere distant, scraping at memories like old scabs that never healed right. “They did the same thing twice,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Us with one girl. You with—”

   “—one boy,” Aris finished quietly.

Thomas looked at him as if he were a puzzle unfolding in real time, questions bubbling up faster than Newt could piece it all together.

   “A big Maze, on a farm, where walls closed every night? Just you and a few dozen girls? Were there creatures—Grievers? Were you the last to arrive? Did everything go downhill when you did? Did you come in a coma with a note saying you were the last one ever?”

   “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Aris cut in before Thomas could finish. “How do you know all this? How...?”

Minho’s cut in, more serious now. “Because that’s exactly what happened to us. Same thing.” He began pacing, arms crossed so tightly his muscles popped beneath his skin. “WICKED ran the same shuck test twice. Two mazes. Same hell. Different bait.”

Newt had already accepted that grim truth in his head. He finally settled himself enough to speak. “They call you anything? Like... the Trigger? ”

Aris nodded, visibly shaken. His eyes were tired, dark with something Newt couldn’t quite place. “Yeah.”

A strange tension sparked as Aris and Thomas locked eyes—Thomas seemingly drifting somewhere else entirely when he looked at this stranger.

Newt didn’t like it. Didn’t like how distant Thomas looked, or the weight pressing between the two of them.

   “What’s going on?” Newt’s voice cut through the silence, sharp enough to snap the moment in half. He narrowed his eyes, flicking between them. “You two having a moment, or what?”

A few awkward chuckles broke the tension. Minho shot Newt an arched eyebrow—Really?—but Newt just rolled his eyes back at him. He knew exactly what Minho was thinking. And maybe he deserved it. He really needed to get a handle on that stupid jealousy. Thomas wasn’t his after all. Never had been. Another problem for another day.

Thomas spoke before Newt could dig himself deeper into that pit. His voice came slow, careful—like he was testing each word before he trusted it to be real. “I think… I think I remember him. From the Changing. I saw him. Him and Teresa. And… someone else. A girl. We all worked for WICKED.”

At that, Aris flinched—just a flicker, but enough that Newt caught it. He never missed that sort of thing, no matter how small.

   “They killed her …” Aris breathed, so softly it made Newt’s chest tighten, a sharp, unwelcome ache. “They killed my best friend.”

The silence that followed pressed down like a smothering blanket. Frypan shifted noisily on his bunk. Someone gave a small cough, but no one found any words to fill the gap.

Then Aris' eyes widened; he looked at Thomas like he was only just really seeing him for the first time. “Wait. You went through the Changing? ”

But Thomas didn’t bite. He ignored the question entirely, leaning in instead, voice low but insistent. “Who killed her? What happened, Aris?”

Aris’ head dropped, the question knocking the last bit of fight clean out of him. His eyes squeezed shut, pain flashing over his features. “I don’t know exactly. WICKED, probably. They made this girl—Beth—made her… shoot my friend. Her name was Rachel. She’s dead, man. She’s gone.”

He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, knees drawn up. When he buried his face in his hands, something about the way his shoulders trembled made Newt’s own chest tighten. He knew that kind of loss—sharp and endless and unfair. He’d seen it carved into Thomas’ face when Chuck fell. He still carried it himself, heavy as lead.

Alby. Gally. Zart. Ben. Jeff … The names piled up in his head, ghosts in the corners of the dorm.

Pieces shifted in Newt’s mind—ugly shapes clicking together in ways he didn’t want them to. If Aris was that other Maze’s Teresa, then Beth sounded a hell of a lot like their Gally. And that left Rachel… Rachel as their Thomas. Rachel, shot by Beth. Which could only mean Gally truly had been meant to—

Minho broke through the spiral with a well-timed question. His voice was brisk, no room for pity or patience. “So how’d you end up here, then? Where’re all these girls you keep going on about? How many made it out with you? Did they bring everyone here, or just you?”

Snickers rose from the bunks—stupid remarks about how they wouldn’t mind having a few girls around for once. Newt tried to ignore them, keeping his eyes fixed on Aris instead. The kid looked older than he had ten minutes ago—like every answer peeled another year off him.

He couldn’t help it—he felt for the kid. Getting hounded with questions when your whole world had just cracked in half … If the roles were switched—if Newt had been forced to watch Thomas getting—

He couldn’t even finish the thought. It left him feeling nauseous.

Watching it happen to Chuck had been bad enough.

Aris dragged a hand over his face, scrubbing away tears he didn’t bother to hide. 

   “Look,” Aris said, voice rough, “I’m just as lost as you are. Thirty of us made it out. They kept us safe in a gym for a couple days. Then outta nowhere—bam. People with guns. Screaming. Next thing I know—” He gestured vaguely at the walls around them. “I’m here. Alone.”

Minho stopped beside Newt and leaned in, muttering low enough only he could hear. “I still don’t buy a shuck word this kid says. Something’s not adding up.”

Newt didn’t answer right away. The steady hum of machinery in the walls filled the quiet between them, a low vibration he could almost feel in his bones. He wasn’t sure he believed Aris either—there were holes in that story wide enough to fall through and never hit bottom. But he did believe the look in the boy’s eyes; hollow, like something vital had been scooped out and left to rot. No one faked that sort of grief. He’d lost someone. That part, at least, rang real enough.

   “Well,” he said eventually, trying to sound more certain than he felt, “nothin’ we can do about it now, is there?”

Minho’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed flinty, flicking back to Aris like the kid might sprout wings and vanish. Louder now, pitched for everyone to hear, he said, “So what do we do with him then? Someone giving up their bed? Or do we toss him in the showers and let him bunk there?”

A low rumble of half-serious jeers rolled around the room—Frankie muttered something about the Slammer being comfier than the shower tiles, someone else let out a dramatic ooh like they were back by the campfire instead of stuck in a concrete cell dressed up as a dorm. For a heartbeat, it almost felt like the Glade—harsh laughs, sharp edges, that same desperate instinct to patch dread with noise and jokes.

Then Thomas—bless his stupid, bloody heart—opened his mouth. “Newt and I can share.”

It hit Newt sideways, caught him off guard. He blinked, heat blooming up his neck so fast it left him dizzy. He could feel Minho’s stare, practically taste the grin he knew was there—all teeth and trouble.

Thomas turned that open, guileless face towards him, eyes so big and bafflingly kind, it made Newt’s heart ache. “Then Aris can have mine. You don’t mind, do you?”

Did he mind? Yes. No. Shuck, maybe. 

What did it matter, anyway? They’d done it before, back in the Glade—crammed together in the Homestead, ears straining for the scrape of Grievers outside. But that had been different. Back then, it was survival—no time to get tangled up in what it meant, no reason to tie himself in knots when the sun came up.

But now—now there were no Grievers lurking in the night. No looming threat waiting to rip them apart. No edge-of-death fear to make him reckless enough to blur lines best left alone. Just Thomas. Thomas and that soft, stupid look that made Newt want things he knew damn well he shouldn’t.

A memory flickered through him—Thomas, half-asleep against his shoulder in the helicopter on their way here. Thomas’ weight pinning him down that night in the Glade. Thomas’ hand clamped over his mouth, breath hot against his cheek. Without the immediate threat of a Griever at the door, that memory twisted itself into something else entirely. It came with a flush that crawled hot under his skin, curled tight in his gut. He clenched his jaw, gave his head a rough shake—like he could rattle the feeling loose, fling it off before it stuck too deep.

Newt’s mouth had gone dry. He swallowed, trying to force words that wouldn’t line up. Say something, he ordered himself. Anything.

He managed it—barely. “Yeah. Yeah—‘course. S’fine.” His voice cracked embarrassingly high at the end. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t do a damn thing. “We can share.”

Of course Minho wouldn’t let that slide. “Aw, look at that—our mighty leader, all flustered.”

Newt shot him a glare that promised slow, excruciating death. “I’m no leader anymore,” he ground out, hoping to steer the dig somewhere safer—anywhere safer than where Minho was heading.

Minho just snorted, grinning like a fox that’d found the henhouse. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, shank. Just keep your hands above the blanket, aye?”

   “Shut it, Minho.” He flipped him off for good measure, earning a round of snickers from the other boys. Minho only leaned back against the bunk post, arms folded behind his head, smug and perfectly content to watch Newt squirm.

Thomas blinked between them, brow furrowed like he was waiting to be let in on the joke. Neither of them did him that favour.

Aris sat alone by the wall, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room, as if he hadn’t been following the conversation at all.

When the noise finally died down and the boys drifted toward their bunks, doing whatever they did to unwind, Thomas stayed right beside Newt. Close enough that Newt could feel the warmth rolling off him—familiar and stupidly comforting, like a campfire he’d tell himself he didn’t need, even as he edged closer to it anyway.

   “Hey—seriously,” Thomas said softly. “If it’s a problem, I’ll sleep on the floor. Doesn’t bother me.”

Newt turned towards him, like a moth drawn to a flame, forcing himself to meet those stupidly wide, honest eyes. Completely, blissfully oblivious. 

Thomas truly didn’t seem bothered one bit. Sharing a bed didn’t faze him—and that was the worst part. Because while Newt knew it would leave him a hopeless, desperate wreck, for Thomas, it was nothing.

   “It’s fine,” Newt ground out. “Just don’t bloody hog the blanket or I’ll chuck you off.”

Thomas grinned, easy and careless, as though the flush burning up Newt’s neck didn’t register with him at all. “Deal.”

From above, Minho snorted again, sprawled out across his bunk like he owned the place.

   “Sod off,” Newt hissed back, but the edge had dulled.

He didn’t look away—Thomas’ eyes stayed locked with his, searching for something beneath the surface. Newt could feel it too; there was something else weighing on Thomas’ mind, and sure enough, the question came.

   “What do you think they want with Teresa?” 

Newt swallowed hard, tasting the bitterness on his tongue. Teresa. Always Teresa. Part of him wanted to resent her—the part that wasn’t also a little worried for her, too. Stupidly, selfishly, he wondered if Thomas would miss him like that, if it had been Newt separated instead.

He had no answers—none for his own tormented heart, none for Thomas’ question—so he reached for the only truth he had left.

   “Now, if there’s one thing I know about that girl,” he said quietly, reassuringly, “she can take care of herself. Don’t worry about it.”

Thomas didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, his eyes gentle and full of that unguarded, unwavering trust that always managed to unravel Newt in ways he never quite understood.

Newt turned away and climbed onto his bed. Well, their bed now.

Notes:

I feel like I need to give some context here ^^ For those who’ve only seen the movies: in the books, there are actually only two Mazes. And honestly, that makes a lot more sense. No one can convince me that in a post-apocalyptic world—where the administration is now just a patchwork of whatever’s left of former governments and diseases like the Flare are ravaging the population—there’d be enough resources to build multiple giant mazes. And I’m not just talking about money; the logistics alone would be impossible.

Two Mazes feel more plausible, especially with the idea of controlling variables: one for boys, one for girls. Maybe a third Maze could make sense too, where boys and girls live together in equal numbers, just to get even more comparable data. But I suspect WICKED had reasons for not going that far—teenage pregnancies, for one. Still, considering the scale and goal of the experiments, three Mazes would really be the logical maximum.

Let’s move on to Aris. Since there are only two Mazes in my canon, I originally based his introduction more closely on the book. But now, I’m trying to bring the book and the movie versions a bit more in line with each other, which, as we all know, is easier said than done because they’re so different in places.

One thing I’ve always wondered about is how Sonya and Harriet managed to make it to the Right Arm and be so well integrated there by the time Thomas and the others arrive, considering they were supposedly in the Maze with Aris and must have been ‘rescued’ like the rest of the test subjects. It’s not exactly a plot hole, but it always puzzled me, so I decided to tackle it here in my version and smooth out that timeline by having the Right Arm interfere with WICKED’s plans.

This also ties in with Janson’s mention of people in the mountains giving WICKED trouble later on. Maybe it was always implied in the movie, but I don’t think it was ever spelt out directly. What do you think really happened? How do you imagine Sonya and Harriet ended up with the Right Arm? I’d love to hear your thoughts and theories! <3

Chapter 7

   They had nothing much to do—nowhere to be, no chores to busy their hands with, no Maze to solve or fields to tend. Life in the Glade had battered them but at least it had given them purpose—a reason to drag themselves from sleep and run until their lungs burned and their hearts remembered why they beat. Most days, anyway. Not always for Newt. 

Not until Thomas showed up and brought purpose back to him.

But here, in this strange place of concrete and pipes, every surface the same cold, indifferent grey, Newt feared he might lose it all over again. Here there was only time—time, and the hush that settled like dust on skin, pressing down and down until it felt as if the walls themselves might squeeze the thoughts from his head and leave him hollow.

Some of the boys made good use of the lull, letting exhaustion pull them under like a tide too strong to fight. Winston and Frypan lay sprawled on their bunks, shoes kicked off, arms dangling like cut strings on broken marionettes. Minho had gone silent ages ago, hidden under a blanket that rose and fell just enough to prove he was still breathing.

They deserved the rest—this quiet drift into dreams where maybe, for a while, there was nothing left to run from.

Thomas, too, had given in to sleep. He’d curled himself small on Newt’s bunk—their bunk now—knees drawn up, arms tucked under his chin like a boy half his age. The blanket had slipped from his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to care. He looked so damn breakable like this, a faint line etched between his brows even in sleep—a mark of some stubborn worry that refused to loosen its grip.

Newt hadn’t moved in a while, perched sideways at the foot of the bed, back pressed to the wall that thrummed with a low, ceaseless hum—machines whispering behind it in a language he’d never be meant to understand. The vibration seeped through his spine, a steady reminder he was still here.

He stretched out his leg and felt nothing—no fire in the muscle, no bone grinding against bone. Just a quiet reminder of the mercy he was meant to be grateful for: the brace, the clean clothes, the food handed over in tidy portions. He was grateful—of course he was. After so long scraping by on their own, it should have felt like relief, shouldn’t it? Letting someone else pick up the pieces for once.

And yet …

Something inside him fidgeted, restless, the moment he shut his eyes. A crawling unease, as if he’d forgotten something vital—something that might slip through his fingers if he dared to look away.

So he didn’t sleep. He sat there and watched Thomas breathe. Watched the soft tremor of lashes when a dream tugged at him, the slack curve of his mouth when that stubborn worry line smoothed out for a heartbeat. It was stupid, how much comfort he found in this—Thomas, warm and real and oblivious, here where Newt could see him. Completely unguarded in a way he never was when awake. Proof that somehow, against all odds, they’d made it this far together.

Frankie had cracked a joke earlier—muttered something about lovebirds under his breath when he’d passed and caught Newt’s stare pinned where it shouldn’t linger. Newt hadn’t bothered denying it. Let them think what they liked. He’d earned this scrap of quiet. After everything—after the running, the fighting—if he wanted to pin down these moments with both hands, to hold Thomas close in whatever way the world would let him, then sod it all. He would.

With no windows and no working clocks—the Keepers’ watches had vanished with their filthy clothes that first night—time dripped by in the flicker of overhead lights that occasionally sputtered like dying insects. Now and then, footsteps echoed in the corridor—rubber soles on polished floors, always stopping just shy of their door. Then they moved away again.

Maybe Newt was only imagining it.

Eventually, Thomas stirred. A soft hitch of breath broke the hush, snapping Newt out of whatever dark corner his mind had drifted into. Then the faint rustle of blankets as Thomas shifted, forehead creasing like the dream hadn’t quite let go. Newt almost hated it—how quickly that fragile softness vanished when Thomas blinked back to the stale hum of here and now. Worry slotting itself neatly back behind his eyes, as if it had been waiting there all along.

   “Glad to see you still know how to take a nap,” Newt said, voice rough with disuse. It scraped his throat raw, softening the words more than he’d meant them to be.

Thomas’ eyes found him, still blurry with sleep. “How long’s it been?”

Newt shrugged, letting his head thunk back against the wall. “Couple hours. The others followed your lead—dead to the world, every last one of ‘em. Not much to do but sit here and wait for somethin’ new to happen.” He cracked the ghost of a smile. “I’m almost bored.”

Thomas huffed a laugh—a soft breath that warmed the narrow space between them. He pushed himself upright, the blanket pooling in his lap, then scooted sideways until his shoulder pressed against Newt’s. They sat like that, backs to the wall, elbows brushing—almost like they used to, hidden away in their corner of the Deadheads.

Except there was no ivy overhead now, no hush of leaves or faint murmur of the other Gladers drifting through the trees. Just the stale hum of wires in the walls and the dry taste of recycled air.

It made Newt feel strangely nostalgic. He didn’t miss the Glade—not really. But he would give anything to be back among the shadows of the Deadheads with Tommy, hidden from the world.

It had only been days. And yet, to Newt, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Their arms brushed—skin to skin—and the spark jumped under Newt’s ribs again, treacherous and bright, like Thomas was some live wire jolting him awake.

   “Tried sleeping too?” Thomas asked, his voice still thick and husky with leftover dreams.

   “No.” Newt felt Thomas turn that look on him—soft and quiet, the one that made him feel like a fool without saying a single word. He didn’t have an answer for it.

   “So what’ve you been doing, then?”

    Watching you sleep, Newt didn’t say. “Thinking,” he muttered instead, flicking at a loose thread on his sleeve, nails worrying the seam until the fabric frayed.

Thomas bumped his knee lightly against Newt’s, just a nudge, gentle but pointed. “What about?”

    You.

   “Everything.” Newt dragged a hand over his face, buying himself a second. “Nothing.”

Thomas tilted his head back, eyes drifting across the room like he might find answers hidden in the dull corners or the whisper of vents. “Yeah. Same. I keep thinking about Teresa. I know you said not to worry, but I don’t get why she isn’t even allowed to eat with us. That’s a bunch of shucking klunk. Why should they keep her separated like that? All by herself?”

Newt’s mouth twitched. Thomas, trying to spit out Glader slang, never failed to amuse him. It almost dragged a laugh out of him—almost. But the ache that slipped in after caught him in the chest and made it stick in his throat.

Teresa.

Again.

He couldn’t fault Thomas, not really. If they’d torn Thomas away like that, locked him somewhere away from him, Newt reckoned he’d be rattling the walls to get him back too. He knew that. Knowing didn’t soften the sting.

He forced calm into his voice. “Don’t think she’s all by herself,” he said, clipped and careful. “If Aris wasn’t full of it, she’s probably in with those other girls he mentioned.”

He felt Thomas shift closer at that, like a moth nosing up to a flame—hungry for any scrap of hope. And Newt found himself aching at how good it felt, being the one to give it.

   “Yeah,” Thomas breathed, a flicker of relief blooming under the word. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He turned then, properly facing Newt.

   “Think they’ll let us see them soon?”

Newt didn’t like that Teresa lodged herself so deep in Thomas’ mind, even from rooms away. He wanted to hate how warm Thomas sounded when he spoke about her—wanted to hate it so badly. But he couldn’t. Because it was Thomas. And Newt didn’t think it was within the realm of possible for him to hate anything about him.

He shrugged, feeling the concrete bite into his back. “Dunno,” he said, honest as a bruise. His voice dipped softer then, edged darker. “All I know is I don’t fancy this place much. Don’t like that there’s no windows, no sun. Feels bloody claustrophobic.”

Thomas grimaced, the corner of his mouth twitching like it might lift but didn’t quite make it. “Better locked up in here than diced by Grievers, yeah? I’ll take stale air and vitamin D deficiency over those shuck monsters any day. Even the Flare.”

Newt was already shaking his head before Thomas finished. “Please, mate. Careful what you buggin’ wish for. Not so sure the Flare’s any kinder than the Grievers. Might even be worse—least the Grievers made it quick.”

Thomas tipped his head, that old crooked grin flickering through the haze of sleep still softening his edges—edges Newt wanted to trace with fingertips if he dared. “Who’s the cheerful one now?”

   “Shuck off,” Newt muttered, pushing himself off the bed before he could do something foolish, like lean in and taste that grin. The wall behind him let him go with a cold kiss against his spine. “Guess I’ll go bug somebody else then,” he said and cleared his throat. “Something excitin’ better happen bloody soon, or I’ll die of sheer boredom.”

Thomas laughed—a real laugh, rough from sleep but warm enough to burrow under Newt’s ribs and settle there like a quiet promise. “Careful what you wish for,” he echoed, and—shuck it all—he winked. Actually bloody winked.

   “Bugger,” Newt deadpanned, nearly tripping over Frypan’s discarded shoes in his hasty retreat. He scowled at them like they’d conspired against him. 

He’d barely made it three paces when a voice piped up from the next bunk.

   “Sorry I heard all that,” Aris called, a touch awkward, the apology barely clinging on. “But I think you’re right.”

Newt stopped mid-stride, pivoting slowly, arms folding tight across his chest. “Right about what, then?” The edge in his voice cut sharper than he intended, but he let it hang there, unsoftened.

Aris swung his legs off the bunk. Wiry and too young—probably younger than most of the surviving Gladers—but there was a strange steadiness about him, something quietly anchored, an odd calm that made him seem older somehow. “About Teresa,” he said. “If they’re keeping her separate, she’s probably with Harriet and the rest. There’s got to be a girls’ dorm. Can’t be far.”

Newt didn’t need to look—he sensed Thomas perk up at that. Like a dog catching a scent, head lifting, eyes bright with that same reckless spark Newt had first seen in the Maze, when Thomas had shown up full of too-big ideas and stubborn grit. He looked between Aris and Newt, hope flaring behind his eyes like a match struck in the dark.

   “Yeah,” Thomas breathed, pushing off the bed and stepping close. Close enough for Newt to feel him, warmth bleeding through thin fabric where their shoulders brushed. “If that’s true, maybe we can find them. See if they’re alright.”

A headache bloomed hot behind Newt’s eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, glaring at Aris like he was responsible for this. Like Thomas wasn’t perfectly capable of coming up with daft ideas all on his own.

   “Or maybe,” Newt bit out, voice low so as not to wake the sleeping Gladers, “you shanks could do us all a favour and not piss off the people feeding us.”

Aris barely flinched. He stood, restless and certain, with a spark that reminded Newt far too much of Thomas in the worst possible way.  

   “They’re not telling us anything,” Aris shot back. “I say we go now. Find the girls ourselves.”

Newt turned his glare on Thomas, and for a heartbeat it slipped—turned half-plea: Don’t. But Thomas bristled under it, chin lifting, jaw tightening like a lock.

   “Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, his voice cracking, too loud. “He’s right. You said it yourself—something exciting better happen soon or you’d die of sheer boredom. Well, here you go. You’d rather sit here rotting?”

Newt moved in front of Thomas, close enough to be singed by the fierce fire burning behind those stubborn eyes. He dropped his voice low, letting it cut instead of shout.

   “You reckon there’s no reason they’ve got Teresa locked away? Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s safer where she is.” The lie tasted sour. He didn’t believe his own words—but he needed to. Anything to keep Thomas here .

   “What if it’s for her own good? Maybe she’s not well. Maybe they’re just runnin’ more tests.”

Teresa was an enigma. Newt still couldn’t fathom how she’d walked away from the Grievers nearly unscathed while the rest of them bled. He let the silence hold that truth between them, heavy as a stone on his chest, while Thomas’ tongue flicked out to wet his lips, eyes restless on Newt’s face like he was looking for a reply there but came up empty.

   “How long before you run headfirst into a buggin’ wall again, Tommy?”

Thomas’ eyes narrowed, stubborn to the core. That tilt of his chin—so easy, so defiant—made Newt want to shake him and kiss him in the same breath.

   “I asked nicely. They didn’t tell me squat. What else do you want me to do, Newt?”

Newt let out a disbelieving huff. “Nicely. Right. Next time try askin’ without lookin’ like you’re two seconds from rearrangin’ the poor sod’s face with your fist. Can’t you be cooperative for bloody once in your life?”

Thomas leaned in, that spark catching—heat blooming in the inch between them. “I am cooperative.”

Newt barked a quiet, bitter laugh. “When it suits you.”

Thomas’ breath ghosted hot across his cheek and the rest of it fell away—stale air, humming pipes, the whole miserable place shrinking to the frantic drum behind Newt’s ribs.

Aris’ voice sliced through the taut space between them. “So? Are we doing it or not?”

Newt didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes pinned on Thomas, holding him there, daring him to say it—to say yes.

   “Newt, I—” Thomas started, but the words snagged. The fight bled from his shoulders for the span of a breath. “If these people really had good reasons, why not just tell us? Why all the secrecy?”

Newt’s reply came soft, almost gentle, but the steel in his eyes never budged. “Wouldn’t call it secrecy, exactly…”

Aris crossed his arms too, mirroring Newt with that same deliberate, infuriating calm. His eyes flicked between them like he was studying a chessboard, picking out the best piece to shove into play.

   “Look,” Aris said, voice level but pressed through with something unshakable. “I don’t care how we do it—ask nicely, slip out, crawl through the vents for all I care. I just want to see my friends.”

The thing was, Newt respected it—maybe too much. That quiet, iron-boned resolve in a boy who looked too thin for it. The surge of sympathy bit sharper for it, a twist low under his ribs that he couldn’t shake. Of course Aris wanted to find them—those girls were his Gladers, his own ragged scrap of family stitched together out of fear and survival. Same as Thomas and the rest were his. The only piece of home he’d ever known.

It made sense. It just didn’t make it smart.

Newt let out a breath, unwinding his arms in a placating manner, palms open, like maybe reason was a thing you could hold out and trust someone to take.

   “And how exactly d’you plan to go ‘bout that, then? Think they’ll prop the buggin’ door open for us with a sweet little sign that says ‘this way, help yourself’?”

Aris didn’t answer. He just stepped past them, calm as you please—like he’d already played out this exact scene a hundred times in his head. His hand curled around the latch—casual, almost bored—and with the softest click, the door cracked open an inch.

Newt stared, momentarily wrong-footed. His brain lurched to catch up, to make sense of the sheer bloody obviousness of it. Aris eased the door shut again, a smug, knowing grin tugging at his mouth. “Judging by that face, I’m guessing none of you geniuses bothered to check.”

Newt said nothing. He hadn’t thought to try. None of them had. The simple truth of it lodged in his throat like a stone. How the hell had Aris known?

He barely had time to chase the thought before Thomas was there too, slipping in beside Aris—too quick, too eager, that spark back in his eyes like fire catching dry grass. “If we go now, we’re back before Dinner,” Thomas said, voice low but pulsing with that reckless edge. “Just have a look. If we find them, we bring them back here. Janson’s got no right keeping us apart.”

   “No.” Newt’s voice came out low and cold, leaving no room for argument. “Absolutely not. You’re not sneaking off half-cocked and getting yourselves in trouble like a pair of bloody slintheads.” He stepped forward until he blocked the door, arms folding tight across his chest again. “They’ll round us up soon enough—lunch, more shuck tests, who knows? What if Janson shows up and you’re not here to be counted?”

Aris only lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “What’s he gonna do? Nobody ever said we couldn’t leave. Door’s right there.”

Newt ground his teeth so hard his jaw pulsed with it, a dull ache blooming up into his temples. Technically—technically—Aris wasn’t wrong. No rulebook had been pinned to their doors. No guard standing with a rifle outside. But every shred of instinct told him that they weren’t free to roam these halls like tourists set loose in a ruin.

He let his arms drop, but didn’t budge an inch.

   “Wait ’til dinner, at least,” he said, voice low but edged like a blade fresh off the whetstone. A warning tucked inside the plea. “If the girls don’t show, then we talk action. Not before.”

Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, restless energy sparking off him like static. Newt braced for another round of arguments, but instead, Thomas caught his eyes. Something flickered there—frustrated, yes, but underneath it, that maddening flicker of trust. Just for a heartbeat.

   “Fine,” Thomas muttered. The word came out rough, like it scraped its way up his throat—gritty, grudging, but he gave it anyway. To Newt, not Aris.

Something unlocked behind Newt’s ribs, enough to let him drag in a proper breath for the first time in minutes. The fight still simmered beneath Thomas’ gaze, but Newt would take it. He’d hold onto that, call it a win if he had to. Maybe it was. In the meanest, softest way.

Aris tilted his head,  studying Thomas with that boyish, too-innocent curiosity. Then he dipped his chin in a single nod—mocking as a bow from a court jester, eyes flicking past Thomas and pinning Newt instead. Measuring him. Testing the fence line.

   “Got it,” Aris said, all silk and spite. “Didn’t realise Thomas needs your blessing to take a piss, though. You chaperone him for that too?”

Something cold and molten sparked in Newt’s chest, flaring so bright he half-saw it behind his eyes. He forced it back down where it belonged, swallowed the burn before it scorched his tongue.

   “Thomas is a free man,” Newt snapped. “He can do whatever he bloody wants.”

Thomas flinched—subtle, but not enough to hide from Newt. Something shifted in his eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or annoyance, sharpened by the bite in Newt’s words. 

Aris’ brow arched higher, disbelief dripping off him like oil on water. “Yeah? Sure doesn’t look like it from here. You’d collar him if he’d let you.”

Newt’s mouth opened, but the words tangled on his tongue, caught in a web of doubt. Why was he even arguing? Was he really trying to stop Thomas and Aris from doing something reckless—or had he slipped, without meaning to, into a game of control? Was it about keeping Thomas safe, or just about making sure Thomas chose him?

   “You heard him, Thomas.” Aris turned to him, voice smooth but insistent. “You’re a free man. So, what do you say? Let’s go find Teresa.”

Thomas’ eyes flicked to Newt—guilty, warm in a way that only made it worse.

   “Tommy—” Newt started, but Thomas was already shaking his head, already moving to stand beside Aris.

Newt saw it then—the spark in Thomas’ eyes, the pull of something new and dangerous and thrilling. The restless thing that always pulled Thomas forward, even when it pulled him away from Newt.

   “Please, Newt,” Thomas said, soft and earnest, that familiar plea threading through his voice—making it damn near impossible to stay mad. “I need to know she’s okay. If it were Minho or me, wouldn’t you feel the same?”

Newt sighed, the weight of it settling deep. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah, Tommy. I would. Just … remember, if you get caught, it’s not just you. Janson doesn’t strike me as someone to mess with, and I’m worried there’d be consequences for all of us.”

Thomas’ shoulders eased, the fight in him softening into something like gratitude. He offered Newt a small, apologetic smile—then moved toward the door, Aris close behind, already slipping into the hallway.

Aris paused on the threshold, turning just long enough to flash Newt one last look—smug, victorious in a boyish, razor-edged way that made Newt’s fist twitch, itching to slam the door in his face. But he didn’t rise to it.

Maybe Aris didn’t mean it the way Newt took it. Maybe. But Newt wasn’t in the mood to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He just let the heat coil tighter in his chest, a fuse burning dangerously close to powder. He gave them nothing. No words, no glare. Just turned on his heel and walked away, the door’s soft click behind him loud as a gunshot.

   Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

Now there were two of them. Two reckless souls, drawn to trouble—no patience, even less sense. Let them bond over it. Newt didn’t care.

Or so he told himself.

Minho was awake now, of course he was—propped up on his elbows, hair a wild mess, sticking out in every direction like a startled cat. He looked Newt over, once, twice, with a smirk he didn’t bother to hide.

   “What’s got you more gutted?” Minho asked, voice rough with sleep but sharpened by mischief. “Thomas running off after Teresa … or that he didn’t ask you to come?”

Newt shot him a glare. “What makes ya think I’d fancy taggin’ along for their shuck fairytale reunion?” he bit out, low and mean in a way that wouldn’t fool Minho one bit.

   “Fair,” Minho said, combing his fingers through his hair to tame the wild mess and reclaim some dignity. He narrowed his eyes, a sly grin cutting sideways. “You’re so jealous I might as well start calling you Greenie. Suits you better than him right now.”

   “I’m not,” Newt lied, flat and graceless.

   “You totally are.”

Newt didn’t argue. He sank onto his bunk, eyes fixed on the ceiling where the pipes thrummed with distant life—an ugly lullaby that kept his thoughts restless. He could feel the ache under his ribs again, the part Thomas had pulled free and carried out that door.

   “Tommy said he remembers them,” Newt said after a long pause, his voice low and worn. “Aris. Teresa. That other girl—Rachel. Before the Maze. Back when they worked for WICKED. Whatever they had then … it’s more than what we have now. What if that’s enough to make him choose them over us?”

   “What happened to ‘the people we were before the Maze don’t even exist anymore’?” Minho said quietly. “Weren’t those your words?”

   “Yeah,” Newt snapped, bitter. “Thanks for remindin’ me.”

   “So… you don’t think it’s true anymore?”

   “I do ... but what if I’m wrong? What if Tommy doesn’t believe it? What if he wants to—”

   “All Thomas wants is to find Teresa and make sure she’s alright. That’s just in his shuck DNA, dude. You should know that better than anyone. He risked everything in his first week—ran straight into the Maze to save two shanks he barely knew. That’s the guy we’re talking about. Let him live his hero complex. Don’t take it so hard.”

Newt paused, swallowing down his pride as Minho’s words landed. “Point taken,” he said, voice rough with grudging acceptance.

Minho gave a low grunt, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “For what it’s worth, Tommy doesn’t give off beaten puppy vibes when Aris calls him Thomas, you know?”

Newt frowned. “What’re you even sayin’?”

   “That you’re a dumb shank. Have a little faith, man. Thomas’ll come back to you.”

Notes:

this was supposed to be a filler scene, no idea how this chapter turned out 4k words. Not apologising, though. Thanks for reading <3

Chapter 8

   Newt yanked the blanket higher, burying his face in the coarse weave like a fool. Stupid. It already smelled of Thomas—soap and salt and that warm, living scent that clung to him like sun-warmed stone after rain. A scent that had no right to feel like safety. It caught in Newt’s throat—sharp and tender all at once, carving him open from the inside out.

He lay on the narrow bunk, stiff as a corpse beneath the thin cover, the springs beneath him pressing up like ribs under bruised flesh. He told himself he didn’t care—muttered it under his breath like a warding charm. The words turned to dust on his tongue, dry and bitter as ashes left too long in a cold hearth. 

He cared, of course he did. 

Overhead, the pipes creaked and clanged—water or air or poison, who could say? The ventilation hissed in stuttering gasps, threading through ductwork that reeked faintly of mould and cold metal. The longer they lingered here, the more the facade seemed to crack and flake away, brittle as old paint. What was this place, really?

Now and then, boots echoed beyond the door—hard soles striking linoleum, voices drifting and swallowed by the concrete walls. Each sound made his pulse leap like a trapped bird, battering itself bloody against his ribs. Every time, he held his breath, hoping it was Thomas. Dreading it was one of Janson’s people.

Time crept over him slow as ivy—curling around his limbs, rooting into every crack. He felt it in the drag of each shallow breath, in the cling of sweat at his collarbones. The air tasted of antiseptic and old fear, and something older still—the ghost of the Maze, stubborn in his throat, waiting to slip loose and haunt him in the dim corners of his mind.

Sleep came in scraps—mean, stinging scraps that slipped through his fingers the moment his eyelids fell. He counted the fissures in the plaster overhead, traced them like fault lines, and started over each time his mind drifted.

He wondered what Tommy and Aris were stirring up out there, what trouble they might drag back with them.

Then, finally, the door opened. A few Gladers glanced up, exchanging puzzled looks—they hadn’t even noticed that Aris and Thomas had slipped out in the first place.

Slowly, Newt sat up on his bunk, the thin blanket still wrapped around him, his brow creased by a muted, burning vexation.

Minho, restless as ever, dropped from his bunk with a soft thud, already moving briskly across the room. His voice was low and urgent as he greeted Thomas and Aris, while Newt hung back, lingering in the shadows, watchful and reserved.

Across the room, Thomas’ eyes caught his—just for a moment. It was nothing, just a glance, but it cut deeper than it should have. A heartbeat later, Thomas looked away, as if it hadn’t happened, but the weight of that silent exchange hung thick in the charged air between them.

Thomas opened his mouth, then shut it again. Something flickered behind his eyes before he turned slightly, as if using Minho for cover. “We need to call a Gathering.” His voice was steady enough, but the words fell like pebbles into deep water—small, yet they sent ripples through every corner of the room.

   “A Gathering?” Jack murmured, and Minho opened his mouth to answer, but Newt cut in first, voice rough with exhaustion. 

   “What for? What’s the bloody point? Not plenty of us left to gather, is there? We’re all here anyway.” He shook his head once. “So spit it out, Tommy. What is it?”

Around them, the others went still. A few boys drifted closer, acting indifferent, heads ducked like they weren’t listening—but they were.

Thomas shifted his weight, raked a hand through his hair. He stepped towards Newt—too quick at first, then slower, like the distance between them gave him pause. He stopped just shy of Newt’s bunk, close enough that Newt could see the strain tightening his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline.

Their eyes met again—nearer now. For a moment, Thomas looked ready to speak a different truth altogether, something that had nothing to do with Gatherings or discoveries. But he let it die unspoken. His gaze shifted to Minho, who had come to stand just behind him, then dropped to the floor.

   “Aris and I… we saw something. Out there.” His voice dropped, low and meant only for the three of them, though everyone in the room strained to catch it. “Something we should discuss.”

Newt’s frown deepened. “Saw what?” His tone was carefully neutral, but his hand tightened imperceptibly around the blanket in his lap.

Thomas opened his mouth, drew in a breath—“It’s—”

Before he could finish, the door swung open. A man and a woman stood in the frame, eyes flat and expectant. The man gave a sharp jerk of his chin towards the boys, then the hallway beyond.

   “It’s time for dinner,” he said.

   “What? Already?” Frypan grumbled. “Can’t be later than four-thirty.”

The man flicked a glance at his companion. The woman only shrugged. “It’s nearly five,” she said evenly to Frypan. “Please—this way.”

No one moved at first. Newt’s gaze stayed locked on Thomas, who stood like he’d been cut off mid-thought. Minho watched them both, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

   “In the Glade, the doors wouldn’t even close for the night yet,” he muttered, clapping Thomas once on the shoulder—harder than necessary—then turned away to grab his shoes.

   “Honestly, man,” Frankie said, “early dinner beats sitting around doing nothing, hands down.”

Murmurs of assent echoed quietly from the group.

Newt didn’t look away until Thomas finally did. With deliberate effort, he pushed himself upright—the blanket slipping from his shoulders and pooling silently on the bunk behind him.

Aris stood motionless by the door, silent since his return. Newt forced himself to ignore the weight of those quiet eyes watching him.

---

They squeezed in tight, elbow to elbow, around one of the cold metal tables in the canteen. Laughter wove through chatter and clatter, the room alive with noise. Frankie nudged peas across his plate with restless fingers. Tim teased Jack, chasing a reluctant smile. Clint spoke with his mouth full, words tumbling out in a jumble. The room wore its noisy cloak, a restless murmur wrapping around them all. But beneath it—just to Newt’s right—he felt the quiet weight of Thomas’ shoulder, warm and steady, a tether to something that hadn’t yet slipped away.

Frypan settled to Newt’s left. Across from them sat Winston, Minho, and Aris, whose eyes flicked nervously around the room, as if expecting someone to drag him off at any second.

   “We were careful, Newt, really,” Thomas said, picking up where he’d been interrupted earlier. His voice was low but easily carried through the scrape of forks on tin. Newt felt the faint ripple of tension beneath Thomas’ sleeve—muscle twitching against his own.

   “We followed Dr. Crawford. She had one of those keycards—like Janson’s. She and a few others were moving stretchers through the halls. People. Or—” He hesitated, voice dropping even lower—“I don’t know—bodies.”

Newt arched a brow. “People?”

Thomas shot him a sharp look—one that said shut up and listen. His eyes flicked toward the men by the door—bored, arms folded, pretending not to watch.

   “Did you see who?” Newt asked.

   “No. Covered head to toe. Didn’t move.” Thomas’ arm brushed against his again—deliberate this time, like a silent signal. “We tried to follow, but the door locked behind her.”

Newt’s eyes drifted to Aris—hunched over, hood drawn low, fingers restless at the edge of his tray. His big eyes held something slippery, hard to pin down. He gave a little shrug.

   “No sign of Teresa,” he said, as if guessing what weighed on Newt’s mind—almost, but not quite. “Or the others. Nothing. No trace.”

Newt drew a deep, measured breath, trying to steady nerves he couldn’t tell were his own or bleeding off Thomas—he’d always been too quick to carry both.

   “There’s got to be an explanation,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he meant the missing girls, the shrouded bodies on stretchers, or whatever twisted thread bound it all together.

Something in the way Thomas was looking at him made Newt think they’d landed on the same grim conclusion. Thomas’ eyes were a storm, roaming over Newt’s face like he might find a better truth hidden beneath the surface, digging for an answer words couldn’t reach.

   “Yeah,” Thomas said at last, the word flat, unpersuaded. “Maybe.”

Newt could almost hear the gears grinding in Thomas’ head—see it in the restless flick of his eyes, feel it in the jitter of his knee under the table, in the warmth blooming where their arms touched. Thomas wouldn’t just sit it out—Newt knew that much. He was already piecing together his next move, turning it over behind that storm-dark stare.

   “Okay,” Newt said, aiming for calm, steadying his voice, trying to sound like the leader he’d never really been. “Until we know anything for certain, we should just keep our heads down. Try not to draw any attention to ourselves, all right?”

The words had barely left his mouth when the bench jolted with sudden movement—Thomas was already on his feet. His tray skidded sideways, cutlery rattling loud enough to turn a few heads.

Frypan let out a low snort, not even pausing as he stabbed at a limp carrot.

   “What’s he doing?” Newt muttered, half to himself, eyes tracking Thomas’ back.

Frypan didn’t look up. “Drawing attention to himself, looks like.”

   “Thomas!” Newt called, voice cracking sharp through the hum of metal trays and muttered talk. More heads turned—forks paused halfway to mouths—but Thomas didn’t even break stride. He was already halfway across the canteen, shoulders squared, walking like he dared the world to stand in his way. 

Newt half-rose from the bench, heart thudding against his ribs. He could feel the eyes of the others flicking between them, watchful, curious. Frypan let out a low, almost amused grunt, but Newt barely heard it over the rush in his ears.

Thomas reached the door just as the two men at their post stepped forward, moving in eerie unison—boredom replaced by cold intent. One of them planted a flat palm square against Thomas’ chest, stopping him dead.

   “Whoa, hang on. Not allowed there, kid.”

Thomas didn’t flinch, didn’t back. “I know. I’m just gonna be a second.”

Now Minho stood too, his chair’s metal legs screeching loud against the linoleum. Winston rose a beat behind him, tense. Frypan cursed under his breath but got up too, still clutching his spoon like he might need it for a fight.

Thomas shifted, trying to edge through the gap, but the guard shoved him back, rough and unbothered. “Restricted area. Sit back down.”

Thomas flicked a look over his shoulder—eyes catching Newt’s like a hook sinking deep. Then he turned back, voice low and deceptively calm. “I just want to see my friend. Can you let me through?”

The closer man jabbed a finger hard into Thomas’ sternum. “Get your ass back in that chair before we put it there.”

For a heartbeat, Thomas went statue-still. Calculating. To Newt’s surprise, he turned and stepped back. One step. Two. Three—unhurried, almost careless, like he’d given in.

Then, with a whip-quick twist, he pivoted and lunged straight for the sliver of space between the two men.

Newt’s body reacted before his mind caught up, lunging forward as the scuffle erupted violently. The first guard seized Thomas by the collar and shoved him backwards, the force sending him staggering.

   “Back off!”

Thomas faltered, caught himself, then shoved right back, teeth bared, all reckless defiance. “What’s your problem, man? What the hell, huh?”

   “Back off!” the guard barked again, shoving Thomas so hard the impact rattled through Newt’s chest, as if the blow had landed on him.

He reached Thomas first, hands grabbing at him—clutching an elbow, seizing a shoulder, fists tightening on the fabric of his shirt. He pressed a flat palm against Thomas’ chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heartbeat beneath his fingertips as he pulled him back.

   “Thomas—bloody hell, stop,” Newt hissed, voice low and fierce, close to Thomas’ ear.

Minho was there in an instant, his hand clamping down on Thomas’ other shoulder, with Winston and Frypan close behind, pressing in, adding their weight. Thomas fought against them, every muscle wound tight.

   “Why won’t you let me see her?” he shouted, voice ragged, half a snarl.

The larger guard squared his shoulders, fists clenching, eyes narrowed into something mean and eager. 

Instinctively, Newt shifted, stepping half in front of Thomas—his body a solid wall, as unyielding as the ribs beneath his skin. Thomas’ hot breath ghosted against the back of his neck as Newt locked eyes with the man before him.

   “Control your friend,” the guard spat, finger stabbing the air an inch from Newt’s face.

Before Newt could spit something back, a new voice slid in.

   “What’s happening here?”

Janson appeared in the doorway—his voice steady, his eyes calm but devoid of warmth. His gaze pinned Thomas first—a snake fixing on prey it knew was cornered.

   “Thomas,” he said, voice dripping with false politeness, “I thought we could trust each other.”

Janson stepped closer, pushing past Newt before he could even react. When his hand settled on Thomas’ shoulder, a cold prickle ran through Newt’s skin—a subconscious revulsion at that slick, possessive touch, like Thomas was something to be claimed.

Newt’s fingers twitched, aching to shove the hand away, to break the silent ownership it implied. But Thomas only stiffened beneath the grip, jaw clenched tight, eyes burning with a fierce, unyielding glare locked onto Janson’s.

   “You know we’re all on the same team here,” Janson murmured, his voice smooth, almost honeyed.

Thomas’ reply was low and lethal, barely more than a whisper. “Are we?”

Janson’s hand lingered a moment longer, then, with a soft, patronising pat, he took it away—like you’d soothe a dog that might bite if pushed too far. A wave of hot resentment churned in Newt’s chest, sharp and choking. He didn’t like this man. Not because of anything Janson had said or done yet, but because something deep inside him—a hard-earned instinct about people—warned him to keep his distance, to be wary.

Could be Thomas had the same gut, because this time, he swallowed his pride and kept his mouth shut.

Janson stepped back, eyes flicking to Newt, lingering just long enough that Newt felt something cold trickle down his spine. Then that thin smile flickered out, mouth flattening into a line as thin as a blade.

   “Get them to their bunks,” he said to the guards, voice flat, final.

Minho muttered something savage under his breath, a low growl slipping through clenched teeth. Winston’s fingers flexed and curled, restless at his sides. Frypan’s fist clenched around his spoon so hard his knuckles blanched white.

Around them, the others lingered at the tables—Frankie, Clint, Jack—all wide eyes and half-finished trays gone cold. Aris didn’t lift his head; the hood hid his face, left Newt guessing at whatever thoughts were coiled up in there.

Thomas’ chest heaved in ragged bursts, nostrils flaring with each inhale. He caught Newt’s eye again—there it was, smouldering like embers under ash, that reckless spark banked but far from dead. And shuck it all, Newt thought, he almost looked smug about it.

Chapter 9

   They were shoved inside the dorm—stumbling more than walking, boots scraping graceless lines across the cold, grey floor. 

   “Get your asses in there! All of you!” Janson’s errand barked, his voice snapping through the air like a whip. His shadow stretched long under th flickering overhead lights as he loomed in the doorway, watching them pile in.

The next moment, the door slammed shut behind them with a metallic finality that was swallowed by the thick walls. One sharp, surgical click followed—the lock sliding home, dull and heavy, like the lid of a coffin sealing tight.

Minho spun on Thomas before the sound had even died, anger sparking off him like flint on stone. “What the hell was that about?” 

Newt stepped up beside him, pinning Thomas with a look he tried to keep steady, reasonable—though he knew he was probably failing. “You didn’t really think they’d just let you through?”

Thomas didn’t flinch. “No, of course I didn’t,” he said, already digging in his pocket, fingers jittering against the denim, breath quick and shallow, like his mind was sprinting too far ahead for his hands to keep up. He tugged out a blue card, and it flashed under the dorm’s sickly overhead light.

Minho’s eyebrows shot up, disbelieving. “Is that—? No way.”

Thomas ignored him. His eyes stayed locked on Newt.

   “I’m gonna find out what’s on the other side of that door,” he said, the promise heavy as a loaded gun. He held the moment, then flicked his gaze away from Newt—first to Frypan, then Minho, then Winston—daring any of them to try and talk him down.

Dread threaded itself through reluctant admiration, leaving Newt off balance. He shouldn’t be surprised—he wasn’t. Thomas had never met a locked door he didn’t want to batter down.

   “Right,” Newt said flatly. 

Thomas stepped closer, his voice dropping—softer now, almost gentle. “Newt. They’re hiding something. Okay? These people are not who they say they are.” Before Newt could answer, Thomas turned away, heading for their bunk like he could outrun the fire he’d just lit.

Newt moved after him, heat flaring in his chest—fear disguised as anger, guilt masquerading as loyalty. “No, Thomas. You don’t know that!”

Thomas froze mid-step, head snapping around—defiant, stubborn to the bone. Good. Newt stepped closer, crowding him.

   “The only thing we do know,” he bit out, each word honed sharp, “is that they helped rescue us from WICKED. They gave us new clothes. They gave us food. They gave us real beds. Some of us haven’t had that in—”

   “Yeah, but—” Thomas tried to cut in, but Newt talked right over him.

    “Some of us a hell of a lot longer than others.”

That shut Thomas up. For a moment, the dorm fell silent, thick with things neither of them would say. They stared at each other, and Newt knew Thomas was searching—trying to pry past the words to the raw thing crouched underneath. Newt refused to let him see it.

Shuck it, he hated this. Hated that Thomas was right in ways he could taste but wasn’t ready to swallow. Because yes—this place reeked of secrets, Janson’s smile was threadbare, stretched too thin to be real, and the guards watched them like prisoners, not refugees. And yet—

Yet they’d saved them. Without Janson and his people, they’d still be with WICKED. That had to mean something. That deserved a shred of gratitude, didn’t it?

They’d also given him a brace.

Newt could feel it even now, the way it hugged his knee; and beneath it, a phantom agony he’d known too well, coiling like a ghost around bone, dulled now to something he could almost bear. WICKED would’ve left him crawling in the dirt, a broken thing to poke and prod until he begged for death—again. But these people? They’d given him enough to stand. Enough to pretend.

Thomas would never get that. He’d never understand the pain that had hollowed Newt out from the inside—never feel the shame coiling tight in his ribs when pity flickered in someone’s eyes. He’d never know what it cost to drag himself out of bed each morning, force ruined muscle to obey, force his voice not to crack when he lied and said he was fine.

Thomas would never know, because Newt would never let him. Better Thomas hate him than see him as something half-broken. Better he stand here, furious and brittle and so bloody tired, than let Thomas peel back the skin and find what festered underneath.

So he held the line. Pretended this fight was about clothes and stale bread and clean sheets—anything but the truth. Because the truth was stupid, pitiful. This coward’s comfort that maybe the worst was behind them. That someone else had taken the burden, and they were free of it now. That things might actually improve for them. That they might actually be okay.

He knew better. He did. But he wanted to believe it anyway.

Minho let out a huff—arms crossed, eyes flicking between them, equal parts annoyed and amused. Frypan and Winston drifted back to their bunks, giving them space—or maybe just giving themselves cover from whatever storm they thought was about to break.

   “Newt…” Thomas raked a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in wild tufts. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

Newt’s chest burned with words he’d never speak. “Then don’t.”

Thomas flung his arms wide, exasperation crackling off him like static. “You’re not exactly making it easy, are you?”

Newt’s mouth twisted around something caught between a laugh and a snarl. “Sorry I don’t bow to your shuck ego trip,” he spat, voice trembling on the edge of everything he kept from spilling. “These people have only done right by us so far. That counts for somethin’— that has to count for somethin’. ”

Thomas’ jaw worked—Newt saw it, saw the spark flaring back to life in those restless eyes. Reckless, unstoppable, so bloody intense it made something in Newt’s chest twist and ache. He didn’t trust his mouth not to betray him, not to plead for Thomas to light the match and set him aflame—so he bit his tongue and pressed his lips tight.

   “Yeah,” Thomas said, refusing to budge, “and if they’re clean, they won’t care if me and Aris poke our heads out there again tonight.”

   “Tommy—” The name slipped out rough. Newt didn’t even know where he was going with it—only that he had to say something. “I get it. I know you care about Teresa—yeah, I know. I’m not blind. But I’m not standin’ here watchin’ you throw yourself at a wall for her. I’m not doin’ that.”

Thomas stepped closer—so close that Newt could see the flicker of his pulse beating in the hollow of his throat, could taste the salt-and-soap tang of him in the stale air.

   “We’ve been here two days, Newt. Two days. And what do we have to show for it? More questions—no answers, no plan. They don’t speak unless they must. Is this it, then? This room. Two sorry meals. A needle in the arm and a pat on the head. Rinse and repeat—until when? Until we forget who we are? Where we come from?” His voice rose, thin with the strain of frustration that wouldn’t settle. “Is this the grand freedom you all dreamed up in those years trapped in the Maze?”

Newt felt a sharp urge to bite back—to say something cruel enough to end the argument before it could hurt him more. But the memory of Janson’s greasy hand resting on Thomas’ shoulder was still fresh on his mind—wrong, unsettling. Newt didn’t trust that man, didn’t trust the suffocating hush that clung to these walls like damp. He didn’t trust any of it—but he trusted Thomas’ reckless impulse for trouble even less.

He could hardly contradict him now—damn him for actually being reasonable.

Newt didn’t want to spend the rest of his life trapped within these walls; of course he didn’t. But no one had said that's the prospect now, had they? They’d only been here two days. Most hadn’t even recovered from the Maze, let alone healed from their fight with the Grievers. And Thomas was already dreaming of the next adventure. Newt wanted to tell him to slow down—wanted Thomas to understand without making him tear himself open to explain why.

Thomas drew a breath and said, “It’s been two days, and I’m already going insane. I need to know what Janson is hiding.”

Minho let out a humourless scoff. “He’s got a point there. That rat-faced weasel’s not telling us half of it. Man’s got creep stamped right across his forehead.”

Winston hummed in agreement from his bunk, eyes fixed on the ceiling, not saying anything more.

Thomas seized on it like a victory. “Exactly. And if Janson’s clean—great. Then we’ve got nothing to worry about. But if he’s not—Newt, I have to know. Let me have another look. If I’m wrong, fine—I’ll drop it. I swear. I’ll be good. I’ll sit pretty. I’ll be your perfect little prisoner. Whatever you want me to be.”

Newt shook his head, as if he could scatter the doubt clinging there. “You better start bein’ real good right now, or I’ll find new ways to make your life miserable. We don’t have no Slammer ‘round here, but I’ll improvise.”

Thomas tilted his head and a grin cracked through—crooked, too bloody innocent for the trouble he carried like a badge. Newt’s traitor heart stuttered hard in his chest, shameful in its want.

   “Yeah? Can’t wait to learn your improvising skills,” Thomas said, voice soft and needling, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Newt’s mouth twitched—an almost-smile he crushed before it could betray him. He didn’t answer, not trusting his voice to keep the truth hidden.

Minho groaned behind them. “You two are insufferable. I swear.”

Neither of them turned. They’d stopped hearing him.

Newt felt the last edge of anger dissolve into something softer, stickier—harder to tame. He stepped closer than he should have, closing the gap until he could feel the heat radiating from Thomas’ chest, that restless hum beneath the surface that made Newt want to reach out—to anchor him, if only for a heartbeat. He lifted his hand and hooked a finger in Thomas’ sleeve just above the elbow—a small tug, a quiet claim he pretended meant nothing.

Thomas didn’t resist. He leaned in as if gravity wanted him there. Newt could see the tremor in his breath, almost taste it. He realised how easy it would be to close the last inch between them—and it took him everything to resist.

   “If you have to do this—” Newt murmured, voice low enough that Frypan and Winston could pretend not to hear, though everyone in the room was listening anyway. “Don’t do it like a shank. Don’t get caught. Or I swear, Tommy—I’ll knock that thick head clean off your shoulders myself.”

He felt Thomas’ breath catch, saw his eyes flick down—mouth, throat, mouth again—before darting back up to meet his. That grin turned soft as an apology, warm as a secret.

   “Got it,” Thomas breathed, like it was a promise just for them.

Newt held his sleeve a heartbeat longer, thumb brushing warm skin where the fabric had rolled up—accident or not, he didn’t care.

Chapter 10

Notes:

I’m so sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I spent a week in Madrid with Itsthemaze, Kestis_21 and PathsOfOak—wonderful friends I met through this fandom, and whom I’m endlessly grateful for. We had an amazing time, but it did mean I didn’t get much writing done. I’m back now and hope to return to more frequent updates. Thank you so much for your patience!

   Newt lay rigid in his bunk, eyes pinned to the shadowed slats above, listening to the soft, familiar cadence of noises as the others settled in for the night. He caught the restless rustle of Aris shifting in the next bunk over. Not long ago, he and the last of the Gladers had trudged back from dinner, the harsh lights flickering out soon after, leaving the dorm steeped in the sickly green glow of the emergency bulb pulsing above the door like a watchful eye.

It hadn’t stopped Thomas, of course—nor Aris and Minho. They’d slipped off to the washroom, voices twined in whispers and half-born schemes, the hush of running water their fragile shield. Just in case someone’s listening, Minho had muttered. Newt had only rolled his eyes. He didn’t believe it. Chose not to.

At first, he’d followed—habit tugging at his heels more than any will of his own—but he’d lingered at the edge, arms folded tight across his chest, his silence louder than any argument. He’d spoken his piece already. Thomas knew where he stood. No point wearing the same bloody track into the ground.

It was all for nothing anyway. When they’d crept back to test the dorm door, they’d found it locked tight. Janson’s new precaution, no doubt—a punishment for Thomas’ little performance back in the canteen. Shutting down the trip before it could even begin.

What struck them was that the door lacked one of those pads for Thomas’ freshly stolen keycard to open—not from inside, anyway. Newt was fairly sure he’d seen one out in the hall. But he didn’t let himself think too hard about that either.

Thomas and Aris hadn’t been ready to give up that quickly. They’d slunk back to the washroom to chew over this unexpected setback. Minho trailed after them, but Newt wanted no part of it. Another locked door, another pointless argument. He’d slipped away before the pull of Thomas could reel him back like always. Let them waste their breath on plans that would go nowhere. Let them keep the water running to drown their whispers. Newt just wanted peace.

He was glad, in that quiet, miserable way, for the bit of distance from Thomas, while it was still his to keep, before they’d have to share the narrow bed for the night. Newt let out a breath, too soft to stir the hush around him. It was enough that Thomas filled his waking mind; sleep never spared him either. In dreams, Thomas’ nearness always turned too soft, too sweet—something Newt didn’t dare reach for while the lights were on.

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to hear the soft click of the washroom door, not to brace for Thomas’ footsteps drawing nearer. But he felt him anyway—the mattress dipping beside him, a tentative hand poised just above his shoulder.

Newt kept his eyes shut, the lie of sleep an armour he wasn’t ready to shed. He wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Thomas lingered, breath shallow, fingers restless at the hem of the blanket. He didn’t pull it back or slip beneath, as Newt half-wished. Instead, he eased down beside him—close enough for warmth to seep through fabric and skin, threading through Newt’s fraying resolve. Close enough to make the space between them pulse like a bruise.

Newt wanted to move so badly. To roll over. To catch Thomas by the wrist, drag him under the covers, bury his face in the soft, living curve of Thomas’ throat until the world dissolved into warmth and breath and the steady thrum of a heartbeat that made sense of everything else.

Of course he didn’t. He only nearly gave himself away when Thomas’ hand brushed the blanket, tugging it higher over Newt’s shoulder. Careful. Tender. Newt bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, but he didn’t move. Ridiculous, this small, wordless kindness—how it filled him with a gratitude too big for his chest.

Minutes stretched thin. Newt lay there, breathing like he was carved from stone. He could smell Thomas—warm and faint, all sweat and skin and him. His own pulse drummed tight in his throat, too loud to ignore.

He should have rolled over, put a wall of space between them before that weak, traitorous part of him started believing this was something it wasn’t. But he didn’t. Instead, his hand drifted in the dark, settling just near Thomas’ side—close enough that one careless shift would brush skin to skin.

Newt burned for that touch but denied himself, too afraid it wouldn’t be enough—knowing deep down it never would be.

So he let himself slip away, teetering on the razor’s edge of longing and denial, Thomas’ breath a soft murmur at his side—close enough to be a whispered promise. Close enough to pretend.

And for tonight—shuck him—he’d settle for that.

---

Morning—if it deserved the name at all, the fluorescents still dead and the dorm steeped in that stifled, unbroken dark—found Newt in a sudden start.

It was the warmth that did it. The slow, drowsy press of weight along his side, the steady pull of a breath that wasn’t his. Another body tucked close—and then the sharp, humiliating rush of awareness of his own.

One heartbeat. Two. Heat bloomed low in his core before his mind could catch up—shame striking like a spark to dry tinder. It gathered low at the base of his spine, a dull, unwelcome ache straining against thin cotton.

Mortified, Newt lay frozen, every muscle locked tight, eyes screwed shut as if he could will it away—send it sinking back into the dark, back into whatever half-formed dream had dredged it up from where he kept it buried. But it stayed. Hot and insistent, pulsing under his skin.

Sometime between then and waking, Thomas had slipped under the blanket with him. He was half-curled into Newt’s side now, a knee tucked warm against his thigh, an arm draped across his stomach like it belonged there—like it had always belonged there. Thomas’ face was buried in the crook of his neck, breath warm and damp against his ear.

   Thank shuck he’s still asleep.

Newt stared up at the slats above, at Minho’s foot dangling careless over the edge. The dark pressed in thick as tar, close enough to choke on. He could feel every place Thomas touched him—knee, hip, arm—each point a match struck inside his ribs.

He couldn’t even enjoy the way Thomas fit so easily against him, the way their legs tangled like they’d done it a thousand times before. Not when the wanting made his chest tight and mean. It was too easy to imagine rolling into that warmth, Thomas waking soft and pliant, lips parted, no questions asked. The thought made the heat coil sharper, shame and hunger twisting together until it nearly made him sick.

Newt’s pulse hammered so loud it drowned the low hum of the vents, the quiet creak of bunks. If Thomas woke now—if he felt that—there’d be no explaining it away. Thomas would know.

Slowly—carefully—Newt eased his hand under Thomas’ slack arm, brushing the soft inside of his wrist. Thomas made a sound, small and half-dreamed, fingers twitching against Newt’s ribs before falling still again.

Newt held his breath. Waited for disaster.

Nothing.

Good. Thank God, or whoever was left listening.

Next, the legs. Inch by inch, he untangled himself, careful not to jostle Thomas’ knee still pressed warm against his thigh. The blanket clung stubbornly, as if reluctant to let him go, holding on just a moment longer—wanting him to stay. He slipped out from under it anyway, the quiet magnifying every rustle and breath. The mattress dipped as he pushed himself upright. Thomas mumbled something, lips grazing Newt’s shoulder before he rolled away, face burrowing deeper into the pillow.

Newt sat at the bunk’s edge, pulse rattling in his throat. The dorm lay still around him—Frypan’s snores, the soft groan of old pipes, a sigh here and there as boys turned in sleep. It didn’t feel much different from the Homestead—except there, he’d had the privacy of his own room to deal with something like this. Not that it happened often—three years of gloom had smothered that part of him more often than not. It was only since Thomas that it had returned with a vengeance. Make of that what you would.

He turned to look at him—and immediately regretted it. There, cradled in the hollow of warmth Newt had just fled, Thomas lay sprawled—hair tangled like fallen shadows across his brow, lips parted and slack, lashes dark and heavy, casting midnight stains upon pale cheeks. Innocent. Unaware. Beautiful in a way that clawed at something raw inside Newt, wrenching him with a silent howl to slip back beneath that blanket. Back beneath that boy. Inside him.

A savage, twisted longing gripped his chest—a reckless, ruinous ache that screamed to draw Thomas close, to bury his mouth in the soft curve below his ear, to taste that perilous sweetness—a venomous blend of sugar and poison, dangerously divine.

He turned away swiftly, before he could do something reckless. Before he could ruin himself further than he already had.

Pain flared in his knee as he rose—the brace undone before bed, discarded somewhere on the floor. He hissed between his teeth and limped toward the washroom door, the cold concrete gnawing at his bare feet, each step a whispered curse for sins he hadn’t yet dared confess.

The showers were empty tonight. No Minho. No one else. Thank shuck for small mercies.

Newt’s reflection flickered in the cracked mirror—hollow eyes, bruised shadows clinging like parasites beneath his skin. He didn’t linger. He didn’t want to see.

He stripped fast, flesh prickling, body raw with leftover heat. He stepped beneath the showerhead and twisted it on before reason could catch him—made no move to wait for warmth. The cold struck him like penance, like a debt unpaid by any prayer.

He braced his palms flat against the tile, forehead bowed between them, breath fogging the wall. Water knifed down the back of his neck, tracing his spine in trembling rivulets that gathered at the small of his back before slipping between his thighs. He let it. Welcomed it. Needed it to drown the fever smouldering alive beneath his skin—needed the bite of cold to wash the ruin from his bones.

It did nothing. The cold was nothing. If anything, it made the heat meaner—more spiteful, crawling back beneath his skin each time he remembered the feel of Thomas’ breath, the phantom weight of that arm across his stomach. 

    Pathetic, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight it throbbed with pain.

His hand slipped from the wall before he could command it otherwise. Found his abdomen first—tense muscle slick beneath the cold rush—then lower, wrapping around himself with a grip just shy of cruel. His hips jolted forward, helpless, a broken sound tearing free of his throat before he could choke it back down.

No fantasies, he lied to himself. No sweet illusions. Just get it done. Get it out.

But Thomas was on his mind anyway—Thomas awake, warmth bleeding everywhere, no questions, no sense. Just wanting him back, for once. For real.

Newt bit down hard on his tongue, water battering his back, frustration and want coiling like barbed wire inside him. It didn’t take long. Just a handful of rough, punishing strokes—knuckles white, breath tearing free in ragged gasps that ricocheted off the tile and back into his skull. When he came, it wrung him empty, left him shuddering, forehead knocking dully against the wall like he could pound the filth out of himself by force alone. The water swept it away before it could stick—clean slate, mock absolution, as if that changed a shuck thing.

His pulse slowed from its roaring thunder to a dull, distant hum, and with it came a fresh wave of self-loathing—deeper than before. But the edge had dulled now. The noise in his head receded into a muffled whisper. The wanting was shoved back down, buried where it belonged.

He lingered under the icy spray until numbness swallowed him whole, until his teeth clicked in his jaw and the shiver sank deep into his bones.

He didn’t bother chasing the illusion of clean. All he wanted was to feel emptied out.

At last, he cut the water off and stood dripping, holding his breath for a moment, eyes fixed on the drain like maybe it’d swallow him too—if only he asked nicely enough. No such mercy. He turned away before the vision could settle too clearly in his mind.

He scrubbed himself dry with the rough, institutional towel, dragging it over skin that felt too tight for his bones. Shirt. Trousers. Same clothes, same body, same ache buried a layer deeper than before.

Slipping back into the dorm, the hush felt heavier somehow—thick with sleep and stale breath, Frypan’s snores grinding through the dark like an old saw. Newt didn’t spare the sleeping Gladers a glance. His eyes went straight to him.

Thomas hadn’t stirred much. He’d rolled onto his side, arm thrown loose across the hollow Newt had left behind—still guarding it, as if he had some claim to it. His breath was slow, deep; he looked so achingly peaceful it tugged at something fragile and sweet deep within Newt’s chest.

Newt hovered at the edge of the bunk, one hand braced against the cold metal slats above, as if they alone could keep him upright. His knee gave a small, traitorous twinge—but that wasn’t what made him falter. It was the boy before him—still warm, still soft, still tangled in Newt’s ghost, as if he hadn’t even noticed he was gone.

   Thomas.

Newt really wanted to climb back in—hated that he’d left at all, only to end up here, standing, feeling worse than before. 

There was no escaping himself.

What would Thomas say if he knew? If he woke and cast that soft-eyed concern his way—Newt, what’s wrong? Newt, you alright?  

Newt could already hear the gentle echo—It’s okay, Newt. S’alright. I got you.

   No, you don’t, Tommy. You don’t know what you’ve got.

Newt’s fingers curled tight around the bunk frame. His pulse throbbed at his temple, deep in his throat, low in his stomach where the wanting simmered—quiet, cruel, relentless. All he’d done in that shower was prove to himself he had no control left. None that mattered.

He could see it now—how easy it would be to ruin everything. To crawl beneath that blanket, press himself flush against Thomas’ back, mouth tracing the soft curve at the nape of his neck, letting his hands wander where they shouldn’t…

A shameful, useless fantasy—washed from his skin, yet lodged beneath his ribs like weeds tangled in his heart. He’d carry it forever, he knew. Like every other stupid, selfish shard of himself that refused to die when it should have.

Newt had never felt shame for liking boys before. But right now, he wished he didn’t. Wished he could be only the friend Thomas trusted him to be—not the shadow skulking underneath, not the wretch who wanted him in all the ways he’d never be allowed to have.

He let out a breath, slow and careful through his teeth. No. He couldn’t get back into that bed. Not tonight. Not ever, if he had any shuck sense left. He couldn’t trust himself not to ruin this friendship. And he wouldn’t survive it if he did.

For a moment longer, he stared at Thomas—the soft curve of him beneath the blanket—and let the hurt sear through his chest like acid. He turned away before it could eat him alive.

He found his brace half-kicked under the bunk and dragged it on with stiff fingers. The velcro rasped loud in the hush. No one stirred. Thomas didn’t even twitch. Of course he didn’t. Thomas would sleep through the end of the world. Maybe he already had.

Notes:

When I started Every Heart a Maze, I didn’t really read smut, let alone write any myself. This story isn’t about that either. But I firmly believe that well-written smut can be a character study in itself, and at its core, this fic is exactly that—a study of Newt. Given that he’s a seventeen-year-old boy in love, it feels true to his character that he would experience sexual desire towards Thomas, and I want to explore that as part of fully capturing who he is.

There won’t be anything too explicit at this point, so I won’t be changing the tags, but I wanted to give you a heads-up that this will be a theme going forward.

With that said, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3

Chapter 11

   Before breakfast, they made a detour to the medical wing—same procedure as the day before. White hallways washed in fluorescent cold. No sunlight. No sense of time. No tether to reality.

The doctors stood in stiff lines like mannequins come alive; faces blank, glassy eyes dulled by routine. Cold stethoscopes pressed against bare skin. Heartbeats counted. Pupils tracked. Blood drawn—again. The needles slid in smooth and practised. 

Newt stared at the ceiling, jaw set, letting them prod at old bruises and healing cuts like he was nothing but a specimen. There was a crack up there—hair-thin, crawling across a sagging plaster tile. He traced it with his eyes while they scribbled on clipboards, writing in tight, cramped strokes he didn’t bother trying to decipher.

He could read. He’d never questioned that, though he couldn’t remember when he learned, or how. Or who had taught him. It was just there, like muscle memory. Writing came just as naturally. He’d done it in the Glade—jotted down supply requests for the Box, scratched out the odd note, even tried keeping a diary once. Tried.

He hadn’t touched it since the day he jumped.

He remembered what he’d written—every word, scrawled in a hand that had shaken more than he liked to admit. He hadn’t taken it out of its hiding spot since. Not because he’d forgotten, but because he hadn’t. Every sentence was still lodged somewhere deep in his brain, festering.

The thoughts inked on those pages weren’t just sad, or angry—they were warped. Desperate. Ugly in a way that felt too honest, too revealing. Like he’d peeled something raw out of himself and left it there to rot in ink. Fragments of a mind he no longer trusted. A version of himself he didn’t recognise—and couldn’t forgive.

If someone found it... if they read it... what would they think of him? Probably nothing good. Nothing flattering.

Newt wouldn’t blame them.

He didn’t flatter himself either.

Dr. Kline asked how he felt. Newt said, “Fine,” because it didn’t matter. Kline wrote something down anyway, then moved on to the next shank in line without so much as a pause.

He’d greeted Newt at the door earlier, offering the barest flicker of humanity. Checked the brace on his leg, adjusted a strap, murmured something vague and meant to reassure. Newt barely heard him.

His mind was already drifting, half-submerged, like he was watching it all through glass. Distant. Muted. Not quite there.

Neither Teresa nor the other girls were present. Of course they weren’t. He hadn’t expected them to be, not really, but part of him noted their absence anyway. He didn’t ask. No point. Thomas already had, loud and blunt, and all it earned him was a stern look and a silence that felt deliberate.

Another needle slid into the crook of Newt’s elbow. He didn’t flinch. Just watched the crack in the ceiling stretch towards a flickering light overhead. The bulb buzzed faintly—a sickly, bluish stutter. Unsteady. 

The whole place felt like it was charged with static, just beneath the surface. Ready to short out.

Just like him.

Later, the canteen buzzed with low conversation—the clink of cutlery on trays, the slow scrape of chairs across the floor. A thin veneer of forced normalcy settled over the room as they poked half-heartedly at the pale heap on their plates.

Food that, to Newt, tasted like absolutely nothing. Could’ve been oat groats, wallpaper paste, or damp cardboard—the texture was about right.

Newt was starting to properly loathe this place. And not just because of the pitiful excuse for breakfast or the fact that he'd spent the morning on the floor, locked in self-imposed celibacy. (When Thomas woke, he'd assumed he’d accidentally shoved Newt out of bed in his sleep and apologised so profusely that Newt had to threaten never to speak to him again if he didn’t shut up. Needless to say, that did little to ease Newt’s guilty conscience.)

No, it was the sterile corridors, the flickering lights, the low hum in every wall—mechanical, watchful, alive in all the wrong ways.

He missed the sun.

He missed dirt under his fingernails. Missed the unevenness of real ground. The wind carrying scents—pine, sweat, smoke—and the evenings that settled like a warm exhale over the Glade. He missed air that hadn’t been filtered through a million bloody vents.

He didn’t exactly miss the place itself. Not the Maze. Not the danger it held. But at least there had been life—in the rustle of animals, the whisper of trees, the quiet rhythm of nature.

This place—whatever it was—felt empty. Like a shell left behind by a vanished soul.

Janson— Rat Man, as Minho had taken to dub him—had called it a “ home between homes, ” whatever that was supposed to mean. And, as if summoned by the thought, their facilitator appeared in the canteen doorway at that exact moment. Maybe this was it. Maybe he’d come to tell them they were leaving. Moving on to the next place. The real one.

Or so Newt hoped.

Beside him, Thomas glared at the new arrival as though he could burn a hole through him with sheer hatred, likely replaying their last encounter in vivid detail. Newt couldn’t blame him. But he was also dead set on keeping Thomas on his best behaviour today.

Minho leaned toward Winston and muttered something low. Winston snorted, shoulders shaking. Newt caught the words Rat Man again.

   “Just slim it and listen,” Newt hissed quietly, making sure neither Minho nor Winston mistook his irritation for anything less. “Maybe it’ll all be over soon. Maybe he’ll finally tell us what’s next.”

Minho didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, right. They’ll hand us flowers, kiss our asses, and Thomas here’ll actually smile for once.”

Thomas turned, flashing a wide, toothy grin—mocking, with no trace of joy. “There. You happy?”

Winston cracked up.

   “Dude,” Minho said, smirking, “you are one ugly shank.”

Thomas shrugged, still wearing that fake grin. “If you say so.”

Newt rolled his eyes and groaned. “Shut your bloody holes, the lot of you.”

   “Thomas is an ugly shank!” Minho repeated, louder this time.

Newt reached around Thomas and slugged him in the arm. “I said, shut it!”

Minho leaned back, unfazed. “What, you his beauty rep now too?”

Newt shot Minho a pointed glare but couldn’t hide the flush creeping up his neck.

Minho’s grin turned wicked, eyes gleaming with mischief—far too upbeat for such a miserable morning, obnoxiously cheerful given the mood. “Oh, come on, Newt. Just own it—you’re completely smitten.”

Newt was spared further humiliation when Janson stepped into the room, commanding attention with his mere presence.

All noise died at once—snuffed out like a flame.

Forks froze mid-air. Conversations stalled mid-word. Every head turned. Every eye followed him as he moved with deliberate steps, authority clinging to him like a second skin.

   “Good morning,” he greeted them. The smile on his face smooth as oil and just as slippery. “I don’t wanna keep you from breakfast long, so I’ll be brief. You’re all still here because of an uncanny will to survive—among… other reasons.”

He let the words hang, watching them squirm on their stools as his gaze swept the group—sharp, assessing. It snagged on Aris for the briefest moment.

Newt caught it. He wondered if anyone else had. A flicker of recognition? A warning?

   “As you may have guessed,” Janson said, “about sixty people were sent to live in the Glade—your Glade, at least. Another sixty in Group B, but we’ll set them aside for now.”

He let the words settle.

Newt didn’t miss the way Aris shifted on his stool. Group B. Those had to be his people.

   “Out of all those,” Janson continued, “only a handful survived to sit here today. Many of the situations you endured were designed to test you. To measure you. These… scenarios, these pressures—they’re called the Variables. Each one carefully planned, adjusted, repeated. All in the name of evaluation.”

He paused again. That same smile crept back onto his face.

   “To understand the world you’re reentering, you first need to understand what was done to you.”

A beat.

   “What WICKED did to you. We’ll get there—soon enough. But not now.” He waved a hand at their trays. “For now, eat. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Then he turned and strode out, not waiting for a response. The silence he left behind was heavy, oppressive.

No one moved.

Frypan was the first to break it, his voice low. “What the hell was that about?”

Newt shook his head. “No idea. Guess we’ll find out.”

   “Not sure I want to,” Winston muttered, stabbing his spoon into the mush in front of him. “Far as I can tell, the more we know, the worse it gets. I was happier not knowing.”

   “Well, I actually do,” Clint said quietly, Tim nodding beside him. “I’m tired of being kept in the dark.”

   “A deep dive into the twisted science from the shuck lunatics who scrambled our brains?” Minho said, deadpan. “Guess it’s shaping up to be one hell of a cheerful day.”

Aris stayed silent. His porridge sat untouched on his tray, steam curling upward as he stared through it, unseeing.

Something about it needled at Newt—an unease he couldn’t quite place, prickling up the back of his neck. What was going on in that kid’s head? Had he even heard Janson at all?

Beside him, Thomas leaned in, voice low in Newt’s ear. “Janson’s up to something. You saw the way he looked at Aris, right?”

Newt nodded, his stomach churning—and it had little to do with the grainy slop on his tray. “Yeah. Saw it.”

Back in their dorm, the lock clicked shut with that now-familiar finality. Above the handle, the red light blinked once, then held steady—confirmation they were sealed in.

To Newt, the room felt smaller, as if the walls had inched inward while they were gone. The air was heavy, laced with that faint metallic tang he’d come to associate with the place. Shadows gathered in the corners where the artificial light didn’t quite reach, thick and unmoving.

They settled into their bunks. Newt sank to the floor in front of the one he shared with Thomas, keeping a somewhat sufficient distance from the other boy, who lasted all of five minutes before restlessness drove him to the door again. He ran his fingers along the frame, slow and deliberate, hunting for a weakness, a seam, anything at all.

Finding nothing, he moved on—eyes sweeping over the sterile walls, the orderly rows of bunks, the scuffed linoleum floor. He went into the washroom next, where he tapped along the tiled walls and peered into corners, as if answers might be hiding in the grout.

From the doorway, Newt watched him with a raised brow and arms crossed, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. Thomas’ restiveness should’ve been grating—especially after yesterday—but instead, it tugged at something soft and reluctant in him. There was just something about Thomas—always in motion, always chasing answers. You could trust him to throw himself headfirst into a wall, both metaphorically and possibly even literally. And for all the tension still lingering between them, Newt couldn’t help but find it oddly endearing.

   “Let me know when you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” Minho’s dry voice floated in from the dorm next door. “Then we can move on to locating Tim’s lost sense of humour.”

   “Lost? Nah. Just selective,” Tim shot back. 

Minho muttered, “You’d do better to keep your opinions—and your mouth—selective.”

   “Maybe you’re just not that funny, Minho. Ever think of that?”

   “Selective silence, man. You should give it a go sometime.”

The bickering continued behind his back, little more than a dull hum behind Newt’s thoughts. He ignored it, eyes following Thomas instead.

   “So... what are ya actually hopin’ to find?” he asked after a moment.

Thomas had finished scouring the shower stalls and was now perched on one of the sinks, stretching toward the ceiling panels as if expecting them to yield some hidden clue.

   “The vent system,” he said without missing a beat. “You can hear it, right? That sound? There’s definitely something in there. The walls are thick enough—there has to be a cavity between them. There’s got to be an entrance, somewhere, some kind of hidden access.”

With a swift leap from the sink, Thomas pivoted sharply, his eyes combing the room once more—thoroughly, searching, as though sheer determination might coax the walls into spilling their secrets.

They told him nothing. Cold, unfeeling things—immune to charm, untouched by desperation. It worked in their favour, really. They were only metal and stone, not something with a heartbeat.

Not like Newt.

He doubted he’d survive five seconds beneath the full weight of Thomas’ undivided attention without coming undone—thread pulled loose, unravelling fast.

   “I think there’s a ventilation shaft under my bed.”

The voice startled Newt. He hadn’t heard Aris approach—hadn’t even sensed him—and that alone set his nerves on edge. He turned to find the boy standing just behind him, pale and washed-out under the harsh glare of the fluorescents; a little out of phase with the rest of the world. Then again, Newt wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Aris in phase.

But something burned behind Aris’ eyes this time, something unlike the usual quiet detachment that made him feel like a ghost among them. Purpose, maybe. 

   “Kept me up half the night, that thing,” Aris murmured, already turning back toward the dorm with the same weightless gait that always made Newt wonder if he was ever fully tethered to this world.

Thomas brushed past without a word, and Newt fell into step behind him.

Aris was already on his knees when they reached him, half-hidden beneath the bunk. His fingers worked deftly at the vent cover, rattling it loose with ease. Metal scraped against metal, a soft, grating sound broken only by the hiss of dust spiralling down in lazy streams as the panel came free.

   “You got the keycard, right?” Aris asked without glancing up.

Thomas nodded, already digging into his pocket. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Newt crouched beside him, his knees protesting the movement. His pulse picked up, steady but insistent. They were really doing this.

   “What now?” Frypan asked, pulling himself up from his bunk and making his way over. His voice wasn’t panicked—just steady in that quiet, guarded way only Frypan could manage. “You’re actually going in there again?”

Thomas didn’t as much as glance at Frypan. “We don’t have much time. Yesterday after breakfast, they left us in here for hours. Just... waiting. Doing nothing. I’m not wasting another day like that.” He paused, voice taut with something more than impatience. “And after Janson’s speech this morning... I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling. This might be our only shot to learn something real.”

Behind them, Tim’s voice cut in, edged with doubt. “Why bother? Janson said he’d explain everything. Eventually.”

Still crouched, Aris lifted his head and looked at him. For someone so soft-spoken, there was a startling weight in his voice now. “And you believe him?”

Tim hesitated. The question wasn’t a threat—Aris hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t moved an inch. But it landed like a verdict. A truth already settled. Tim shrank beneath it.

   “What choice do we have?” he said, too quick. “Just because he’s strict doesn’t mean he’s hiding something.”

Minho scoffed. “Have you seen the guy’s face? He looks like he’s two steps away from monologuing about world domination. Seriously, what about that shank makes you think we should trust a word he says?”

Clint and Frankie drifted closer, wordless but deliberate, forming a quiet wall behind Tim. Not hostile—just present. And somehow, that was worse. The kind of silent alignment that made Newt’s heart stutter, picking up a pace that wasn’t quite panic but edged toward it. Fractures where there should’ve been unity. Hairline cracks spidering through a group already pulled too tight.

It was the Glade all over again.

Those final days, when belief began to splinter, and everything spiralled faster than they could hold it together. Newt had clung to the hope—foolish as it was—that Gally’s fall had been the worst of it. That this kind of fracture had died with him.

He opened his mouth, frustration rising like a tide, ready to lash out, to shake some sense into all of them—

But Thomas beat him to it.

   “Maybe you’re right,” Thomas said, halfway under the bed now, his voice echoing off cold metal. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

No one stopped him.

   “But I have to know,” he added, voice muffled. “I need to find out for sure.”

His head reappeared briefly—flushed, eyes bright with urgency, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked at Minho. Then at Frypan.

   “Just cover for me.”

Then his gaze found Newt, lingering a beat longer.

   “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Newt held his eyes. And despite the unease coiling in his chest, the weight of everything they didn’t know, he gave a small, silent nod.

He didn’t have to like it. But he understood.

Thomas disappeared into the shaft, Aris close behind. The vent cover slid shut with a final, jarring scrape. And just like that, they were gone.

Newt rose slowly. The overhead lights buzzed like a swarm in his skull—too bright, too constant. The air felt thinned out, processed past the point of comfort, dragging across the back of his neck like dry silk. It made his skin crawl.

He could feel the others watching him—eyes like fingertips tapping glass, persistent, probing, impossible to ignore.

   “What?” he muttered, already worn out by the accusations no one had spoken yet.

Frankie stepped forward, jaw clenched. “You realise this is going to screw us all, right? He’s going to get caught. We’re going to get caught. If Janson wanted us snooping around the halls, he wouldn’t lock the shuck doors.”

Newt’s laugh was dry, mirthless. “Right. Because locking people up has never been a red flag before.”

   “There’s probably a reason,” Frankie insisted. “What if it’s for our own safety?”

   “Oh, that’s rich,” Newt bit back. “Is that what you told yourself in the Maze? That the walls were protection, not containment?”

Frankie’s face twisted. “Come on. That’s hardly the same and you know it.”

   “Isn’t it?” Newt’s voice cracked, rising. “Feels the bloody same to me. Trapped in walls, no answers, no real choices. Just fewer deaths this time—and everything reeks of bleach.”

   “They pulled us out,” Frankie snapped. “Janson and his people—they saved us. You really think they’d go to all that trouble just to screw us over again?”

The words hung in the air for a beat. Newt didn’t know what to think anymore.

The worst part was, he’d said something like that himself—Frankie was using the same argument he’d thrown at Thomas. Yesterday. Maybe even this morning.

Doubt was a slippery thing. It crept in sideways, changed its face when you weren’t looking, rewrote you the moment your guard slipped.

   “And yet we’re locked up again,” Newt said, quieter now. “I don’t know how to explain it, Frankie. But something about this place doesn’t sit right. It’s like—” He paused, grasping for something solid in a sea of unease. Failing. “Like we’re bein’ kept just comfortable enough not to ask questions. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Frankie hesitated—doubt flickered, but only for a moment.

   “Honestly? No. You remember the heat when we got here? The sun felt like it was trying to boil the skin off my bones. And those psychos out there?” He shook his head. “I’m not itching to go back out.”

Minho shifted, arms crossed, shoulders drawn tight with the kind of tension that begged for an outlet. His jaw worked like he was holding something back. Frypan hadn’t said a word, but his eyes moved between them all—uneasy, weighing. Conflict brewing there, slow but steady. Jack, Stan and the others lingered near the bunks, distant but alert. Watching. Waiting, maybe, for a side to choose.

Newt rubbed his palms together, skin damp. A sick kind of cold clung to him.

Frankie opened his mouth to speak again, but Minho’s voice cut through.

   “Enough.”

Heads turned.

   “You think Thomas is risking all of us on a whim?” Minho continued, voice low but seething. “You don’t have to trust him. But trust me on this. Thomas doesn’t do this without a shuck good reason.”

Clint let out a breath, long and slow, like he’d been holding it since the argument began. “It’s not that simple, Minho.”

   “No,” Newt said quietly. “It never is.”

But Frankie wasn’t done. “It’s reckless. Impulsive. And it’s going to blow up in our faces.”

Minho’s glare sharpened. “We get it. You want to play it safe. Stay in line. Wait for someone to hand us a neat little explanation.” He stepped forward. “But some of us are done being lied to. Done being managed."

The air around him bristled. There was fury in his voice—not loud or wild, but tempered. Hardened by everything they’d survived.

   “You call Thomas reckless now, but you didn’t say that when he ran into the Maze to save Alby. Or when he jabbed himself and went through the Changing. Or led us out.” His voice caught, just slightly. “He’s bled for this group more times than I can count.”

Frankie’s posture stiffened, retreating an inch. “No one’s saying we don’t appreciate that.”

Tim spoke up then, quiet but cutting. “I don’t think Thomas ever did any of that for us. He did it for himself. And now he’s doing it for that girl. Or that Aris kid. I don’t trust either of them. There’s something off about him—and I don’t care what you say.”

The mention of Teresa hit Newt like a punch to the ribs—sharp, sudden, far too close to the truth.

Because deep down, he knew it: every risk Thomas took, every rule he broke, it always circled back to her. Sure, he wanted answers—but under it all, it was about Teresa. Finding her. Reaching her. Everything else was just noise.

And Aris? He wasn’t any different. Just chasing his own version of the same story, running the same loop, trying to reach the girls of Group B.

   “If Thomas and Aris both worked for WICKED,” Stan said, tone darkening, “who guarantees they didn’t collude against us? Sabotage us? Maybe Gally was right all along. Maybe—”

Minho moved before the sentence could finish.

He was across the room in a blur, fist clenched in Stan’s collar as he slammed him into the wall. The impact rang out—bunk frames shuddered, dust shook loose from the ceiling in fine drifts, falling like ash. The whole room seemed to contract, caught in one sharp, collective breath.

   “Don’t,” Minho said, voice rough, barely holding steady. “Don’t ever—”

He choked on the rest. Couldn’t finish it.

Instead, he shoved Stan harder, like brute force might communicate what he couldn’t.

Newt didn’t move. His heart thudded in his chest like a warning drum. It wasn’t the violence that rattled him—it was the quiet ache behind it. The raw, unspoken hurt simmering in Minho’s eyes. He tried to trace it—what nerve Stan had touched.

The boy whimpered, the last of his bravado crumbling. Still, his voice came—quiet but bitter. “Why? Guilty conscience? Because you put a spear through his chest?”

His name didn’t need to be spoken for it to land. Newt felt it like a jolt up his spine. The image of him—wild-eyed, trembling, gun in hand. 

   Gally.

He should’ve known.

Minho’s lips curled, and for one heart-thudding second, Newt thought he’d swing.

Frypan lunged in, grabbing Minho’s arm. “Have you two shuck-faces lost it now?” he snapped, wedging himself between them with more force than finesse. “Gally was my friend, too. A real one. But WICKED controlled him, Frankie. Forgot that part? Minho did what he had to. You can’t pin that on him.”

Winston stepped up beside him, nodding. “Gally wouldn’t have wanted any of that. But if he couldn’t stop himself—he’d have wanted someone else to.”

Newt wasn’t so sure. Not completely. Gally had hated being used, sure—no one liked being controlled, least of all him—but the way he’d stared down the barrel at Thomas… there’d been something there. Something that hadn’t needed coaxing.

A darker part of Newt had no trouble believing that Gally hadn’t minded aiming that gun. Might’ve even welcomed it. Maybe the cracks had always been there, long before the Maze ever got to him.

But it didn’t matter now. Gally was dead. And what remained was the fallout—resentment, doubt, and old blood dried into the seams of memory.

   “Minho,” Frypan said again, voice harder now. “Let him go.”

Minho didn't react at first, jaw clenched, body rigid. Then finally, he released Stan, who slumped down, colourless and shaken.

Minho turned, sweeping the room with a glare. “Go on, then,” he said. “Anyone else want to talk shuck about Thomas? Or question Newt’s leadership while you’re at it?”

Newt didn’t lift his eyes. “Not your leader anymore,” he muttered.

From the bunks, Clint spoke—quiet, hesitant. “Jeff only died because we followed Thomas. So many of our brothers are dead because of him.”

Newt flinched inwardly, stunned by the statement—Clint couldn’t seriously mean it—but Minho was already turning, fury reigniting in his eyes.

   “And you’re only still here because of him,” he said. “You think if we’d stayed, we’d be safe? You think WICKED wouldn’t have dissected us—cut us open just to see what makes us tick?”

   “You don’t know that,” Frankie cut in.

   “We know enough,” Minho said, voice hard. “If we’d stayed, we’d be dead. Or wishing we were.”

The silence that followed had weight.

It pressed against Newt’s chest, slow and creeping, like ivy climbing the bones of ancient walls; beautiful in its patience, brutal in its intent. Not choking him yet, but close. He could feel it winding in, curling beneath his ribs.

One wrong word, and everything would crack.

And still, his thoughts circled back to Thomas—quiet and relentless, like vultures on a slow descent. The worry wasn’t loud, but constant.

He felt the ache of it like an echo. Part fear. Part guilt. All love, knotted so tightly it hurt to look at directly.

What if Thomas got caught? What if he didn’t make it back before Janson or his people came to check on them?

What if that was the last time he ever saw him—slipping into the vent and vanishing like smoke?

Stan straightened slightly, but tension still clung to him. His shoulders stayed hunched, like some part of him was still bracing for impact.

   “We don’t know nearly enough to survive on our own,” he said. “Like it or not, we rely on Janson—for now. He said he’d explain everything soon. So what’s the rush? We’ve been in the dark for three years. What’s three more days compared to that?”

Minho didn’t respond.

He stood too still—like the words hadn’t reached him, or like he was holding something volatile just beneath the surface. Then, without a word, he turned. 

Crossed to the far side of the room.

Stopped in front of a storage locker.

And drove his fist into it.

The metal folded in with a muffled crunch, like bones breaking underwater.

Everyone flinched.

Another blow. Then a third. Each louder than the last. They echoed off the walls like a heartbeat gone wrong—off-kilter, accelerating.

It wasn’t rage. Not the kind that flared hot and burned out fast. This was quieter. A fury measured and precise, the kind that demanded exorcism. And Minho drove each blow like he was trying to purge it from his bones before it got the chance to hollow him out.

He finally stepped back, chest heaving, fists raw and blooming red. He stared at the mangled locker, like it hadn’t given enough.

Winston let out a low whistle. “Shuck, man.”

Newt approached slowly, voice low. “Feel better now?”

Minho didn’t look at him. “I’m good.”

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

Newt watched as Minho started pacing—tight, relentless loops with no escape valve, like he was trying to outwalk himself. Then, without warning, he dropped to the floor and launched into push-ups, fast and punishing. Shoulders trembling, elbows locked. Each repetition a silent scream.

The others muttered among themselves, uneasy, unsure what to make of it. But Newt understood. He really did.

Back in the Glade, Minho had the Maze. Miles of stone corridors to burn through rage and fear. He could run until it emptied out of him. Out there, motion had purpose. But here? Here there was no distance to chase. No fight to throw himself into. Just a body still built for endurance, a heart trained for pressure—and nowhere to put any of it.

Minho needed to move. To push. To sweat. Because the alternative was stillness. And stillness meant thinking. Remembering. Feeling.

And Newt knew better than most what that could do to a person.

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, then lowered himself beside Minho. Trying to speak Minho’s language, to say I’m here, we’re in this together, without forcing it into clumsy syllables.

He started into sit-ups—slower, steadier. More about staying grounded than escape. A way to remind his body it still had weight, that he was still in it. Each motion lit up the muscle, dull burn trailing behind every lift. But it helped. Pain had edges. It gave shape to the blur.

Minho didn’t acknowledge him. Didn’t count reps. Just kept pushing.

Newt stayed anyway.

For a long while, the only sound was breath—harsh, rhythmic, human. The others had drifted away. Some quiet, some not. Whether it was out of discomfort or respect, Newt didn’t know. Didn’t care.

He wasn’t here for them.

He was here for Minho. For himself. For the ache that couldn’t be solved, only shared.

Then Minho spoke—low and hoarse, like the words had been fermenting too long in his chest.

   “It’s my fault.”

Newt paused mid–sit-up, then resumed. He didn’t answer. Minho wasn’t asking for one.

   “Not just Gally,” he said. “Chuck, too.”

Newt’s breath hitched. Still, Minho pressed on.

   “His blood’s on my hands.”

His movements didn’t falter. If anything, they sharpened—like he could undo it somehow. Each push was a plea to the past, a desperate bid to rewind time. As if effort could bargain with death and earn him a different ending.

   “If I’d been quicker… just a few seconds… maybe Chuck would still be here. Sitting on one of those bunks. Laughing. Eating three miserable breakfasts like a shuck idiot.”

Newt paused, turning to look at Minho. He looked broken in a way Newt had never seen before—like something essential had cracked beneath the surface. It made his chest tighten, his eyes sting.

 “You can’t keep blaming yourself,” he said quietly.

Minho let out a short, sharp laugh—but there was no humour in it. Just something jagged and hollow lodged in his throat.

 “Yeah. Good one.”

His arms finally gave out. He collapsed onto his side, breath heaving in ragged pulls, one arm flung over his face like it could block out the ceiling. Or the world.

Newt watched him. The tremble in Minho’s shoulders came more from grief now than effort. His knuckles were raw, sweat streaking across skin gone pale.

He looked like something cracked and hastily patched, seconds from breaking again.

Newt recognised it—because he’d been there, too.

 “You did everything you could,” he said, even softer now.

   “That’s the problem,” Minho said. “I don’t think I did.”

Notes:

I don’t know how it happened, but this chapter just refused to end. No matter how much I wrote, it never felt quite right. Every time I thought I was done, I’d spot new flaws—too much dialogue, not enough depth, pacing that felt off. One moment I worried I was letting the characters ramble; the next, I felt I hadn’t given them enough room to breathe. In the end, it became the longest chapter so far… even though it barely moves the plot forward. So, thank you for your patience, and I hope you’ll forgive the indulgence.

Chapter 12

   Newt paced the narrow stretch of floor, each step small and tight, as if too much weight might crack the ground beneath him. His brow was drawn, jaw locked, shoulders rigid with a tension that had long since settled into his bones. He kept his back to the vent—pointedly, stubbornly—as if sheer refusal to look might summon Thomas faster.

The minutes dragged—cruel, cavernous things. Time swelled, thick and airless, until it felt like trying to breathe through wet cloth.

Then—maybe an hour after Thomas and Aris had vanished—noise. A sudden, frantic scraping from beneath the bed.

Newt whirled around just as the vent panel blasted free with a piercing screech, skidding across the floor like a hurled blade.

Thomas spilt out in a tangle of limbs, gasping like a man who’d dragged himself up from the grave. His shirt was soaked through, plastered to his spine. Hair matted to his forehead. Eyes wild.

   “Thomas!” Minho was on his feet in an instant.

Around them, the others jolted, voices rising in a ripple of alarm and confusion. But Thomas didn’t pause. Didn’t speak. His gaze swept the room in sharp, jittery arcs—then he bolted. Straight for the door.

   “We gotta go,” he rasped, shoving past Minho with enough force to stagger him.  “We gotta go right now.”

Newt stepped into his path, arm half-raised, the word already catching in his throat. “What—?”

But Thomas barreled past without so much as a glance. Brushed him aside like he wasn’t even there.

   “We gotta go,” was all he said—over and over, like the words were stuck on a loop, the only thing left in him.

   “What the hell are you talking about?” Minho snapped, falling in behind him.

   “What do you mean, ‘we gotta go’?” Newt demanded, his voice climbing with his pulse. But Thomas wasn’t hearing them. Wasn’t seeing them at all.   

He dove at one of the beds, tore the sheet free in one frantic motion, then sprinted back to the door. His hands trembled as he wrapped the fabric around the handle—fast, rough, desperate. Looping it tight.

Only then did Newt understand.

He was trying to barricade them in.

   “They’re coming,” Thomas choked out. “Come on—we gotta go —they’re coming for us!”

   “What happened out there?” Winston asked, his voice pitched too high, brittle with alarm.

   “Aris—what happened?” Frypan shouted.

Only then did Newt notice the other boy, who stood motionless beside the bunk, having crawled out from underneath in the meantime, unnoticed. Eyes fixed to the floor. Silent.

Newt’s attention snapped back to Thomas, who was still knotting the sheet with desperate urgency, as if his life depended on it; fingers moving quick, breath coming quicker.

   “Thomas,” Newt said, stepping forward carefully, trying to catch his friend’s scattered focus. “Can you just calm down and talk to us?”

Thomas froze.

He stood panting, fingers twitching against the knot he’d just tied.

   “She’s still alive,” he said.

   “Who’s ‘she’?” Frypan asked, confusion threading his voice. “Teresa?”

Thomas shook his head, then yanked the final knot tight with a sharp, vicious tug—as though saying the name hurt him.

   “Ava,” he whispered, voice unsteady, fractured.

Newt blinked. The name stirred something faintly familiar.

   “Ava?” he echoed, disoriented. “Just—bloody hell, Thomas, will you just turn around and talk to us?”

And Thomas did.

He whirled suddenly, bloodshot eyes finding Newt’s, locking with a fierce intensity that stole his breath. In that wild, haunted gaze, Newt saw the raw edge of fear—pure and undeniable—but beneath it, something darker simmered. Fury. Guilt. Shadows tangled with pain; the kind of look that carried ghosts.

   “It’s WICKED!” Thomas blurted.

The room fell utterly still.

   “It’s still WICKED,” he said again, softer now—not a shout, but an admission. “It’s always been WICKED.”

Then he stumbled back, as if the words had drained something from him. He tore the mattress off the bed and dragged it to the door, bracing it like it could hold back whatever Thomas feared was coming.

Newt watched, numb, but beneath it all, he already knew the truth in Thomas’ words. Knew it in his bones. Felt it in every sterile breath of this place, in every test disguised as kindness.

Thomas slumped forward, pressing his hands and forehead against the mattress, his breath shallow and ragged. Newt moved in slowly, until he stood right behind him.

He placed a hand on the mattress just above Thomas’ shoulder, needing the support—needing it to hold himself back, to resist the pull, the desperate urge to press against Thomas, to dissolve into him.

He leaned in as close as he dared—close enough to feel the heat radiating from Thomas’ skin, close enough to catch the faint tremble running through him.

   “Thomas.”

Thomas remained hunched, suspended between collapse and defiance. His fingers dug into the mattress, clutching the fabric as if it were his last anchor. They were so close that Newt could see the sweat beading on his forehead, glistening like drops of morning dew.

Newt edged closer still, nearly trapping him within his own frame, battling the surge of panic rising inside him. He reached for Thomas with quiet, desperate urgency, trying to smother his own fear with steady calm—to radiate reason, and whatever strength it took to break through and make Thomas speak.

Finally, Thomas turned his head—slowly—and his eyes flicked over Newt’s face, settling on his gaze once more. There was regret there, yes, but beneath it something quieter, more fragile—an unguarded hesitation, a silent surrender only Newt could see. It was the look of someone who knows they’re seen, but still can’t quite let down the walls.

For a heartbeat, their eyes held each other in a fragile stillness, an unspoken understanding hanging between them.

Newt swallowed hard, throat tight. He wetted his lips with a quick flick of his tongue before asking, soft but emphatically,

   “What did you see?”

---

   Janson sat over the latest degeneration metrics, methodically cross-referencing blood toxicity curves against neural decay rates when an unwelcome interruption pulled him from the edge of his focus.

   “Sir,” came a voice from behind—nasal, hesitant. “Message just came through. Chancellor Paige is requesting a direct connection.”

He didn’t bother looking up. That grating, overeager tone belonged to Keller, his assistant—half clipboard, half spineless worm, with the unfortunate knack for stating the obvious like it was classified intel. 

Janson exhaled sharply through his nose. Not quite a sigh—he didn’t waste breath on sentiment. More like the controlled vent of a pressure valve that had no patience for weak links or needless interruptions.

   “You sure this can’t wait?” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen. Rows of cold data pulsed in monochrome: platelets collapsing, synapses misfiring, cells folding in on themselves like machinery shorting out under strain.

Keller hovered like a nervous rodent, hesitating before darting in. “She was very specific, sir. Wants to speak with you directly.”

   Of course she does.

Janson was an important man. Or so he liked to believe.

He straightened—slow, deliberate—making sure Keller understood just how unwelcome the interruption was, and exactly who he held responsible. His jaw locked, the tension tracing down his neck like a length of pulled wire.

   “As if I don’t have enough to deal with,” he muttered to no one in particular. That little shit—Subject A2, Thomas —allegedly brilliant, handpicked for his cognitive aptitude, billed as an elite candidate. Exceptional brightness, they said. Yet somehow, always three steps behind. Then there was the girl—naive, but at least compliant. No threat to the cause.

And Alexander, of course. A walking instability. A lingering mistake. The cost of a promise he should never have made.

Janson brushed past Keller without contact, ignoring the man’s hurried shuffle as he scrambled to keep up. The soft squeak of his shoes trailing Janson’s more decisive steps as they entered the lab.

The stink hit immediately—sterile chemical tang failing to mask the underlying rot. 

Rows of Cranks—slack-jawed, discoloured, half-human husks—hung like grotesque ornaments from the ceiling, suspended by a tangle of cables and nutrient lines. Their limbs jerked now and then in twitchy, involuntary spasms as the prototype cocktail coursed through their veins. Blood rich with post-Maze hormonal residue. WICKED’s latest grail.

Or illusion.

   “The feed’s lagging,” Keller frowned, tapping the interface with all the confidence of a man defusing a bomb with a butter knife. “Bear with me. There’s interference from the storm.”

   “It’s good enough. Just make the connection.” Janson’s patience was thin—he hated delays, hated storms even more. And above all, he hated Ava Paige.

He studied one of the twitching Cranks—a young woman, once, maybe nineteen. The infection had ravaged her face beyond recognition. Black veins spiderwebbed beneath her skin, twisting features out of shape. What remained looked half-melted, as if the disease was eating her from within. Flesh like wax, streaked with rot, stretched thin over a skull frozen in a silent scream.

The latest report called it promising. Nothing transformative yet. Just prolonged suffering. 

The holoscreen flickered to life—twelve feet wide, glowing despite the static crawling along its edges.

There she was. Ava Paige, seated behind her immaculate desk, framed by the sharp angles of WICKED headquarters. Silver-blonde hair perfectly sculpted.  Lips painted a deliberate, surgical red. Serene, as always. Like the world wasn’t falling apart under her watch.

   “Good evening, Doctor Paige,” Janson said, forcing his tone into something that resembled civility.  “Lovely to see you again. Though I must admit... I wasn’t expecting to hear from you quite so soon.”

She rose and stepped around her desk, never still—something Janson hated most about her. That restless, purposeful grace, like she was always one step ahead.

   “Change of plans, Janson,” she said. “I’ll be arriving earlier than expected. First thing tomorrow.”

Janson forced a thin, hollow smile—one that never reached his eyes.

   “We’ll be delighted to have you. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the progress we’ve made.”

With a flick, he summoned the biometric data on the holoscreen—spiking brain activity, neurotransmitter patterns, vital signs. He zoomed in on one of the subject Cranks, highlighting the neural stabilisation markers from the latest injection cycle.

   “As you can see, the early results are extremely promising. Whatever it is you’ve been doing to them in there...” His voice carried a thin slice of sarcasm. “It’s working.”

Paige squinted at the data, unimpressed. “Not well enough.”

   Of course not.

   “We need to up the ante. I just received board approval,” she said, voice clipped. “The beta subjects are being readied for a test run of Phase Two. I want all remaining candidates sedated and cleared for transfer before I arrive.”

   “Transfer?”

   “To Denver,” she replied without looking up, eyes fixed on the scrolling data. “If the betas react positively, I want to start elite trials immediately. No time to waste. I won’t risk another breach. Until security is airtight, this is the only way forward.”

   “Ma’am, security is my job,” he said, voice tight. “We’re on twenty-four-hour lockdown here. I assure you—the assets are secure.”

   “Have you located the Right Arm?” she asked, almost casually—but Janson wasn’t that easily deceived. That tone of hers always came right before she tightened the noose.

His nostrils flared. “Not yet. We tracked them to the mountain range, but the stormfront—”

   “So they’re still out there,” she cut in, voice hardening. “They’ve already hit two of our sites. Took more than half of Group B. They want these kids as badly as we do. And I cannot—”

She stepped closer to the screen, the glow casting hard lines across her face.

   “—I cannot afford another loss. Not now, when I’m this close to a cure.”

Janson looked away. He hated her most in moments like this—when she didn’t even bother to pretend he was a partner. Just a cog in the machine. A blunt instrument to be wielded, not trusted. Disposable.

   “If you can’t handle this,” she said, already turning her back to him, “I’ll find someone who can.”

He forced a breath through his nose. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, smoothing the edge from his voice, sanding it down to something calm, capable—obedient.

She gave him a long, unreadable look before settling back into her chair. Then she turned to the papers on her desk, like he’d already ceased to matter. Like she was done with him—and whatever came next didn’t involve him at all.

   “How do you want me to proceed?” he asked, the question hollow, more formality than interest.

She didn’t answer right away. Just sorted through files like he wasn’t even there.

   “Proceed according to plan,” she said at last. “Give them the briefing. Read the list. Get them to cooperate.”

The call, for her, was already over. He could tell. So Janson turned to leave, already pushing her from his mind, already shifting back to the real work—the kind that didn’t waste time on inadequate beta subjects or simulators bound to fail just like the Mazes had. He never understood why they didn’t use their resources more wisely. Why the endless tests and variables, when they could simply harvest the available Munies? The serum wasn’t perfect, sure—but it curbed symptoms, slowed the rot. It worked well enough. Ava was a dreamer. Delusional. Always had been.

   “Janson.”

He stopped.

She was looking at him again. Not with contempt. Something worse. Something almost gentle. Compassion, maybe. The kind that sickened him.

   “I don’t want them to feel any pain.”

Silence pooled in the space between them. Even the Cranks seemed to go still.

Janson’s lips barely moved.

   “They won’t feel a thing.”

He turned again and walked out, leaving Keller behind like an afterthought as the holoscreen fizzled out in a burst of static and light.

Notes:

Okay, so if this chapter feels a bit weird it's because the first part actually wraps up the last chapter. I chose to split it this way, though, because I wanted to give Minho his moment and really emphasise his guilt without rushing it.

This fic has been told entirely from Newt's POV so far, but I’ve been writing a secret second POV all along, which will eventually weave into this one (you’ll meet the second POV character in the next chapter—just bear with me!). Janson’s POV wasn’t originally planned at all, but while revising this chapter, I realised I somehow needed a way to show what Thomas and Aris saw since it deviates from the scene you might remember from the movie and I really didn’t want to just have Thomas dump it all in a boring recap.

I’m still working on reconciling the books and movies, and in my version, the multiple Maze groups have been cut—there’s only Group A and Group B—so no kids hanging from ceilings being harvested (yikes). That said, I’ve considered what Thomas and Aris might encounter in that scene instead, something that leaves a similar impression on them, and imagined Cranks being used for experiments. It carries the same unsettling vibe and fits WICKED’s methods. (After all, all the blood drawn from the Gladers has to be put to some use, right?)

Also, in the movie, there's that moment where Thomas mistakes a girl for Teresa, and Aris identifies her as Rachel. That doesn’t happen in my canon either, because obviously Rachel was killed by Beth, which is actually a key part of Aris’ arc. (We’ll get there!)

For now, thanks for sticking with me despite the slower updates. (I'm so sorry, my brain is all over the place right now, and I keep jumping between five different WIPs. If anyone has a method for staying focused on one story instead of coming up with three new ideas a day, please let me know. I'm begging.)

Chapter 13

   Pure pain tore through his left side. Frost and needles crawled through him, colder than ice, colder than anything that should exist inside a living body. His sense of self drifted, untethered; the world tilted on its axis, spinning in slow, nauseous arcs. The ceiling, the walls, the lights—all of it smeared together in a smear of colourless glare, as if someone had dragged a brush through wet paint and erased the edges of reality. When he hit the ground, glass bit into his temple, but the pain didn’t follow. He could see the shards glittering in the corner of his vision—razored flecks catching the light—but his skin had forgotten what it meant to hurt. Only the spear remained. It rose from his chest like some obscene flag planted in the ruins of a conquered city. He should be dead. He deserved to be dead. He was dying, yes—but drawn out, measured, without the grace of speed or the dignity of mercy.

   “Thomas…”

Chuck’s voice—barely a voice at all, thinned to a trembling thread that seemed to hum against the walls. Gally’s eyes flickered. Vision bled into static, broken frames skipping and stuttering. Somewhere nearby, something—someone—hit the floor. Not Thomas. He’d missed. Of course he’d missed. His aim never found the mark when it mattered most. The scream clawed at his throat, desperate, rabid, but when he tried to loose it, all that escaped was silence. It was the silence of suffocation, thick enough to choke on, pressing against him from the inside. He was locked inside himself, rattling uselessly at the bars. A marionette whose strings had been cut, limbs dangling, useless.

   “Chuck.” The Greenie’s voice cracked like something brittle snapping. “Look at me. Chuck, look at me, all right?”

No, no, no. Not Chuck. Not the kid with the round cheeks and stupid, stubborn grin.

His palms still felt the gun’s weight—its cold bite settling into his bones, a metal truth too heavy to throw away. His finger on the trigger—not his finger. His arm steadying the aim—not his arm. He hadn’t done it. He had done it. The thought circled endlessly, gnawing, splintering into fragments of denial and confession.

What had he done?

The shadows closed in on him, curling at the edges of his vision. They pulsed there, black and impatient, promising release but withholding it, taunting him with the slow, unbearable persistence of consciousness. He could not close his eyes. The world would not allow it. It held his lids open and forced him to witness the moment.

   “Hang on, Chuck. I got you, buddy. Just hang on.”

    Shut up, Thomas. Gally spat the words inside his head, shaping them with a throat that refused to obey. They burned away before reaching his teeth, fizzled into nothing but the taste of blood—thick, metallic, regret made liquid.

   “Thomas…”

   “No, Chuck, don’t—you’re gonna give it to them yourself. You hear me?”

   “Thank you.”

Thank you. 

The words were so quiet, so absurd, they cut deeper than the spear. Thank you. The boy thanked Thomas, as if anything here deserved gratitude. Gally’s heart lurched against his ribs, beating in a frenzy, a caged thing desperate to flee the wreckage of its own body.

   “No, Chuck, you’re gonna get—”

This was Thomas’ fault. All of it. They never should have left the Maze.

   “Hey, Chuck, come on!” Thomas’ voice broke wide open, spilling into the chamber, shaking with that raw edge of grief that made people weak. “Come on! Wake up! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! God damn it! Damn it! Someone get help!”

Thomas’ sobs hollowed the air. Good. Let him choke on them. Let them fill his lungs until he drowned a hundred times over. It still wouldn’t undo the truth—Gally had done it. He’d killed the boy. Killed Chuck. The air around him warped; the voices twisted and stretched like sound passing through water, snapping back in cruel waves.

The woman stepped forward—WICKED’s phantom in human form. Her composure was a crime in itself. When she spoke, her voice came with the sharp edge of a scalpel, polished in false kindness.

   “All things happen for a purpose.”

He hated her for saying it, hated her more than he hated the Greenie. Almost more than himself. His mind screamed for movement, for anything—one finger twitch, an arm dragging him forward—but his body had already abandoned him, left him to rot in the ruin he’d made. Minho should’ve aimed better. Should’ve ended it clean.

    Aim for my heart next time, slinthead.  

The doors burst open with a sound like a gunshot. Boots slammed against the floor, shadows streaking past him, some flickering over his face, some crushing glass beside his head. A sharp crack. He almost felt it. Gunfire spat metal and sparks across the floor, each impact too far from mercy. The spear held him fast, pinning him to life just long enough to drown by degrees.

   “We don’t have time to explain,” a voice barked from somewhere. “Just follow me and run like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

   “Thomas!” Newt’s voice, bright in urgency. Always calling for his precious Greenie. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. Always Thomas.

Gally’s lips twitched with the shadow of a spit, but the only thing that spilled out was blood. Thomas clung to Chuck until they pried the boy’s small frame from his arms. Then they were gone. All of them. Leaving him with the glass and the dust and the too-still eyes of a dead boy, staring at nothing.

A tear slipped from the corner of Gally’s eye. It slid through grit and blood and glass, stinging sharper than the spear. The spear only pulsed—a slow, wet heartbeat as blood leaked too sluggishly to matter. He could feel it filling places it shouldn’t, turning each breath into a shallow drowning.

Maybe he could stop fighting it.

Maybe.

But his heart kept hammering on, a stubborn, hateful thing that refused to give him the one mercy he begged for. He was dying, yes—but not nearly enough.

When would it be over?

---

   He couldn’t tell if it had been minutes or days—whole, yawning days that collapsed into a single, ceaseless torment, time itself warped by the weight of it. It didn’t matter. He was still here. Still breathing. Still nailed to this world by the cursed length of wood and steel speared through his chest. Every pulse was a slap, a cruel reminder that death had not yet taken him.

The voices arrived like smoke—thin at first, curling in from nowhere, then thickening into sharper edges. Footsteps joined them. Boots scuffing over linoleum. The wet squelch of something dragged through blood. The sounds crawled into his skull and stayed there. He wanted to lift his head, but the thought slid straight through him, too weak to take root.

Shapes drifted above, passing through the haze that clung to his sight—black silhouettes carving slices through the light. They didn’t move like people. They moved like shadows with voices.

   “What a mess,” one of them said—a man’s voice, flat with boredom, brushing up against amusement.

   “I heard they volunteered for this.”

The word hit him like a bad taste. Volunteered. It lodged behind his teeth, bitter as bile. He wanted to laugh. But his mouth hung open, slack and useless. His tongue lay heavy and dumb.

They weren’t talking about him. They meant the others—the dead ones. WICKED’s people. Those who had bled out while he hadn’t. Not yet.

   “They must be poor souls doing this.”

   “All for the greater good. Probably another trial. Not like anyone tells us anything.”

    For the greater good. The phrase rattled inside his skull, sharp as the glass he didn’t feel biting into his cheek. He wanted to scream it back at them until the words tore their ears open. Those four words were the reason Chuck was dead. The reason his lungs were slowly filling with blood while strangers stood here weighing the worth of his last breaths.

Boots came closer, one stopping so near he could feel its heat bleeding into his ribs.

   “Leave the bodies. This place’ll be overrun by Cranks soon anyway.”

     Cranks.

He’d no idea what that meant. 

   “I don’t think they’re roaming this far out in the Scorch,” another said. “They’re not freaking zombies. They may not feel the burns, but they still need food and water like the rest of us.”

Their bickering swarmed above him like flies. He tried to shut it out, but there was nothing else to hear. Even his own thoughts had been scraped down to bone, hollowed by exhaustion and the sucking hole in his chest.

   “Shut up, Gus. Less talking, more work.”

The voice was rougher. Orders. The footsteps multiplied. Boots circled. They came into focus for a heartbeat—black uniforms, masks dangling from belts, pouches clinking with metal tools. Vultures in human skin.

One crouched over Chuck’s body.

   Don’t touch him.

The words screamed in Gally’s skull but never crossed his lips. His jaw stayed slack. His eyes flicked, the only movement left in him, from the boy’s pale face to the gloved hands digging through the space around him.

   “This one couldn’t have been twelve yet.”

   “Collateral?”

   “Probably.”

A new shadow dropped into his vision, leaning over him. 

   “What about him?”

   “Shit, I think that one's still breathing.”

   “Munie?”

A gloved hand pressed into his shoulder—white-hot pain burst through him, real enough to pull a strangled sound from his throat. His eyes rolled, searching for the man’s face, but the view slid away. Something cold against the back of his neck. A click. A beep.

   “A9. Munie,” the man said.

   “So what, we take him with us?”

The hand lifted. Gally’s head lolled sideways. The spear shifted inside him and panic ripped through his body—feral, desperate.

   “Let’s wait until Piper and the others get here with the remaining subjects.”

Fingers gripped the spear.

The twist was agony, red blooming under his ribs. If he could move, he would have thrashed, bitten, clawed—but he was nothing more than a slab of meat, helpless under their hands.

   “Hey, that’ll kill him!” someone snapped.

    Good, his mind whispered. Do it.

   “What? You want that thing to stay in there?”

   “At least with it in, he won’t bleed out. Pull it and he’s done before we reach the Berg.”

They argued about his death like it was an equipment failure. He would have laughed if the sound hadn’t drowned in the blood sloshing in his lungs.

A sharp snap, a grunt. They broke the shaft, leaving a jagged stub jutting from his chest—hot and cold at once. His lungs squeezed around it, every breath bubbling wet. The insignia stitched on their uniforms caught the light: WICKED’s mark, grey on black.

More boots. Another voice. Female this time, crisp, deliberate—Piper, probably.

   “What is this?”

   “Munie, Miss. Still breathing.”

   “Good. We take him. The more the better.”

   “Janson will be pleased.”

   “No. These aren’t for Janson. They’re going straight to headquarters in Denver.”

Denver. Headquarters. The words collapsed into each other, meaning nothing to Gally.

   “Why is that?”

  “Not that it’s your concern, Gus, but there’s a new method on trial. They say it’s more effective than the Maze. Paige wants the beta subjects run through it first—before they throw the survivors in.”

His life had never been his own. The Creators—no, WICKED—had claimed his hands, his mind, even his death. And now, they wanted what little was left; the scraps of his soul.

   “Whatever it takes to get me that cure, man. Whatever it takes.”

A grunt of agreement.

Hands lifted him, cold metal slid under his back. The stretcher tilted him and the ceiling spun. For one blink-long moment, the haze cleared and he saw them—faces he knew. Gladers. His brothers. The ones who had stayed behind, who hadn’t run with Thomas.

They stared at him with hollow eyes. None of them spoke. Not one reached for him.

They carried him away—away from Chuck’s small shape, away from the glitter of broken glass, away from the grave he’d hoped to have.

---

   He surfaced through the haze like something drowning, lungs dragging in a breath he didn’t remember asking for. Light hit him—violent, intrusive, raw against the backs of his eyelids. He tried to open them, but the brightness stabbed straight into his skull, forcing them halfway shut. His whole body jolted, bounced, as if being carried—hands gripping him, steady but unkind. Somewhere below his ribs, pain twisted. Darkness rushed in again, and he let it. At least in the dark, he didn’t have to feel.

The next time he woke, the light was back—this time harsher, closer. A bulb burned above him, white and merciless. Not the sun. It couldn’t be the sun, shining from no more than a meter away. Even with his eyes clamped shut, its ghost-image floated behind his lids, a pale disc hovering in the black.

Voices drifted around him, threaded too thin to follow. He strained for words but caught only the shape of them, the rise and fall of syllables like water lapping just out of reach. Then came the click and clink of metal—small, deliberate sounds, as if someone was laying tools in a row. A scalpel. A mirror-ended rod. The images swam up from somewhere in his memory, blurring together with the light above him into one conclusion.

He’d been taken to a hospital. A hospital?  

The word didn’t fit here, but it stuck anyway.

A shadow cut across the bulb. He forced his eyes open. A figure loomed above, dressed in something absurd—layers of pale-green suit, heavy gloves, a mask with thick round goggles. Behind the glass lenses, two dark eyes locked on him. A woman’s eyes. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

   “Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice smothered by the mask but unmistakably female.

He tried to nod. His head might have moved, or maybe it only felt like it.

   “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her gaze slid away, as though she hadn’t meant for him to hear it.

A man’s voice answered from somewhere past the glare. “Just get on with it. We have to send him back. Paige wants him in quarantine as soon as possible.”

The words made no sense. Send him back? Quarantine? He had no time to untangle them before pain bloomed in his left side—sharp, invasive, tearing through him with no warning. He gasped—or thought he did—and the dark swallowed him again.

---

   When he came to, something was wrong. Not with the light—it was the same, fixed above him like an artificial sun—but with the air itself. Stillness pressed down on him. He turned his head this time instead of shutting his eyes.

The ceiling above was a patchwork of silvered tiles. Machines crouched at the edges of his vision, their faces littered with dials, switches, and blank monitors. None of it made sense.

Then he realised.

No pain.

Not in his chest, not in his ribs, not anywhere. His body lay quiet, almost weightless, as if the spear had never been there. The absence of agony was dizzying, intoxicating—so alien it nearly frightened him.

No people in sight. No green suits. No goggles peering down. No gloved hands pressing scalpels into him. Just him, the light, the stillness.

He hadn’t known it was possible to feel this good.

It wasn’t. Had to be a drug.

He let his head sink back and closed his eyes. The darkness folded over him like warm water, and he drifted away.

---

   He awoke into brightness so complete it seemed to burn through his eyelids. For a moment, there was no up or down, no sense of distance—only a field of pure white, seamless and infinite. No shadows. No corners. No relief for the eye to catch on.

Panic flickered sharp in his chest, but then dulled into something almost drowsy. A dream, he told himself. It had to be. Too strange to be real, too empty to belong to the waking world. And yet he could feel—really feel—the soft drag of his fingers across his skin, the slow, damp heat of sweat on his neck. He could hear his own breath, unsteady and small in the void.

He sat bolt upright, and the world snapped into shape. White walls. White ceiling. White floor.

The ground under him had the strangest give—smooth, unbroken, but with a faint spring to it, like standing on something that pretended to be soft. The walls were padded, the cushions broken by neat, deep indentations the size of his fist, each set four feet apart in rigid lines. Light bled down from a single rectangle high in the ceiling, too far to touch, too bright to stare into. The air smelled of ammonia and soap—clean in the way sickness is clean, scrubbed and sterile until it has no life left in it.

He looked down and found no colour on himself, either. His shirt, his pants, his socks—plain white, identical to the walls. 

Then his eyes found the desk.

Brown. Wood. Scarred and scratched and old, it sat alone about a dozen feet away, the only imperfection in the room. A wooden chair slouched into the gap on the far side, its back turned toward the padded door beyond it. Even the door matched the walls, the same buttoned indentations pressing into its surface.

He should have stood. Should have screamed. Should have hurled himself against that door until something—someone—answered. But none of that came.

Instead, a slow calm seeped into him, unnatural and heavy, as if someone had poured it down his throat. He knew the door wouldn’t open. He knew no one was coming. The understanding didn’t frighten him—it simply settled in, a truth so certain it didn’t need testing.

It was the Box all over again.

Notes:

Sorry for putting you through this. Again.

Chapter 14

Notes:

I’m not sure how it happened, but this chapter ended up being three times the length of the average chapter in this fic ... and I feel the need to apologise in advance. There are probably a ton of typos, and I always worry that the longer a chapter gets, the sloppier and more repetitive my writing becomes. Still, I hope you enjoy it!

   Thomas’ barricade didn't hold.

It never stood a chance.

The handle jerked under a savage grip, metal warping as if it might snap. A single shove slammed the door inward—hinges shrieking, frame groaning in protest. The mattress toppled, useless, thudding to the floor.

A blade flashed, shearing through the sheet with a tearing cry that shredded the room’s fragile illusion of safety. Janson’s men poured in, boots thudding a relentless rhythm—each step matching the hammer of Newt’s pulse.

The Gladers recoiled as one, instinct driving them toward the farthest shadows.

Thomas began to move with them—but stopped, planting himself between the Gladers and the intruders, a living barricade of squared shoulders. His breath came jagged and uneven. Newt remained beside him, feeling the jitter ripple through Thomas like electricity. Shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on the breach, they were trapped in a silence thick enough to choke, their fear mingling with every strained inhale.

Then Janson entered the room.

He moved like he was entitled to the air itself, chin angled high, pace deliberate, every footfall a quiet act of conquest.

   “What’s going on here?” His voice was low, edged with barely contained irritation. “What does this mean?”

His gaze swept the room in a slow, deliberate arc, predator’s patience in every inch. It found Aris first—the only one who hadn’t moved, still rooted at the bedside, hollow-eyed, carved from stone—before finally locking on Thomas.

Newt’s arm shot out before thought could form, hand closing around Thomas’ forearm, fingers pressing into lean muscle. A tether. A warning. Don’t move. Don’t act rash.

Thomas flinched at the contact—barely—but Newt felt it all the same.

Felt it in the surge of Thomas’ pulse beneath his grip, in the faint twitch of a tendon at his wrist. And he felt, too, the memory of his own fingers leaving bruises not long ago—marks unseen since, yet perhaps still ghosting beneath Thomas’ sleeves. The thought lodged under his ribs. He eased his grip slightly, but didn’t dare let go. Not with Janson this close.

Janson stepped into their space, so near that Newt caught the sharp tang of aftershave under the stale, recycled air, traced the uneven scatter of grey stubble along his jaw.

   “Care to explain?” the man asked, his voice deceptively calm, each word edged with the brittle, unpredictable tension of ice beginning to crack.

   “I’d say you’re the one with explaining to do.” Thomas’ tone stayed steady, but Newt felt the tremor running through him—a constant vibration under skin and muscle, the steady thud of his heartbeat against Newt’s palm.

   “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

   “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Janson replied, rocking back on his heels just enough to mimic casual ease.

   “Oh, looks like we’re not the only ones with memory lapses,” Thomas said. His voice carried mockery, but it was thin, stretched over something brittle—just enough for Newt to hear the crack beneath, like a hairline fracture. “Maybe you should ask your friends from WICKED. They might help you out there.”

For a split second, Janson’s composure slipped—a twitch at the mouth, a quick, assessing glance across the room, tallying faces. Then the smile returned, too smooth, too bright.

He stepped back, claiming the centre of the room like it was a stage, breathing deep before letting it spill out in a long, irritated sigh.

   “It’s true,” he said, arms spreading wide. “I represent a group called WICKED.” His voice slid into that clinical lilt that made Newt’s skin crawl. “But let me explain. The Maze was part of the Trials. Every Variable served a purpose. Your escape, the Grievers, the girl Rachel’s death, Chuck—”

Newt’s focus stayed on Thomas. He caught the slight tightening at the hinge of his jaw when Chuck’s name was spoken, saw his fists curl slowly until the knuckles stood out white. The air between them seemed to charge. Without thinking, Newt shifted his grip—from forearm to the solid curve of his bicep. Less warning now, more anchor. Heat and tension radiated through the muscle beneath his palm, sending his own pulse spiking, but he kept hold until the worst of the moment passed.

   “—none of it without value,” Janson went on, “none of it without reason. Even your rescue. Even your encounters with the infected outside this facility. Phase One of the Trials, all of it.”

   “What about the Creators?” Minho cut in, his voice roughened with disbelief. “You gunned them down. We all saw it—your own people.”

   “All part of the Trials,” Janson said, not a breath of remorse in his tone. “We’re short on what we need, so we’ve had to raise the stakes. Those in the final act of the Maze Trial volunteered. They were infected, their lives already over. Their sacrifice will serve the greater good.”

   “None of us volunteered,” Newt snapped before he could stop himself. Beside him, Thomas shifted—a restless, agitated twitch—and Newt’s arm fell away. The loss was instant, heat replaced by an emptiness that hollowed him out, as if he’d stepped back from a fire.

   “Just spit it,” Thomas demanded. “What is it you want from us? The truth this time.”

Janson’s smile thinned. “That’s why I’m here. I told you already we’d tell you everything. And now—well, sooner than planned—it’s time. If it were up to me, things would be different now, but alas, we’ve a few things to cover before we remove the Swipe.”

The words dropped into the room like a spark in dry grass, and the quiet caught.

    Remove the Swipe.

For a heartbeat, the phrase was nothing to Newt—just a shape in the air. Then the meaning settled, and dread followed, slow and colder than the loss of Thomas’ warmth, seeping deep into his marrow. Around him, the others tensed; he caught the quiet shifts of breath, the faint rasp of cloth against the far wall.

   “That’s right,” Janson said, with the satisfaction of someone revealing a secret they’d been savouring. “You’re about to get all your memories back. Every last one of them.”

  My memories. 

Three days ago, he might still have wanted this—might have wanted to know who he’d been before the Maze, to fit the scattered pieces into something whole, something worth remembering. Now the thought scared him. The past wasn’t a prize; it was a grave.

Somewhere in those missing years lay the answer to why Thomas had felt familiar from the moment they met. But all the sleepless nights Newt had spent wondering who they might have been to each other suddenly seemed distant, stripped of meaning. Because the boy beside him—the boy he loved—was already marked by the world’s rot. They both were. Whatever they’d been before, they were broken in ways memory couldn’t mend.

And then there was Teresa.

Newt had no illusions about the depth of Thomas’ bond with her. No revelation of the past would undo it; if anything, it would only fortify what Newt could never compete with.

The Swipe, for all its cruelty, had become a shield. Behind it, he could keep this impossible thing he felt—this quiet, unspoken love—safe from the poison of whatever truth waited in the past. If the Swipe went, so would that fragile refuge.

And if it turned out they had once shared a history, it would be nothing more than a dead weight—dragging him back into something already half-lost to the tide. Removing the Swipe now would only complicate things between them, making their friendship tenuous. And Newt couldn’t bear to watch it tear.

Janson’s throat cleared, the sound closing on Newt’s thoughts with the merciless snap of a trap on bone, tearing him out of his mind.

   “You’ve all seen the images of the world’s state, of the Flare,” he said, voice low, almost indulgent. “We’re incredibly close to completing our blueprint of the Killzone. But to finish it, we need your full cooperation—and your unaltered minds. So—congratulations.”

   “I ought to come over there and break your shuck nose,” Minho said, his tone quiet, carrying more threat than shouting ever could. “I’m sick of you acting like everything’s peachy—like more than half our friends didn’t die.”

Janson rolled his eyes in a slow, deliberate arc, sighing as though bored. “First of all, mind the consequences if you attempt to harm me.” His glance flicked toward the men in the hall, the warning unmistakable. “Second, I’m sorry for your losses—but in the end, it will have been worth it. What concerns me is that nothing I say seems to wake you to the stakes here. We’re talking about the survival of the human race.”

Newt caught the hitch of Minho’s shoulders, the sharp inhale before words could ignite—but he held them back. A shame, Newt thought. Janson deserved every ounce of Minho’s unfiltered fury. But acting on it now would be nothing but noise, and noise wasn’t a plan.

   “Let’s all just slim it,” Thomas said suddenly, as if reading Newt’s thoughts. The steadiness in his voice—calm, almost unnerving—jarred Newt. Thomas was the one who usually dove headfirst into trouble, not the one to pull back.

   “Let’s hear him out.”

Newt gaped, trying to read Thomas, to understand where he was coming from.

Frypan spoke up before he could. “Why should we trust you people to remove the… what was it called again? After everything you’ve done to us, to our friends—you want to remove the Swipe? I don’t think so. I’d rather stay stupid about my past, thank you very kindly.”

The room fractured instantly. Minho and Winston shouted in agreement, echoing Frypan; Clint, Tim, and Frankie argued back, voices colliding in jagged bursts of anger and distrust. It was the worst possible moment for division.

   “Silence!” Janson roared.

The quiet that followed wasn’t obedient—it was wary, like prey holding its breath as a predator’s shadow passes overhead.

   “No one will blame you for mistrust,” Janson said, his mock patience more poisonous than his temper.  “I understand it’s… a lot. You’ve been pushed to your limits, you’ve watched people die, you’ve experienced terror in its purest form. But I promise you, when all is said and done, none of you will look back and—”

   “What if we don’t want to?” Frypan cut in. “What if we don’t want our memories back?”

Gratitude flickered through Newt at Frypan’s defiance—spared, for now, from giving voice to the sudden aversion weighing down on his own chest.

   “Is it because you truly have no interest in remembering,” Janson asked, “or because you don’t trust us?”

   “Oh, I can’t imagine why we wouldn’t trust you,” Frypan said, each word dripping venom.

Janson’s eyes hardened to flint. “Don't you realise by now that if we wanted to do something to harm you, we'd just do it? If you don’t want the Swipe removed, then don’t. Stand aside and watch the others.”

A choice?

Newt doubted it—the way a beaten dog doubts an outstretched hand. In WICKED’s grasp, even grace came shackled. What were the odds Janson was telling the truth for once? That this wasn’t just another bluff, another twisted trial draped in the guise of mercy?

Janson waited until the room’s chaos dulled to a low, sullen simmer, then turned toward the open door. His gaze drifted over them with the patience of someone deciding which wound to press, lingering just long enough on each face to make the weight of it personal.

   “You really want to spend the rest of your lives with no memory of your parents? Your family and friends?” His eyes landed on Newt—and didn’t move. “Of your first love?”

Maybe he imagined it.

Or maybe he didn’t.

The words clung to him like burrs, rough and barbed, snagging on everything inside. Anger flared in response, sharp and bright, but tangled instantly with something else—a heaviness that spread like frost across his chest. Did Janson know? What did he know? Newt’s thoughts scraped against themselves, sifting through memory for any slip, any sign he might have given himself away. 

Who was he trying to fool? His feelings were plain as day—bloody obvious, he was. Just not to Thomas, apparently.

But if Thomas didn’t feel the same—didn’t share it now—what good was knowing if he once had?

Thomas frowned, as if sensing the storm roiling just beneath the surface, and Newt felt his unease exposed under that glance.

   “Why’s he looking at you like that?” Thomas muttered, voice edged. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at you.”

Newt forced a shrug, as if the movement alone could shake Janson’s stare. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not doin’ this. No way.”

Minho leaned closer, keeping his voice low. “Amen. Even if I trusted these shanks, why would I want to remember? Look what it did to Ben and Alby.”

   “We need to make a bloody move soon,” Newt said. “And when we do, I’m knocking a few heads, just to feel better about it.”

Thomas met his eyes, and something bright and dangerous flickered there—something that might’ve been agreement, if not for the small shake of his head. “We can’t screw this up. We need to wait for our best chance.”

   “Best chance for what?” Newt tilted his head, though he could guess—Teresa. “Since when have ya become the bloody voice of reason, Tommy?”

The arguments in the room swelled again, a muddied tide of voices, but Newt barely heard them. He couldn’t look away from Thomas, whose eyes held a gravity he could neither read nor resist.

   “You know nothing about the world,” Janson said, his tone splitting the chatter like lightning through fog. “You don’t even know who you are. Your names aren’t yours—we gave them to you. Named after great thinkers: Aristotle, Churchill, Newton, Freud… just to name a few. If you want to throw away your last chance to reclaim your true identities, to hold onto whatever good memories you may have had—” His gaze swept over them one last time. “—fine by me. But know this: you may never get the opportunity again.”

He moved for the door, his men falling into formation with clockwork precision.

Newt kept to Thomas’ side as they were drawn forward—slow, unwilling, held fast by the absence of real choice.

The windowless hallways swallowed their footsteps, each echo settling into an unnerving rhythm—like the ticking of a clock counting down. After a series of turns, they reached a steel door so heavy and bolted it seemed built for a vault. Janson swiped a key card, the lock disengaging with a mechanical thunk, and the hinges gave a low, pained groan.

The room beyond was dreary.

The same dead beige walls, the same sterile tiles underfoot as in the canteen, but the far end was lined with hospital beds, each crowned with an insectile contraption of metal struts and plastic tubing. From every frame dangled a mask, suspended in midair like a spider biding its time.

Horror flashed across Thomas’ face, a reflection of Newt’s own, and his pulse kicked up a notch.

   “That looks like the devices the Cranks were strapped into… hanging from the ceiling,” Thomas murmured, low, meant for Newt alone.

    The what now? Newt wanted to ask, but Janson’s voice cut across the thought.

   “This,” he announced, with the calm of someone presenting an art exhibit, “is how we’ll remove the Swipe from your brains. Don’t worry—these devices may look frightening, but the procedure won’t hurt nearly as much as you might think.”

   “‘Nearly as much,’” Frypan scoffed. “I don’t like the sound of that. So it does hurt, is what you’re really saying.”

   “Of course there will be minor discomfort—it is a surgery,” Janson replied coolly, moving to a machine bristling with blinking lights, dials, and switches.

Newt felt his resolve calcify at the sight. No way. Not again. He would not let WICKED pry into his mind any further.

   “Almost ready,” Janson said cheerfully, pausing to sweep the room. “But before we begin, there’s one more thing. Something I need to tell you before you regain your memories. It’s better you hear it from me than to… remember the testing.”

   “What’s that supposed to mean?” Winston demanded, suspicion heavy in his tone.

Janson clasped his hands behind his back, his solemnity a practised façade. “I hate to deliver it like this, but I’ll make it quick and clean. Some of you are immune to the Flare… and some of you aren’t. I’ll go through the list now—please try to maintain your composure.”

A machine hummed in the corner, a constant undertone to the tension. Instinctively, Newt shifted closer to Thomas until their shoulders touched again. For a moment—a breath, no more—Thomas’ hand found his, fingers closing in a quick, unseen squeeze before slipping away. The heat lingered in Newt’s palm, impossible to shake.

He didn’t know which he feared more—hearing his own name, or that of a friend among the condemned.

Minho, Frypan, Winston and Jack clustered nearby—all of them unnervingly still, eyes locked on Janson.

   “For an experiment to yield accurate results,” Janson began, his voice stripped of anything human, “one needs a control group. Believe me, this isn’t pleasant for us either.”

Newt’s patience frayed to nothing. “Just bloody get on with it,” he growled, barely noticing Thomas’ hand sliding back into his until the warmth was there. Normally, it might have been enough to calm him, but now it barely kept him grounded. “We’ve already figured our lives are shuck. You’re not breaking our hearts.”

   “Yeah,” Minho interjected, his voice steel-edged. “Cut the drama and tell us already.”

Janson smiled—a thin, ugly curl, relishing their frustration. His gaze lingered on Thomas just long enough to send a chill crawling down Newt’s spine.

Thomas began fidgeting, his thumb tracing erratic, uneven circles into the back of Newt’s hand. The motion betrayed the calm mask on his face, and Newt noticed—but didn’t stop him. His gut insisted Thomas had to be immune—Teresa too, probably Aris as well. WICKED wouldn’t have cast them in their special roles otherwise. Anything else… was unthinkable.

Janson cleared his throat. “Alright. Most of you are immune and have provided us with invaluable data. Only two of you are considered Candidates now, but we’ll get to that later. For now, let’s move to the list.”

He let the silence linger, inspecting them like a connoisseur examining his feast.

   “The following people are not immune.”

The first names read were almost an insult—Ben, already dead, then others from Group B who meant nothing to Newt.

Another pause. Janson’s gaze settled on Thomas again, then flicked briefly to Newt, before returning to Thomas.

   “Newt.”

The sound of his own name should have shaken him. Instead, it landed with a grim familiarity, as if he’d been carrying the truth in his bones all along. No shock. No denial. Just the quiet, heavy recognition of something long waiting.

Thomas jolted beside him, their hands parting as if the words had scorched through them. He bent forward, shoulders rigid, breath catching, eyes fixed on the floor.

Newt reached out, fingertips brushing Thomas’ arm—hesitant. No response. He withdrew, the gesture feeling small, almost foolish. There was nothing he could do to offer comfort.

   “Tommy, slim yourself,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice, folding his arms to hide the tremor in his hands. When Thomas finally looked up, Newt managed a grin.

   “Slim myself? That old shank just said you’re not immune to the Flare. How can you—”

   “I’m not worried about the bloody Flare, man.” Newt shrugged, though the weight in his voice betrayed him. “Never thought I’d still be alive at this buggin’ point—and living hasn’t exactly been so great anyway.”

Thomas’ face dropped, a stab of torment that echoed through Newt, until he couldn’t tell where Thomas’ pain ended and his own began.

   “Fine. I guess we won’t cry for you, then.”

Newt’s grin faltered, then collapsed entirely. He turned away, blinking hard against the sting behind his eyes. A quick sweep of his sleeve, and it was gone. He wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not ever for himself.

   “Good that,” he said.

   “…Winston.”

The final name fell into the room like the sound of a door falling shut. The hum of the machines seemed louder now, underscored by the occasional wet sniffle from somewhere in the group.

Newt’s gaze found Winston at the back. Winston met his eyes, giving a small, controlled nod. 

   “I wanted to get that out of the way,” Janson said, disturbingly light, as though he hadn’t just pronounced a fate worse than death for some of them. “So I could tell you myself—and remind you that the purpose of all this has always been to work toward a cure. For those of you not immune, rest assured, you’ll be taken care of before the infection takes hold. But the Trials required your participation.”

   “And what if you don’t figure things out?” Minho’s voice hit like a rock thrown at a tank, challenging.

Janson didn’t even glance at him. He drifted toward the nearest bed, fingers brushing the hanging device as if it were something to be admired. The metal caught the overhead light, sending a harsh glare straight into their eyes.

   “Ah, man,” Frypan muttered. “We can’t let them put those things on our faces, can we? I’d just be happy back in my kitchen at the Homestead, I swear I would.”

   “You forget about the Grievers?” Newt asked, glancing back.

Frypan hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. “They never messed with me in the kitchen, now, did they?”

   “Well, then we’ll just have to find you a new place to cook.”

The words slipped out before Newt could stop them, carrying a flicker of warmth. An image rose with them—a place far from here, walls traded for open sky, air free of metal and disinfectant. A campfire, maybe. Somewhere WICKED couldn’t reach. Somewhere they could live like actual human beings.

    “I’m not getting on one of those beds,” Newt said, voice steady though his pulse wasn’t. 

Minho’s hand landed on his shoulder in silent agreement. “Me neither.”

   “Same here,” Thomas said, and Newt’s chest eased ever so slightly. They were still in this together.

   “We’ll stick around, play nice,” Thomas whispered, leaning in so close Newt could see the gold flecks in his irises catching the sterile light. “But the moment we get a chance, we grab Teresa and fight our way out of here.”

Of course. Teresa.

The vision in Newt’s head twisted instantly, souring—now she was there beside Thomas at the fire, his arm around her, his eyes locked on her like she was the only one worth looking at—

A sharp clap from Janson shattered it.

   “We’ve assigned each of you a bed,” he announced, clipboard in hand.

   “I’m not doing it,” Newt said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You said we could choose, and that’s my bloody choice.”

   “That’s fine,” Janson said, his calm unnerving. “You’ll change your mind soon enough. Stay with me until we’ve finished distributing everyone else.”

   “What about no?” Thomas asked, quiet but unyielding. “Can’t we just go back to our room?”

   “Let’s move along,” Janson dismissed him. He gestured to Minho. “Take a seat.”

   “No thanks,” Minho said lightly, though his body was rigid. “But I appreciate the invitation.”

   “Like Newt said, we’re not doing it,” Thomas added.

The surge of adrenaline that shot through Newt at those words was dizzying.

Janson’s gaze lingered on Thomas, sharp and assessing.

   “You okay there, Mr Rat Man?” Minho said, his laugh just a shade too loud.

   “My name is Assistant Director Janson,” the man said, voice low, irritation threading each syllable. His eyes still hadn’t left Thomas. “Learn to show respect for your elders.”

   “Maybe quit treating people like animals and I’ll consider it,” Minho shot back. “And why’re you goggling at Thomas like that?”

Janson finally shifted his attention, straightening with military precision. “Because there are many things to consider.” He gave a short nod to his men. “We said you could choose for yourselves, and we’ll stand by that. Have Thomas and his friends taken to their dormitory.”

While the bed assignments went on, Newt noticed Thomas’ gaze flicking toward the door, again and again, each glance a silent calculation. Janson noticed too. His face didn’t change.

   “You and your rebel friends are being watched,” one of the men at the door said—Newt recognised him as the one Thomas had squared off with in the canteen. “Don’t even think about trying anything. Armed guards are on their way as we speak.”

   “That’s a bunch of klunk,” Minho muttered to Newt as Janson turned away. “I think we should take our chances, see what happens.”

Thomas gave the smallest shake of his head. Irritation prickled under Newt’s skin—since when had Thomas decided waiting was the right call?

   “Tommy—”

The rest died on his tongue as hurried footsteps pounded down the hallway.

Three men and two women in black swept into the room, movements crisp, silent. Ropes, tools, and ammunition clinked softly against their chests. Their weapons hummed—a low, dangerous thrum—as blue light pulsed along the barrels. Clear tubes held metallic grenades that spat and crackled with caged electricity.

The barrels aimed straight at them.

   “We waited too bloody long,” Newt hissed, heat flooding his veins.

   “They would’ve caught us out there anyway,” Thomas murmured without looking at him, lips barely moving. “Just be patient.”

Newt shot him a sideways glance. Patient? Since when had Thomas turned into someone who waited for trouble instead of charging it?

Janson moved in again, the faint squeak of his polished shoes cutting through the silence. He stopped beside one of the guards and nodded toward the black-muzzled weapon slung across the man’s chest.

   “These,” he said, voice flat, “are called Launchers. The guards won’t hesitate to fire. They won’t kill you, but trust me, they’ll make sure you suffer the most uncomfortable five minutes of your life.”

Before Newt could retort, Thomas cut in. “You told us we could choose for ourselves. Why the sudden army?”

Janson’s gaze narrowed, his voice smooth but laced with menace. “Because I don’t trust you. We had hoped you’d cooperate once you learned—” His eyes snagged on Newt, the pause charged. Newt met it, unflinching. “When you remembered why you entered the Maze. That would’ve made things easier,” Janson continued. “For everyone. But don’t get the wrong idea—we still need you.”

Minho spat on the floor. “What a surprise. You lied. Again.”

   “I haven’t lied about a thing,” Janson said, his feigned indignation fooling no one. “You made your choice. Now live with the consequences.” He signalled the guards with a subtle gesture. “Escort Thomas and his friends back to their room. Let them stew on their mistakes until tomorrow. Use whatever force is necessary.”

They drew together instinctively—Newt, Minho, Frypan, Jack, Winston, Thomas… and Aris, who had drifted into their circle like a ghost.

Janson’s eyes caught on Aris. Something passed there—quick, unreadable, gone before it could be named.

   “You killed her,” Aris said quietly, like the words themselves were a verdict. Whatever meaning it held, it landed. Janson’s expression hardened, calcifying into something colder.

The guards raised their Launchers in perfect unison, the barrels yawning like black maws.

   “Don’t make us use these,” one said. “You have zero margin for error. One false move, and we pull the trigger.”

The guards’ straps locked across their chests in a single mechanical motion. They advanced—one to each boy—filling the air with the metallic tang of electric charge.

Oddly, Newt felt calm—not the easy calm of safety, but the precarious calm that settles in when there’s nothing left to lose. Beneath it ran a thin thread of satisfaction—WICKED apparently needed seven armed guards to corral a handful of exhausted teenagers.

Thomas’ guard was a slab of muscle, twice his size, fingers clamping like a steel trap. Newt clenched his teeth at the sight, swallowing the words that screamed to tear the man’s hand away—resistance would only make things worse. His own guard shoved him hard; pain jolted up his shoulder as they stumbled into the hallway.

He glanced back just in time to see Minho being half-dragged, half-fighting, his heels skidding against the floor.

   “Quit it,” Newt said under his breath. “You’re only making it worse.”

Minho either didn’t hear or didn’t care, his voice a relentless snarl of curses and breathless grunts, echoing down the corridors as they were marched deeper into WICKED’s bowels.

White corridor bled into white corridor—identical walls, blinding lights—until Newt felt they were marching the same stretch over and over, swallowed whole.

Finally, they stopped at the door Newt recognised—their dormitory.

A female guard swiped a key card; the soft electronic chirp of the lock was almost mocking, cheerful against the knot coiling in Newt’s ribs.

   “In you go,” she said. “Food will be brought soon. Be grateful we’re not starving you after the stunt you pulled. Big day tomorrow, so get some sleep.”

Minho snorted. “Dinner and trauma—five-star service. Love that for us. More twisted tests, please.”

No one bothered to answer him.

The guards funnelled them inside like cattle. The door swung shut, the metallic click echoing in Newt’s skull long after it faded—the sound of being caught. Again.

Three years of captivity crashed over him all at once. His legs carried him forward before thought could catch up. The air ripped from his lungs as he gripped the metal handle, rattling it hard enough to sting his fingers. Twisting, shoving, slamming his shoulder into it. Nothing.

The pounding started without him deciding—fists hammering, pain lancing up his arms. His own voice roared in his ears, demanding someone—anyone—open the door. Panic came fast, merciless, coiling tight around his throat. The room tunnelled, edges closing in. He hated it—not just the helplessness, but the memory of every other time he’d felt this small.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Instinct flared, and Newt spun, ready to strike whoever had dared touch him.

It was Thomas.

Close enough for Newt to see the faint freckles across his nose, the crease between his brows. Something inside him cracked, and the fight simply… leaked out.

   “It’s locked,” Newt muttered, the words limp, almost ridiculous even to his own ears. His arms fell, heavy and useless, at his sides.

   “Really, genius?” Minho said. “No wonder you were named after Isaac Newton—such an amazing ability to think.”

   “Not helping, Minho,” Thomas said, with a bite in his voice Newt hadn’t known he could summon. It cut through the roaring chaos in Newt’s head, a lifeline thrown across the panic.

   “Hey… Newt. Look at me,” Thomas pressed, steady, grounding. “Not the door—me.”

His lungs strained, each inhale collapsing before it could fill him. His hands twitched, useless, itching to strike the door again. But Thomas was right there.

   “Breathe,” he said, quiet but firm, and Newt’s spiralling thoughts caught on the warmth and insistence in his eyes. “Slow. In… and out. Come on, you’ve done this before.”

The lump in Newt’s throat made swallowing hard. The air didn’t want to stay in his lungs, but he obeyed—because Thomas was asking, and saying no to him felt impossible.

   “That’s it,” Thomas murmured. “Good. Keep your eyes here. Right here.”

Newt focused, narrowing the world to Thomas’ face—the faint scar above his left brow, the tight press of his lips like he was swallowing his own frustration. The door loomed at Newt’s back, still locked, but Thomas stood between him and the panic now.

   “Bloody hell…” Newt muttered, the words falling from him rather than spoken. “I’m fine, I just—”

   “You’re not fine,” Thomas said, not unkindly. “And that’s okay. Just… stay with me.”

From the side, Minho’s voice broke in—lighter than usual, bite sanded down. “Alright, I’m a shank. Sorry, Newt.” A pause, then—“Though, to be fair, you’re probably way smarter than Isaac Newton anyway. Bet the bloke never escaped a death maze in his life.”

A shaky, disbelieving huff escaped Newt. “Yeah, well, reckon he didn’t have you for company either.”

   “Exactly. See?” Minho said quickly, latching onto the moment. “He had gravity and apples. We had Grievers. Tell me who wins that one.”

Thomas’ mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, but his gaze stayed locked on Newt. “Better,” he said quietly. “You’re breathing normal again.”

Newt blinked. He was. The crushing in his chest had eased. His knees still felt weak, but the waterline of panic had dropped enough for him to stand on solid ground.

   “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

The panic had ebbed—not gone, but dulled to the hollow, wrung-out ache of surviving it. Thomas’ hand stayed a moment longer before slipping away, and the space it left behind felt colder, as if the air itself had shifted.

They moved to the washroom again.

Minho wrenched the shower knobs open, and the pipes answered with a shuddering groan before spitting out a roar of water that bored straight into Newt’s skull. Steam billowed upward, heavy and clinging, curling into the ceiling until it vanished in a choking grey.

It hit him, sudden and almost dizzying—how rare this must be now. Hot water, pouring without pause. Out in the ruins, people would probably kill for a mouthful, and here WICKED let it run as if the world weren’t dying outside. Back in the Glade, he’d never even thought about it—water had simply been a given, filling the pond, soaking the gardens, spilling cold from the showerheads. A gift he’d never questioned.

   “That Rat Man thinks he’s got it all figured out,” Minho began. “Like it’s some neat equation—let the human race kick the bucket, or do awful things to save it.”

   “What’s your point?” Winston grunted, arms crossed by the door.

   “My point is there is no point.” Minho’s outline wavered in the steam, but his eyes stayed hard. “Even the ones who are immune probably won’t last long when ninety-nine percent of people out there are psycho monsters.”

Thomas’ voice came next, quiet, requiring a lean to catch it. “So… what are we gonna do now?”

   “We’re leaving, obviously,” Newt said before anyone else could. “Why even ask?”

He caught the flicker on Thomas’ face—a grimace, a shadow lingering in his eyes, as if something had struck him and refused to let go.

   “Not without Teresa, of course,” Newt added, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Thomas flinched, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make the moment sting sharper. Newt swallowed hard. “We’ll find her.”

   “Teresa,” Thomas repeated slowly, as if Newt had just reminded him she existed—though Newt knew she was never far from his thoughts. “Right. But we can’t just walk out of here. You heard Janson… you’re not immune. The Flare—”

   “Cut the drama,” Winston said with a shrug. “I’m not immune either. That doesn’t change anything.”

   “It does,” Thomas snapped, eyes locking on Winston. “It changes everything.”

   “And why’s that?” Winston stepped forward, squaring up. “Immune or not, I’m my own person. So is Newt. They can’t just keep us here.”

Minho didn’t give Thomas time to reply. “Exactly. Way I see it, we’ve got two choices: spend our days as mice, safe from the danger outside but never free, or take our chances out there and see how long we last.”

He swept his gaze across them.

   “As far as I’m concerned,” Minho said, “I’d rather live one more day free than a hundred as one of WICKED’s little experiments.”

The words landed in Newt like a stone dropped into still water—rippling outwards, settling somewhere deep. Thomas should have felt that too; they were supposed to feel the same about this. But when Newt glanced sideways, he saw something else flicker across Thomas’ face—hesitation, dense as shadow, blurring the edges of the boy he knew.

Of course it was Teresa. She had her hooks in him, always had. Yet there was something more, a look Newt couldn’t name, and it wound his stomach into knots.

Frypan nodded slowly. Winston’s gaze stayed fixed, unreadable. Aris seemed a world away.

Jack shifted his weight, shoulders tight with unease. “What about the others?” he asked. He was close with Frankie and Tim—Newt knew—and he wondered why Jack was even here. Fourteen, maybe fifteen, though he looked younger. Age didn’t matter anymore; they’d all been forced to grow too fast.

   “They’re not with us, are they?” Minho said, blunt. “They made their choice. We’re not waiting. Time’s short, and I’m not wasting it.”

   “So what’s the plan?” Winston asked.

Minho left without a word, steam curling in his wake. Back in the dorm, he dropped to his knees beside Aris’s bed. Newt realised in an instant—the vent gate, discarded and half-hidden beneath the opposite bunk, its cold metal edges gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Janson hadn’t noticed.

Their way out.

His eyes, almost of their own accord, found Thomas, and for a single heartbeat, he let himself imagine—he’d follow him anywhere. Anywhere at all. But what if Thomas wavered, what if he stayed, chose Teresa over freedom… and would Newt stay for him then?

He nearly asked, almost gave in to the shame of begging—demanding some explanation for the taut line of Thomas’ jaw, the way his fingers flexed and curled as though wrestling himself, grappling with a choice beyond Newt’s understanding. But the words clotted in his throat, thick and ragged, suffocating him from the inside, each one a betrayal of everything he knew… and everything he didn’t.

Then Thomas lifted his gaze, and the shadow that had clung to his eyes dissolved as if it had never been, leaving only a stubborn, piercing clarity. “Okay,” he said, the single word trembling in the air between them. “Okay… let’s go.”

But as they turned towards the vent, towards the promise of flight, Newt realised with a hollow sort of terror that it wasn’t the guards, the darkness of the tunnels, or even the Flare that frightened him most. No, it was the thought that one day, Thomas might stop running—and Newt wouldn’t know if he had the courage to stay or the strength to leave, and the uncertainty tore at him with quiet, merciless teeth, drawing blood from his very soul.

Notes:

I’m a super impatient person, and anyone who’s read my fic twin flame might have noticed that I’ve included the opening scene here—though in an adapted form. Back in 2023, I wrote twin flame based on notes for this fic because I just couldn’t wait to get there. Now, two years later, we’re finally here!

Don’t worry, twin flame stands on its own. It covers similar events but with a different focus than this story, so you can read it without fear of spoilers if you’d like. (Just don’t expect a literary masterpiece—it’s been two years, and I like to think my writing has improved since then ^^)

Chapter 15

Notes:

Action-packed, fast-paced scenes, my beloathed…

   They spilt from the vent one by one, their boots striking the floor with a resonance that seemed to linger, too resonant for such a narrow space, reverberating through the corridor until Newt felt each step as a tremor in his skull. His chest constricted, heart pressing upward as if trying to escape his throat. He was certain the building could hear them. Certain that something, unseen and patient, had already turned its ear toward the sound.

The corridor stretched ahead, tighter than any they had passed before, the ceiling pressing low, the air weighted and close. Pipes crawled along the walls, their metal skins carrying a faint, steady warmth, pulsing as though the place itself drew long, deliberate breaths. Benches stood abandoned beneath the strip lights, which hummed with an eerie persistence, a reminder that nothing here bore life except them. Every line, every surface, seemed designed to direct their passage—guiding them forward, narrowing their choices, stripping away the illusion of freedom.

The only colour was the thread of faded yellow striping across the linoleum, worn pale by countless feet. Newt imagined he could almost hear them still—remnants of movement impressed into the floor, whispering through the silence.

He did not recognise this hallway, and he could not have said how far they’d crawled from the dormitory, only that each step forward seemed less an escape than a descent—less a bid for freedom than an unwitting march into the throat of something vast, unseen, and patient, waiting to consume them.

Thomas edged ahead, shoulders drawn, his whole frame coiled with vigilance. He leaned just far enough to peer around the bend. For a moment—only the space of a breath—his body slackened, tension easing fractionally, and Newt felt his own chest yield, his lungs filling with a tremulous breath he had not realised he was holding.

   “Clear,” Thomas whispered. The sound barely seemed to exist, almost lost to the ceaseless thrum of the walls. His hand flicked forward, urgent and commanding. “Come on, come on.”

Newt kept close, tethered to him without thought, every nerve drawn taut, his heart battering against his ribs. Behind him, the others pressed together, a restless knot of breath and weight and shifting boots. Aris came last through the vent, his face wan in the sterile glow, his eyes darting once towards the dark aperture behind them, as though it might still reach out and drag him back.

   “Okay,” Thomas murmured, already setting a brisk pace. “Let’s—”

   “Wait.”

The word fell softly, hesitant, yet it carried with it a gravity that halted them all. Every head turned.

It was the first thing Aris had spoken since returning with Thomas earlier—thin, uneven, yet heavy, as though drawn up from some hollow recess of himself.

   “You guys go ahead,” he said, voice quiet but unyielding. His gaze flicked once more to the vent’s black mouth, lingering. “There’s something I gotta do.”

   “What are you talking about?” Thomas asked, the words clipped.

   “Trust me.” Aris squared his shoulders, though his hands betrayed him, trembling before he closed them into fists. “It’s important. You guys want to get out of here, right? Just go.”

He shifted towards the vent as if the decision had already been made, his body only catching up to the inevitability of it.

Newt’s frown deepened, a cold rivulet tracing his spine. There was something in Aris’ voice that unsettled him—neither defiance nor bravado, but something quieter, more desperate. And whatever it was, they had no time for it.

   “Not a chance,” Minho snapped. “You’re not splitting us up like this.”

Thomas’ jaw locked, tendons standing out in his neck as though the restraint itself hurt. “What is this?” he demanded. His hand twitched like he might grab Aris by the collar and drag him along if it came to it. “Aris?”

Aris’ fingers flexed open and shut, restless, betraying the tremor in him. “I can’t tell you. It’s… important.”

   “You said that already,” Thomas pressed, impatience cutting through. “But what’s more important than getting out?”

He turned to Newt, searching his face as if the answer might be written there instead. For a heartbeat, the noise—the tension, the ceaseless hum of the lights—fell away, leaving only the two of them.

Newt held his eyes, let his shoulders lift in the smallest shrug. Helpless. Honest. A wordless admission that he was just as much in the dark.

Aris’s eyes flickered down. “You wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, his words nearly swallowed by the drone of the lights.

Thomas drew in a breath, ready to fire back—but Aris spoke first.

   “Listen.” His words tumbled fast, trembling, urgent. “Go get Teresa. I’ll meet you outside.”

Thomas froze, torn, and Newt felt the echo in his own gut. This—splintering now, breaking apart—was not strategy. It was the fragile weave of their plan unravelling. Anxiety coursed through Newt like static, urging him onward, but Thomas remained suspended between choices, and that stillness made Newt want to claw at the walls.

   “I’ll go with him,” Winston said suddenly.

   “What?” Minho spun on him. 

   “I said I’ll go with him.” Winston’s voice came steadier this time, as though that sealed it.

   “Heard you the first time, slinthead,” Minho shot back. “Saying it twice won’t make it smarter. It doesn’t change squat.”

   “He shouldn’t go alone.”

   “He shouldn’t go at all.” Minho’s reply came low, almost a growl, as though the sound itself could claw Winston back into line. “This is shuck stupid. We stay together.”

Jack’s voice came then, thin and tremulous. “What about Tim? And the others?”

Minho didn’t even try to hide the scorn twisting his face. He rolled his eyes. “What about them?”

   “We stay together,” Jack said, flat as though repetition might carve truth from air.

Minho stepped in close, his glare searing into the younger boy. “Tim, Frankie, the rest—they’re done for. You want to turn back for them? Be my guest. But don’t waste any more of my time.” His voice dropped, sharp with finality. “We’ve got one shot at this, and I’m taking it. I don’t care who’s coming at this point.”

The words landed like a blow. Jack shrank under them, shoulders curling inward, but the spark in his eyes refused to go out.

His lips parted again, a desperate “but—” already forming.

   “There’s no time,” Thomas cut across him, his voice clipped, ruthless. “Winston, go if you must.” His gaze swept the others, his eyes unrelenting. “The rest of you—follow me.”

It wasn’t permission. It was a sentence.

   “You sure we can trust that kid?” Minho muttered once Aris and Winston had disappeared and the others had fallen in behind Thomas.

The question struck Newt square, embedding itself deep in his chest. He didn’t trust Aris—couldn’t exactly pin down why. But he did trust Thomas, and if anyone knew Aris by now, it was him. Winston, though… Newt didn’t know. Didn’t even have the space to care. There was no room here for doubts, no margin for divided loyalties. All that mattered, all that he could hold onto, was one thing—the only thing— out.

Before Thomas could answer, they rounded a corner at near sprint—and almost collided with a figure clad in white.

Crawford.

She froze, her eyes wide before narrowing fast, her hands twitching upward in half-formed, baffled defence.

    “What are you kids doing out?” she demanded, her voice taut, stretched thin with disbelief and something close to resignation.

Just then, the alarm blared, shattering the corridor’s quiet and rendering any explanation useless.

The corridor convulsed in light and sound. Sirens shrieked, rattling Newt’s skull, while the walls bled red and orange, pulsing in rhythm like veins set alight. Shadows leapt and vanished with each flare, the sterile grey hall twisting into something fevered, alive, closing in.

Five against one.

Crawford understood it instantly. A flicker of calculation passed over her face—the flare of her nostrils, the quick hitch of her breath. Her hand hovered near the comm at her hip, a lifeline no larger than a thumbprint; a single button standing between them and a swarm of guards.

But she hesitated. Just a fraction of a beat. Just long enough.

Long enough for Minho to lunge. Newt followed without thought, instinct carrying him forward. Together they drove her back, pressing her to the wall before her fingers brushed the device.

   “You’re coming with us,” Thomas said, stepping into the strobe of alarm. His voice carried no trace of plea, only command. The light carved him into shifting forms—each pulse casting him as something different, something elemental.

   “You’re taking us to Teresa.”

For a moment, Crawford only stared, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, her face caught in the pulse of the alarm—fire, shadow, fire, shadow. In that flickering light, she seemed less a doctor, less authority, less WICKED, and more simply human: cornered, bewildered, uncertain.

The sirens screamed. The light hammered the walls. With every breath, the corridor seemed to shrink, closing in around them.

   “They’ll have you long before you reach her,” Crawford said, voice taut. “There’s no way Janson—”

   “Shut up,” Thomas cut her off, voice sharp enough to sever the air. “No talking. Just lead the way.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded and turned, leading them back the way she had come.

The corridors stretched deserted, angles repeating in sterile succession, their footsteps the only sound until the passage broke open into another hall—and there, at the far end, a guard spotted them.

   “Freeze!” he shouted, Launcher already rising.

The air split with static, bolts screaming against the wall. Sparks cascaded in the sterile light, bright and brief as dying embers. Newt flinched, dragging Frypan with him down behind the corner, the metallic sting of charge burning in his nose.

   “Stay where you are!” the guard thundered, his boots pounding closer, each step striking in rhythm with the echo of his command.

   “Bloody hell,” Newt hissed, scrambling backwards, the others tumbling with him, Crawford stumbling under their grip.

   “Why are they shooting at us?” Frypan gasped, voice high, ragged.

   “I’ve spotted them!” the guard roared, his words rolling down the corridor like a drumbeat. “They’re in L-3—I’m in pursuit!”

Newt twisted mid-stride, just in time to see Minho slowing. Stopping.

   “Minho!” Thomas shouted, panic cracking his voice. “What the hell are you doing—”

But Minho didn’t seem to hear. His body gathered itself, wound tight, before he sprang forward—not away, but straight at the threat.

   “Minho!”

The guard rounded the corner just in time to meet him. Minho’s shoulder slammed into him with brutal force, driving the breath from his chest in a startled grunt. His head cracked against the wall with a sickening thud, and before he could recover, Minho’s knee drove up, collapsing him in a rush of air. The Launcher slipped from his grasp, clattering across the floor, its fall echoing louder than the man’s groan.

Silence followed, broken only by Minho’s heavy breaths, his fists still clenched, his stance poised for another strike that never came.

Frypan nearly skidded into the wall with the force of stopping short. Thomas and Newt arrived a heartbeat later, hauling Crawford between them.

Newt’s gaze fell to the guard crumpled at Minho’s feet. His stomach turned—not from the violence itself, but from how effortless Minho had made it seem. “Shit, Minho,” he murmured, a curse softened into wonder.

Thomas bent, seized the Launcher, turned it in his hands. The weapon looked almost unfamiliar there, yet Newt felt an unnatural calm settle over him at the sight—as though it had been waiting for Thomas all along, waiting for this moment.

Thomas’ expression hardened. He shoved Crawford forward, the cold barrel pressing into her back.

   “Okay. Let’s go,” he said, voice leaving no room for hesitation. “Move.”

They did not walk far before coming to a locked door. Lab 5, painted in stark letters with WICKED’s cold font, bore a small window at eye level through which light seeped, hinting at occupancy. Crawford stopped, nodding once.

The orange pulse of the alarm still painted the walls, bathing them in its relentless rhythm. Crawford’s voice came low, clipped, carrying a strain that made its way under their skin.

   “She’s in there. Your friend—just beyond this door.”

Thomas leaned to the narrow window, straining to peer through. “I can’t—”

   “She’s in there,” Crawford repeated. Insistence, not reassurance.

   “We let Crawford open it first,” Minho proposed. “If it’s her, they won’t clock us right away. Buys a moment of surprise. And if it’s a trap, we’ll have time to bolt.”

No one spoke against him.

Thomas pressed the barrel harder against Crawford’s back. “Do it.”

The doctor obeyed, casting them a quick, disapproving glance as she moved.

The door clicked open with a soft, almost timid sound.

   “Dr. Crawford, are you here to—”

The voice inside cut short as Thomas shoved her forward, flinging the door wide. The Gladers surged in after him, a ragged tide of adrenaline and motion.

The room was small, walls lined with glass cases glinting under a blue-tinged light. Vials and pill bottles caught and fractured the glow. A man in a white coat—doctor, by the cut of his uniform—lifted his hands, flinching. Two nurses shrank into the corner along with Crawford.

Frypan hovered by the door, his gaze fixed on the hall beyond, alert for any sign of movement.

   “Wait—wait, okay,” the doctor stammered, palms raised, his voice wavering under the weight of their presence.

Thomas stormed to the centre, eyes ablaze. “Where is she? Where is she?”

The doctor’s eyes darted once towards the white curtain at the far side of the room—a brief, telling flicker. Without a word, Thomas shoved the Launcher into Minho’s hands and strode across the room.

   “Over there!” Minho barked, weapon levelled at the doctor. The man stumbled towards the corner, joining Crawford and the nurses under Minho’s careful aim.

Thomas pulled the curtain aside—and there she was.

Teresa.

Pale against the sheets, black hair stark against the whiteness, tubes burrowing into arms and nose. Her skin was a thin veil stretched over still limbs. For one breathless instant, Newt feared she might be dead.

Thomas sank to his knees beside her, hands trembling as he reached for her face.

Newt looked away, chest constricting. He could not watch the intimacy, the raw care Thomas displayed.

   “Down!” Minho snapped, dragging Newt from the moment. He shoved the doctor to her knees; the others followed, compelled by the weight of authority.

Newt’s eyes darted to the metal table, snatching up the nearest bandages. His voice was sharp. “Hands! Give me your hands!”

Crawford lifted hers, slow but precise, eyes sharp with a clarity beyond fear. “You’ll never get away with this,” she said evenly. Not panicked—calm. Certain. “They’ll hunt you down before you make it two corridors.”

   “Shut it,” Minho growled. “Do what he says.”

Newt yanked the knots tight, jerking them rough, his pulse hammering in time with the relentless blare of the alarm.

   “Guys?” Frypan’s voice trembled from the doorway, eyes wide and locked on the hall. “They’re coming. Where do we go?”

   “Frypan! Move!” Newt’s command was all the warning he gave. He upended the table with a crash, metal clanging and instruments skittering across the tile.

Frypan reacted instantly, throwing his weight against the table. Together, they shoved it into the doorframe, a makeshift barricade against the encroaching danger.

The first slam hit seconds later—violent, metal rattling. The table shuddered, bending under the pressure.

   “Back!” Minho roared, driving them further into the room, placing himself as shield between the Gladers and the door.

Thomas ripped the tubes from Teresa’s arms, cradling her upright. She hung between worlds, half-there, half-gone, lashes trembling, lips barely parting. Alive.

The pounding grew heavier. “They’ve got the door barricaded! Send backup!” a voice bellowed.

Each slam bent the table further, the metal groaning.

   “It won’t hold,” Newt rasped. His throat was dry, rough as sandstone.

   “Okay! We gotta get outta here!” Minho shouted.

   Right, Newt thought. But how? There was nowhere left to run.

   “Where?” Frypan shouted, panic bare in his voice.

Thomas’ eyes darted to the interior window—the one that led to the adjoining lab. Newt followed his gaze, stomach tightening. He didn’t need to hear it; he already knew what Thomas was about to do.

   “Everyone stand back!” Thomas shouted before he seized a chair, smashing it against the glass without hesitation. The pane flexed, holding, but Thomas’ fury burned brighter, fierce and desperate.

Newt felt the panic clawing into his chest, but he couldn’t let it root him. He grabbed another chair, joining the assault. Together, they lashed at the glass until it surrendered in a shower of jagged shards, catching the red light of the alarm like a thousand tiny knives. Newt ducked instinctively, shielding his face.

The doorway darkened with a guard’s silhouette, pushing through the gap they’d made.

   “They’re breaking through!” the man yelled, voice ragged. “Get someone on the other side!”

A blanket was ripped from Teresa’s bed, flung over the broken frame, their makeshift bridge.

Thomas vaulted first, landing with effortless grace. He hauled Jack through, then lifted Teresa in his arms, bridal-style, her fragile weight held as if it were nothing. Even half-conscious, she clung to him, every shred of trust she had resting solely on Thomas.

Newt swallowed, scolding himself for the surge of envy toward a girl barely conscious, and forced his attention forward. Thomas reached for him, hand outstretched.

Newt ignored it. He pulled himself over the jagged sill alone, glass biting into his palms, determination flaring in his chest. If Thomas noticed the deliberate refusal, he gave nothing away—just steadied Newt with a brief press of his hand on the shoulder before turning away, scanning the room.

    I’ll work on it, Newt repeated silently, once we’re out of here.

   If we get out.

Frypan scrambled through, panting, and Minho stayed until last, Launcher ready, guarding their retreat.

   “Hurry! Move!” Minho barked, covering them.

   “Yeah, come on, Minho, move!”

   “Thomas!” Minho snapped before he hurled the Launcher through the broken frame. Thomas caught it midair, already pivoting toward the far door.

   “Stay behind me!” Thomas shouted, bracing the weapon as he yanked the door open.

A guard waited on the other side. Balaclava drawn tight, weapon lifted, he moved with drilled precision—yet his eyes betrayed the jolt of surprise at the sight of them.

Thomas brought the Launcher up in a single, seamless motion. Barrel locked. Breath steady.

   “This is complete lunacy,” the man said, voice muffled through cloth. “You’ve got zero chance of making it out of this complex. More guards are inbound already.”

Thomas didn’t flinch. His reply was calm, steel forged under fire. “After everything we’ve survived, this is nothing.”

Newt broke into a grin despite the noose of fear tightening his chest. Their odds were laughable—nonexistent, really—but hearing Thomas say it, with that steady conviction, almost made him believe. 

   “Yeah, cheers for the training,” Minho added, mouth curving into a smirk. “Blow the bastard up, Thomas.”

Thomas didn’t hesitate. The Launcher built to a furious whine before it spat light and sound. The charge slammed into the guard’s stomach, detonating in a crackling web of arcs.

The man screamed. His body jolted, every muscle seizing at once as electricity burned through him. He collapsed in a convulsing heap, the sterile air filling with the tang of ozone.

   “Bloody hell,” Newt murmured, breath snagging. Not revulsion. Not even horror. Just awe. Thomas had a way of making survival look brutal, inevitable, almost easy.

   “Supposedly doesn’t kill him,” Frypan muttered, watching the man twitch.

   “Shame,” Minho said flatly, already stepping over the body.

   “Come on,” Thomas just said, breaking into a run.

Newt followed, lungs burning, the pounding of boots and alarms melding into a single, relentless drumbeat. The corridor stretched before them like a vein inside some monstrous body, sterile white walls throbbing red with each pulse of warning light. He didn’t know where they were headed—out, he hoped—but Minho’s instincts had never steered them wrong. The Runner’s nose always found the paths through the impossible.

The complex was nothing but another maze—steel and light instead of stone and ivy—but Newt forced himself to trust. Trust Minho. Trust Thomas. Trust there was still a way out.

Frypan’s cry pierced the tumult, relief thick in his tone.

   “There! There it is!”

The door loomed ahead. The same one Janson had marched them through less than a week ago, a lifetime compressed into days.

A distorted voice bellowed over the loudspeaker, layering over the shrill of the alarms:

   “Converge on Level Three. All R-16 personnel—non-lethal force only.”

They reached the door. Keycard ready, Thomas’ hands trembled as he swiped once. Twice. Each attempt drew the same sharp beep—access denied. Denied. Denied. The sound came in an unnerving rhythm, like a taunt.

Newt pressed close behind him, leaning into the heat radiating from Thomas—the heat of exertion, of adrenaline, of raw panic.

   “Come on—come on!” Thomas hissed, desperation breaking through. He swiped again, harder, as if sheer force could bend the machine to his will. “No, no, no—”

   “Thomas!”

The voice cleaved the air.

Thomas froze, then dropped the useless card and spun, Launcher raised.

Janson.

He strode down the corridor, flanked by guards in black, shields locked, visors glowing under the harsh overhead lights. Janson himself moved at the head of the formation, unarmored, unprotected, his face a mask of calm. No fear. No hesitation. As though nothing in the world could touch him.

Minho snatched the card from the floor, swiping furiously at the panel. Denied again. The door refused them.

Thomas advanced, every step vibrating with fury, Launcher levelled straight at Janson’s face. “Open the door, Janson!” he roared.

Newt’s stomach dropped into a hollow pit. This was it—the dead end. Unlike Crawford, Janson held every advantage. They were trapped, penned inside the vein of the beast, with nowhere left to bleed.

Defeat surged through him, vibrating in every muscle. How could they have thought they could simply march out of this place?

His gaze flicked between Thomas, unwilling to break eye contact, every nerve straining with the thought of guards closing in, of Thomas being hurt, and the unyielding door panel Minho was wrestling with. His mind split, caught between fear for Thomas and the terror that their escape might fail because of that stubborn keycard.

Janson only spread his hands in mock surrender, a sneer twisting across his face. “You really don’t want me to.”

   “Open the damn door!” Thomas bellowed, voice cracking like glass under pressure.“Listen to me!”

Janson’s voice slid through the corridor, smooth, almost tender—steel sheathed in silk. “I’m trying to save your life. The Maze is one thing, but you kids wouldn’t last a single day… out in the Scorch.” He halted mid-step, letting each word hang. “The heat will strip you to the bone. The storms will tear you apart. And the Cranks…” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “They’ll feast on you before sunrise.”

He stood, gaze locking onto Thomas with an awful, unshakable calm. “Thomas, you have to believe me. I only want what’s best for you.”

   “Yeah, let me guess,” Thomas spat, venom dripping from every syllable. “WICKED is good?”

The sneer slipped from Janson’s face. His hands fell. His eyes blazed.

   “You’re not getting through that door, Thomas.”

The words had barely left Janson’s mouth when the panel beside Newt let out a sound he’d never heard before. Not the shrill denial. A new tone—rapid beeps, urgent and insistent—followed by a wash of blue light.

The door shuddered, gears grinding, before roaring open with the force of heavy machinery.

Two figures stood in the threshold—Aris and Winston, chests heaving, breaths ragged.

   “Hey, guys,” Aris gasped, relief threading his words.

   “Come on!” Frypan didn’t wait. He bolted through.

Minho and Jack surged after him, Teresa trailing in a daze. Only Newt faltered, torn, glancing back at Thomas, still rooted in his standoff, every instinct screaming to stay with him.

   “Thomas! Come on! Let’s go!” 

For a heartbeat, Thomas didn’t move. His gaze locked with Newt’s across the chaos—then he whipped the Launcher up, loosing fire into the advancing guards. Sparks burst, shields cracked, but the weapon clicked empty on the next trigger pull. Dead.

He cursed, hurled it aside, and ran. Not at Janson. Not at the guards. Towards Newt. Towards escape.

Another alarm shrieked overhead, deeper this time. The door’s machinery groaned to life once more, beginning to grind shut again.

   “Newt!” Minho bellowed, grabbing his arm, yanking him through.

But Thomas was still behind. The door descended fast, thirty centimetres of space left—maybe less.

   “No! Thomas!” Newt’s heart stopped cold. He fought Minho’s grip, his whole body lurching back towards the closing door.

   “Come on, Thomas!” Winston and Frypan shouted in unison. “Move!” 

It was déjà vu, vicious and cruel. The Glade. The Maze. Minho hauling Alby while the doors crashed shut. That same helpless edge now made Newt choke on Thomas’ name, every nerve screaming.

And then, at the last possible breath, Thomas dove, sliding beneath the narrowing gap. The door thundered closed with a metallic thud that shook the hangar.

Relief struck Newt like a wave, so strong it left him trembling. He dropped to his knees, hands clutching Thomas, dragging him upright as Frypan and Minho crowded close to help. For one dizzying moment, Newt allowed himself a breath.

    What was it with Tommy and his bloody habit of slipping through closing doors?

On the other side, Janson and his guards slammed against the glass partition, their faces contorted with fury.

Aris reacted fast, jamming a steel rod into the panel. Sparks snapped and spat, frying the circuitry until the door was nothing but dead weight. Only then did Newt see the guards sprawled unconscious nearby, evidence of Winston and Aris’s handiwork.

   “Thomas… what’s happening?” Her voice wavered, fragile and almost accusing. Her eyes flitted between him and the others, as if she couldn’t tell whether this was real—or a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

   “Not now,” Thomas rasped, chest still heaving. “We gotta move.”

Janson’s fists hammered the glass, his gaze burning through. Thomas didn’t so much as flinch. He raised his middle finger instead.

Janson’s lips shaped words in response, venomous and clear: Little shits.

Winston stripped a gun from one of the downed guards. Minho hefted a Launcher with grim satisfaction, the weight looking right in his hands.

   “Come on, Thomas!” he said. “Let’s go!”

They tore across the hangar, boots slamming against metal, weaving past stacks of pallets and rusting barrels.

   “Keep going!” Thomas shouted.

   “Come on, come on!” Minho echoed, making sure no one lagged behind. “Don’t stop!” 

The gates rose ahead—massive, iron, the last barrier between captivity and whatever waited outside.

Newt stuck to Thomas’ shoulder as he grabbed the red lever. Thomas glanced back at him. Their eyes locked—and in Thomas’ gaze flickered something Newt had never seen in him before. Not determination. Not fury. Fear.

   “You’re sure?” Thomas whispered, low enough it felt meant only for him.

Newt didn’t even know what the question was. The answer hadn’t changed. Of course he was sure. Never had he known certainty like this—nothing else held weight, only the boy staring back with those steadfast, familiar brown eyes.

   “Yeah,” Newt breathed. “Let’s go.”

That was all Thomas needed.

He slammed the lever down. The mechanism screamed, gates grinding apart in a shriek of protesting metal.

Night hit them full, wind lashing, carrying sand like a thousand needles across their skin. The air was dry and biting, threading icy fingers through Newt's chest. He barely noticed. His heart pounded, his legs moved, and all he saw was Thomas, leading them forward.

Into the dark unknown.

Notes:

This chapter was an absolute nightmare to write because I had to untangle Thomas’ motivations in ways I wasn’t prepared for. The deeper I dig into his character, the more I realise how frustratingly dense he is—and how often his main drive seems to boil down to “just because.” Sure, he wants to escape WICKED, but book-Thomas and movie-Thomas are driven in completely different ways.

In the books, Thomas has already endured so much more, and the fact that they’re all supposedly infected with the Flare at this point makes his choices even murkier. Staying or leaving doesn’t really change Newt’s fate. Since I borrowed that detail from the books and established that they now know Newt isn’t immune, my version of Thomas suddenly became deeply reluctant to leave at all. I kid you not, I could feel it in my bones while writing; he’s terrified for Newt, yet painfully aware that WICKED is not the answer. My poor boy is conflicted.

And then there’s something else Thomas knows—a crucial detail I can’t share yet because, spoilers—that just complicates this further. It’s driving me insane. I’ve written myself into a corner with this, and honestly? Damn me for trying to patch up this plotholey mess of a story and my attempt to actually make it make sense.

Also can we talk about how dump and rushed this moment is in the movie when Aris says he’s gotta do something important and everyone’s just like cool with it? Why would Winston even go with him? Like I understand it serves the plot but trying to get behind the characters’ reasoning was painful.

(Poor Jack, Minho and Thomas are assholes here. But they’re just human and no one said they’re perfect. Newt is just blind to their faults, Thomas’ especially)

Chapter 16

Notes:

How has it been over a month, I’m so, so sorry. If I could, I’d write every spare minute, but between my full-time job, caring for my own ponies, and looking after my sick foster horse, time and energy have been scarce. She’s been in a bad way these past few weeks, and the shorter days, the cold, and the state of the world right now have all taken their toll. My energy levels are low.

Normally, I’d go through at least two more revisions before sharing this chapter, but I don’t want to keep you waiting any longer—so here it is :)

If you spot any glaring grammatical mistakes or inconsistencies, please let me know.

Thank you to everyone who sticks with me, even through slow updates, and a warm welcome to all new readers. I see all your kudos and comments, and I truly appreciate your support so much 💛

   They broke into the storm like fugitives torn from the throat of a beast. The night devoured them whole, wind howling, sand lashing in endless sheets. Past the platform where the helicopter had abandoned them only days before, they clawed and stumbled, half-crawled up the dune’s face—each grain a blade, each step a battle against the weight of the world.

Newt could scarcely see. The floodlights—false salvation, the same that had once drawn them like moths into Janson’s cage—burned afterimages into his vision. Only when they staggered beyond the glare did the night reclaim them, the beams behind carving their bodies silhouettes, shadows stretching long and broken across the sand ahead. Through the blur of grit and dark, he caught only fragments—the sweep of Minho’s shoulders, Frypan’s arms pumping, Thomas, always a step beyond reach.

Shouts behind them, scattered in the gale, thinned and warped until they no longer sounded anything close to human. Engines growled in the distance, blind metal beasts prowling the storm. Sand flayed his face, stung his hands, found every seam in his clothes, invading and grinding inward until it seemed the storm itself meant to peel him apart, to scour him hollow, to unmake him down to the bone. Still, he ran. Because Thomas was running. Because to stop meant to be consumed.

The sand dragged at him, every stride torn from a wasteland intent on burying him alive. Adrenaline burned in his blood, forcing his body upright, driving him on. If the storm slowed them, it slowed their pursuers, too. The desert itself had become a weapon, a blindfold that spared neither side. Their tracks shifted with every gust—half preserved, half erased—each step a gamble, swaying with the storm’s whim, promising salvation one breath and betrayal the next.

They dropped behind the lee of a dune, pressed flat against its slope as beams of light slashed across the night below. Black-clad guards spilt from the complex in a scatter of movement, a swarm of fireflies made grotesque by their size and purpose. Others tore past on quads, sand spraying in vicious arcs as they veered off in the wrong direction.

Newt’s chest heaved. He barely dared to breathe. They waited, motionless, until the roar of engines thinned, finally carried by the restless air. Then Thomas crouched backwards, his voice ragged, almost lost to the howl around them.

   “Stay low. Stay low!”

They moved like phantoms, silent shapes melding into the sand’s embrace, until Teresa broke forward, her bare feet sinking into the dune’s living skin. One by one, the others followed, swept by her momentum.

   “Teresa!” Thomas’ voice cleaved through the clamour. “Hold on—stay together!”

   “I think we lost them!” Minho called, but the relief in his voice rang hollow.

Newt didn’t trust it. Neither did Thomas, whose urgency pulled them forward like some unseen gravity. Ahead, something stirred within the dunes—at first, Newt could make out nothing but a jagged blackness etched against the dim sky, then the skeletal roofline of a structure materialised. It rose like a corpse from the earth, its shape shifting and trembling as if breathing, alive beneath the lash of wind that drove grains across its bones.

   “Watch it!”

   “Where are we even going?” Frypan shouted, voice cracking. No one answered. None of them knew.

They edged along the ruin. Its windows were blind, black panes like sightless eyes staring into the dark. Then one appeared shattered—a gaping maw swallowing sand and shadow alike.

   “Over here!” Teresa’s voice cut through the roar of the wind. “Come on!” she called, vanishing into the hollow.

   “Teresa, wait!” Thomas shouted.

   “Teresa!” Minho barked, not a plea but a warning.

   “No—don’t go in there!” Winston cried, but she was already gone. A breath later, her voice returned, muffled yet insistent, carried up from the darkness.

   “Get down here!”

Thomas stepped beside Newt, eyes rimmed red with grit and strain. No words came. His shoulder slid against Newt’s in a deliberate press, a movement so slight it could have been instinct—not a touch, but a sentence written in muscle memory. Newt’s breath caught, and his gaze locked on Thomas’—no sound passed between them, yet something passed anyway. The noise of wind and pursuit fell away until there was nothing but that look. In it lay understanding, fear, and the unspoken knowledge that to linger here was to be lost. The storm would strip them bare, WICKED would find them, and worse still—something unsaid, unseen—waited beyond the dark.

Thomas’ fingers twitched once against his thigh, a silent signal that Newt mirrored with a breathless nod. They moved as one. No hesitation. No question. Just the instinct to survive. Then Thomas turned to the others and said, “Okay, come on. Get inside!”

They obeyed. Choice had abandoned them the moment Teresa vanished. The window yawned wide, sand had poured through the breach, forming a slope that funnelled into deeper shadow. Newt couldn’t see the bottom. He didn’t want to.

   “Come on, we should go,” Winston said, his voice trembling with a courage he did not own. “Aris, get in. Let’s go, Fry.”

They half-slid, half-stumbled down the slope into darkness. Each step shifted treacherously beneath them, the ground moving as though it meant to warn them away. Inside, the building was vast, far wider than its half-buried shell had promised. The ceiling rose high above, lost in shadow, the air cavernous and cold, echoing with a hollow resonance.

Newt’s eyes strained, hunting for shape in the dark. Then Minho’s flashlight flared—sudden and violent—a cone of white cutting through the black. Newt had no idea where he’d pulled it from. The beam swept over piles of rubble, skeletal heaps of things long past use, all draped in dust and sand as though time itself had decayed and gathered here.

Minho pivoted, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths that rasped loud in the heavy silence. “Where the hell are we?”

No one answered. Newt felt the same weight pressing down on them all, a heaviness without name. If there was an answer, they didn’t want it. His gaze drifted upward again, chasing the light toward that unreachable ceiling, its emptiness more suffocating than the darkness around them.

   “We gotta go,” Thomas said, already pushing forward.

   “No.” Teresa’s voice came from Newt’s side, stark and unadorned, a sound that left no room for argument.

Thomas didn’t break stride. “We gotta keep moving.”

   “Thomas—stop.”

And he did. That pause hit Newt like a fracture beneath his ribs. Thomas turned toward her, his body snapping with the suddenness of an unseen tether pulled taut. Newt felt it—a hollow in his chest, stinging with how unfair it was—not just of her claim on Thomas, but of the ease with which she commanded him. It was a movement so instinctive, so unhesitating, that Newt almost hated her for it. For that quiet authority, for the way she could pull him away without a word, leaving him stranded in the noise between them. 

   “Tell me what’s going on,” she pressed, her tone sharp yet restrained, like cold iron.

Thomas sighed, a sound threaded with defiance and surrender both. Newt knew why without needing to hear it—knew because he had learned to read Thomas like a map. Teresa hadn’t been there for the crucible they’d all endured, and she had a right to the truth. But that truth was poison, and Thomas looked as though he would rather choke on it than speak it aloud. To spare her? To protect her? Newt knew there was another layer to it, too—they had no idea what had been done to her at Janson’s facility, no idea what she had faced.

Still, after a heavy silence, Thomas stepped back toward them. His voice dropped, as though afraid the dark itself was listening. “It’s WICKED,” he said. “It’s WICKED. They lied to us. We never escaped.”

The words clung to the air like oil, thick and foul, refusing to fade. Somewhere in the shadows beyond the ruin, a distant sound rattled—a breath or a stir—and the claim felt heavier still.

Thomas’ eyes slid past Minho to Aris. “Me and Aris—we found bodies. Too many to count.”

Teresa’s gaze snapped to Aris, widening as though she were only now aware of him, of his presence among them. Aris seemed to shrink under that stare, his hood swallowing half his face. Silence stretched.

Teresa turned back to Thomas. “What do you mean? Dead bodies?”

Newt watched her. In her voice was disbelief, but in her eyes, there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite place. 

   “No.” Thomas’ voice cracked, like the words cut on their way out. “But they weren’t alive either. They had them strung up. Tubes running in and out. Janson was there. And Ava Paige—she’s alive. Alive, Teresa. And they want something from us. From our blood. That’s why we have to get as far away as possible.”

Horror flickered across her face then. “Okay,” she managed. “So what’s the plan? You do have a plan, right?”

Thomas’ gaze searched—and found Newt’s. It was brief, but enough. Newt swallowed hard, forcing the weight down, refusing to flinch. He wasn’t about to let Thomas stand alone in it. If the world stripped them to nothing, then at least they would stand side by side in the wreckage.

Teresa’s voice severed the moment. “Well, you dragged us out here, Tom. And now you’re saying you have no idea where we’re going. Or what you’re doing.”

Newt bristled, a slow heat curling up his throat, coiling in his chest. It wasn’t fair. How dare she stand there questioning, blaming Thomas, when every step he’d taken these past days had been toward her—toward saving her. She had no claim to this moment of reckoning.

And yet she spoke as though she owned the truth, as though answers were owed to her alone. If only she could see the road Thomas had walked for her—how he’d carried her absence like a stone in his chest, how he’d drawn danger to himself rather than let her go—it might shatter her pride. For Newt, it would. If it were up to him, she might still be left to rot with Janson, left to WICKED. The thought curled in his chest, bitter and possessive, and he cut it away, ashamed of the selfishness that lay beneath it.

Whatever grudges he held, whatever resentment burned beneath the surface, it no longer mattered. Teresa was here now. Once again, one of them. And they could not afford another fracture, another splintering of trust.

Newt wanted to speak so plainly, to strip the air of all pretence and tell her she should be grateful—that she should stand beside them, not drive them further apart. The words gathered on his tongue, heavy with accusation, but they lodged in his throat as Aris spoke up first.

   “Janson said something…” His voice was small, dissolving into the strange hush that filled the space. Every head turned his way. “…about people hiding in the mountains. Some kind of resistance. An army.”

   “The Right Arm,” Thomas murmured, almost to himself. His face shifted—something fragile cracking the hard line he wore. “If they’re really fighting WICKED, maybe they can help us.”

Teresa’s lips twisted. “People in the mountains? Mountain people? That’s your plan?”

Thomas’ eyes flicked once more to Newt—steady, searching, almost pleading. Newt felt it then, felt himself tilt toward him again, like iron dragged by its north.

   “It’s the only chance we’ve got,” Thomas said.

   “Hey—guys. Check this out.” Winston’s voice carried from a few metres off, thin but urgent. Newt startled; he hadn’t even noticed him slip away. “Minho, give me some light!”

They crowded in as Minho dropped to a crouch, his flashlight sweeping low, a blade of white carved across the sand at Winston’s feet. Shapes surfaced from the gloom. Footprints. Fresh—too fresh. Newt knew it at once. The faint breath of air drifting through the shattered windows above should have blurred them, smudged their edges into nothing. Yet these marks stood clear, cruelly precise, each indentation stark as though the earth still remembered the weight that had pressed it only moments before.

   “Someone’s been down here,” Winston said, though none of them needed it spelt out.

Unease crawled across Newt’s skin, lifting the hairs along his neck and arms. He moved closer to Thomas; the backs of his fingers brushed the other’s hand—accidental, fleeting—and the spark that leapt through him burned fiercely, a fire ill-suited for the dark pressing in, heavy with the weight of unseen eyes. For a heartbeat, he let himself feel it, the nearness, the slip of warmth between them. But beneath that flicker ran a cold undertow, relentless, tugging deep at his heart. Heat and chill collided within him, clashing in his veins until they fused into a single fevered pulse. He could no longer tell whether it was Thomas or the shadows that made his chest quake—only that both left him trembling.

They scanned the ruin around them. Nothing stirred. Whoever had left those tracks—if they were still here—must already know of the Gladers’ presence.

Minho rose with deliberate slowness, his voice honed to a knife’s edge. “Come on,” he said, and the others closed in, their footsteps falling into quiet accord behind him.

They followed the tracks—a choice that might have been folly, or the only path to help. The deeper they moved into the building, the more the sand thinned. Still, it clung everywhere, curling away like skin shed by the earth to reveal cracked tile beneath, fractured flooring warped by the weight of years. The footprints faded, then vanished altogether.

Yet Minho did not stop, and as they moved forward, something in the place stirred within Newt. Not memory—not quite—but the shadow of a half-formed familiarity. At first, he could not name it. Then, as the path stretched ahead, branching left and right into smaller spaces, it came to him.

A mall.

Or what's left of ot.

Whatever it had sold once—shoes, food, glittering objects people had cared about—was long gone. Shopfronts were now nothing but black mouths, gaping into ruin, spilling rubble and trash across the floors. Shelves lay toppled and splintered. Glass crunched beneath their steps in brittle, brief protest.

They passed chamber after empty chamber until one, fronted with dusty blinds, halted them. Minho stepped close, peering through the slats, his posture bracing. Without a word, he bent low, hooked the metal edge, and strained upward.

   “Come on,” he muttered. Frypan and Thomas dropped beside him instantly, the three dragging the blinds with a groan of rust.

At last, it gave.

The room beyond looked no different than the others—cluttered, neglected, unremarkable. Yet something drew Newt’s eyes to a cluster near the far wall. Canisters. Ten, maybe more. Some half-full. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. Water. It had to be.

Frypan strode forward, hands brushing over a table until they found an electric lantern. It sputtered to life, a hesitant glow blooming in the still air. Shadows recoiled, peeling away to reveal the room in sharper relief. A handful of flashlights lay scattered across a crate, like offerings left for no one. Newt frowned, lifting one and brushing grit from the grip. Teresa took another, testing it, and the beam steadied, unwavering. Too easy.

   “Looks like people lived here,” Minho said, shaking a jacket free of sand and desiccated insects.

   “Where are they now?” Newt murmured, the words slipping before thought could claim them. He knew, somewhere deep, that he didn’t want the answer.

Thomas stepped into the lantern’s glow. He’d found a jacket for himself, pulling it on with brisk precision, the fabric whispering against his shoulders. Newt’s throat tightened. There was something in the way Thomas moved—measured, controlled—a certainty that both awed and unsettled him. Quiet, unshakable resolve, and yet behind it lay a distance, an unspoken barrier. A shield he wore as naturally as that jacket. And Newt wanted, more than he could name, to tear it away. To understand the hesitation that he’d glimpsed back in the facility—that pause now vanished without trace, buried beneath some newfound purpose. 

Thomas was good at that—doing what was necessary, living only for the moment, as though consequences were lines in a story he could always rewrite. Newt feared this lack of foresight might one day be his undoing. He feared the moment when instinct would fail him, when the raw force that had always carried Thomas would leave him adrift. More still, he feared what would follow if Thomas ran out of options—when there was nothing left to give him purpose. 

   “Let’s pack up what we can. Anything you think we might need,” Thomas said, voice clipped, already moving again. His gaze flicked to Minho, chin jerking toward the corridor. “We’ll split, see what else is out there. Meet back here.”

Newt’s lips parted—“Wait, Thomas”—but the words crumbled before they could take shape, wilting like fragile petals in the air, a plea half-breathed and unfinished. He did not know what he sought to say. Don’t go. Not without me. 

Between them, silence unfurled, swelling with all that remained unspoken. It was not the moment—not here, not in front of the others. So Newt let it slip away, letting the weight fall as he tossed Thomas a flashlight.

Thomas caught it without glance, his gaze lifting to meet Newt’s. Eyes held—too long, too still—long enough for the world to blur and fade at the edges. They stood alone, caught in the pale wash of lantern light, as if the dark itself had paused to watch.

Then Thomas flicked the beam to life, and the fragile thread that bound them snapped, vanishing into shadow. He turned to Minho.

   “Let’s go.”

Minho wasted no breath. He fell into step beside him, their footsteps falling like echoes into the hush they left behind—each one heavier than the last, a quiet mourning swallowed by darkness.

Winston, Aris, and Jack went as well, their footfalls fading into the opposite direction. Teresa lingered with Frypan and Newt.

Newt crouched by the canisters, fingers numbed by cold, opening one with slow care. The faint tang of rust and dust rose—thin, stale, like a memory best left forgotten. Frypan mirrored him, unscrewing another.

   “You think this will do?” Newt murmured.

   “Better than dying of thirst, eh?” Frypan said, voice dry as cracked earth.

   “What if it’s contaminated?”

Frypan let out a short, humourless laugh. “Guess we’ll just have to fuck and find out.”

Newt’s shoulders tightened. “I don’t like it, Fry. Who knows how long this has been sittin’ here… or where it even came from.”

   “Either way,” Frypan pressed, his voice steady, “we should bottle some. Food we can do without for a while, maybe. But water? No chance. And I don’t give a rat’s arse about making that ugly shank Janson’s prophecy come true. He didn’t give us a day, remember?”

Newt exhaled slow through his nose, resignation pooling like lead in his chest. “Fine. Any ideas what we’re gonna bottle it into? Can’t exactly drag one of these buggers into the Scorch.”

Frypan’s gaze swept the dim room. He vanished, returning a moment later with five cylindrical metal containers, capped tight with screw lids.

   “Bloody perfect,” Newt muttered, taking two. They were lighter than they looked. The ease of it unsettled him. It felt too bloody convenient, too neat. And before he could stop himself, the thought tore bitterly through him: Bet this is all just another one of their buggin’ tests. All of this meant to happen, and we’ve been analysed all over again.

   “Don’t say that, dude.” Frypan’s laugh was a short, nervous bark, brittle in the hollow room. Newt startled, realising too late he’d spoken aloud. Frypan’s voice dropped, quieter, almost ashamed, when he added: “I’ve been thinking the same.”

They let the silence grow after that, working in rhythm, the scrape of lids and rattle of metal filling the air.

Teresa drifted deeper into shadows. A sudden gasp broke the quiet, and Newt’s head snapped up.

   “You all right?” His voice came harsher than he intended, brittle and tense. His eyes flicked past her to the shadows, already searching for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon.

   “I’m fine,” she shot back, her tone clipped, her gaze fixed somewhere just beyond his sight. 

She then began to change. Whether she cared that he and Frypan could see—or whether it was some kind of compromise, a quiet assertion of safety—was none of his concern. He spared her no more than a passing glance.

Frypan, though, looked. No—he didn’t just look. He stared. Openly. Without disguise. As if shame were something he’d long since discarded.

Newt rolled his eyes and reached across, nudging Frypan’s jaw with two fingers until his gaze broke away.

   “What?” Frypan muttered, guilt dragging rough across the word.

Newt chuckled once, low—less a laugh than a breath. Frypan dropped his eyes back to his work, shoulders curling inward under some unseen weight.

When they finished with the water, they searched the ruin for something to carry it in and turned up a few backpacks, crusted with sand and stiff with age. They shook them out, coughing as clouds of dust rose like restless ghosts, then packed the bottles inside.

Frypan drifted toward an overturned shelf in the corner, a shredded tarp hanging over it like a shroud. He tugged it back. The clatter of loose metal echoed across the tiles as several cans tumbled free.

   “Not exactly well hidden,” Frypan remarked.

   “Maybe they left in a rush,” Newt offered, stepping closer—though the suggestion rang hollow even in his own ears.

Frypan bent and lifted one. The label was a washed‑out blur, its colour leeched away by time. Newt angled his flashlight closer.

   “What’s it say?”

   “Creamed corn,” Frypan replied flatly.

He dug through the rest—broccoli cheddar, cream of mushroom, a couple with faded cartoon noodles grinning up from the wrappers like a joke that had outlived the world. Frypan grimaced and shoved them into a pack.

   “How’s there even anything left?” Newt asked, frowning.

   “No idea,” Frypan said with a shrug. “Maybe whoever was here got sick of the stuff. Years of nothing but mush, no variety. I’d have lost it.”

Newt snorted softly. “Can’t exactly starve for the sake of variety, mate.” He lifted a can, weighing it in his palm. “But is this even safe? Must’ve expired twenty years ago—at least.”

   “Just as safe as the day they bottled it,” Frypan said, snatching it back and stuffing it with the rest. “Healthy? Probably not.”

When Teresa finished lacing up a pair of scuffed boots she’d scavenged, Newt and Frypan turned to the heaps of discarded clothing. If they wanted to brave the Scorch, they’d need more than sturdy shoes.

They had gotten a taste of both extremes; the blistering heat they’d felt the day they escaped the Maze, and the bone-deep cold that swept in after sundown. The mountains on the horizon gave no hint of how far they really were, or what lay between. Days away, maybe weeks. If they ever reached them at all.

Survival meant clothing that could shield them from both ends of the desert’s cruelty—roasted alive by day, frozen stiff by night. Layers. Armour. Disguises—anything to keep them from looking like WICKED’s cargo, if they could help it.

He chose a brown jacket, then sifted through the pile for scarves or shawls, something to guard against sun, sand, and wind alike. A red one went around his neck. Almost without thinking, he stuffed another into his pack, along with a spare water bottle. A yellowed notebook. He didn’t pause, didn’t second-guess. Thomas had told them to pack what they could, anything they might need. So Newt did.

All at once, the ceiling blazed to life. Bulbs flickered on in a chain reaction, each one buzzing faintly until the abandoned mall glowed with a subdued, artificial day.

Newt flinched against the glare, breath snagging in his throat. After hours of gloom, the sudden light carved the ruin into stark relief—rubble jagged as bone, shadows stretched and twisted.

Winston, Aris, and Jack came skidding into view, pale-faced and panting.

   “What’s going on?” Winston gasped.

   “Thomas, if I had to guess,” Frypan said tersely.

   “This better bloody well be Tommy,” Newt muttered, though half of him wanted to throttle the reckless sod for pulling another stunt.

They spilt from the shop into the gallery. The concourse, lit from end to end, looked alien—like something roused from a cursed sleep. But there was no sign of Thomas. No sign of Minho.

   “Where the hell did they go?” Frypan asked.

A screech tore through the air—so sharp it felt like claws raking across their skin. They spun, their eyes sweeping the scene.

Something shifted behind the shattered window of a nearby shop. The lamps above were smashed, leaving the interior a gaping black void.

Newt lifted his flashlight. The beam caught on iron bars still crisscrossing the frame. And behind them—

His stomach lurched. His blood turned to ice.

A man clung there. His nails were gone, bloody fingers clawing at steel. Eyes red-cracked and wild with madness. Skin eaten away by sores, green mould creeping over festered patches. A gash split his cheek so deep yellowed teeth grinned through the wound. Black spit swung from his jaw like tar.

   “What the shuck is that?” Frypan whispered, alarmed.

The man slammed forward, rattling the bars. “I’m a Crank!” he roared, voice bubbling with spit. “I’m a Crank!”

Then the screaming began again—shriller, spiralling into a frenzy. He bashed his skull against the bars, over and over, shrieking the same two words until flecks of black saliva painted the glass.

   “Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!”

Newt staggered back, colliding into Winston, pulse hammering in his throat. The screams knifed through his skull, leaving him reeling.

Then came the echoes—other screams, layered and ricocheting down the gallery. Too many to count.

The Crank behind the bars wailed louder, bone thudding against iron.

   “What’s happening?” Winston’s voice pitched high with panic. Newt couldn’t blame him.

   “I don’t know,” Frypan hissed.

   Thomas. Where is Thomas? Newt thought just as his voice cracked across the space, urgent, desperate.

   “Hey! Hey! Run!”

The sound jolted Newt free. He snapped his head toward the far end of the gallery just as two figures burst into the light at a full sprint—Thomas and Minho, barreling forward.

For a breath too long, Newt only stared. Then he saw the movement behind them. Human shapes, yet not quite

   “Shit,” Newt breathed, fumbling at the straps of his pack with clumsy fingers.

   “Go!” Thomas roared.

The others bolted. Newt hesitated, tethered by the impossible pull between instinct and loyalty—his body screaming to run, his eyes locked on Thomas. On the figures shrieking behind him, limbs jerking in spasms of frenzy.

Winston tore the second backpack—the one Newt had packed for Thomas—out of his hands and hurled it forward. Thomas caught it in stride.

Then Winston seized Newt’s arm and yanked, hard.

They ran.

The Cranks’ screams split the air—shrill, jagged, less like voices than metal ripping itself apart. Their footfalls slapped unevenly against the floor, staggering, dragging—but impossibly fast.

Escalators loomed ahead, frozen mid-climb in their rusted tracks. The group scrambled upward, boots skidding on grit, hands clutching the rails for balance. Newt felt his bad leg protest despite the brace, but the pain was drowned by adrenaline hammering in his skull.

The Cranks followed without pause. They crawled, jerking and clawing up the dead steps, mouths torn open in wordless shrieks. Their bodies were husks, skin sagging in shreds, yet they moved with grotesque, unnatural agility.

   “Run!”

   “Come on!”

   “Go, go, go!”

They burst onto the upper floor, momentum dragging them around a curve, the railing the only barrier between them and the dizzying drop to their left. Before they could catch a breath, another Crank staggered from a shattered storefront, blocking their path.

It lunged. Teresa swung her flashlight like a club; Aris drove his scavenged bat into its ribs. The thing screeched, claws snapping just inches from their faces, but they slipped past, pressed tight to the railing, sprinting toward another dead escalator.

Newt bore nothing for battle—no weapon, no shield, no armour of any kind. So he slipped away, body folding into motion, climbing upward as if the Cranks could not follow him there. Thomas cut them off, braced both arms on the railing and lashed out with both feet, kicking a Crank square in the chest. The thing flew backwards down the escalator, knocking two more tumbling in a shrieking heap. Newt didn’t look back as he took the last few steps.

   “Move! Move!”

   “Where do we go?”

   “Just keep moving!”

The world narrowed to flashes of movement, glints of teeth, the blur of limbs. Thomas surged ahead, Teresa close behind, Winston and Frypan somewhere near. Minho’s voice barked orders from the left. Jack—where was Jack? Newt could’ve sworn he was just there—

They bolted down another gallery, the pursuit a constant, thundering roar behind them. Newt’s leg throbbed now, the brace holding him upright but draining every ounce of strength. He forced himself on, teeth clenched, lungs burning.

Minho took the lead again.“Come on, come on!” he urged.

   “Where the hell are we gonna go?” Winston gasped, voice strained.

   “We gotta find a way out of here!” Frypan shouted, panic lancing through every syllable.

   “Faster!” Thomas’ voice broke the air like steel on stone. Faster. The word was a summons, something meant to encourage.

But Newt’s body refused, betrayed by exhaustion. Quiet, irrevocable. He remembered once running with Minho beside him, the world folding away into the rhythm of their stride, as if they were two halves of the same pulse. Those days were gone.

Now his breath came in ragged fragments, drawn through a sieve of pain. Every inhale bearing witness to his own decline. And Newt knew. Knew Thomas could outrun them all if he willed it. And yet, to Newt's horror, he let himself fall back, matching his own broken pace. 

The world narrowed to a blur of light and sound, each heartbeat borrowed, each step heavier than the last. Newt wanted to shout at Thomas: Go. Leave me. Run.

He never got the chance. 

A crystalline crack split the air to his right. The world tilted. Every nerve flared, alive. Time slowed, stretched, as if the chaos had found its own terrible cadence just for him—long and deafening, thrumming in his skull.

Something struck him, hard. The ground rose to meet him in a sickening rush. Nothing cushioned his fall, grit tearing into his palms, teeth clenched against a cry that wouldn’t come.

   “Newt!” Thomas’ voice tore through the din.

The Crank’s claws raked, breath sour and coppery, thick with the stench of rot. Its skin hung in tattered patches, a disease given flesh. Black veins writhed across its face like living roots, lips slick with tarry spit. Teeth—jagged, yellow, and glistening—snapped toward Newt’s throat.

Newt gagged, thrusting with both arms, but his strength dissolved into nothing. Glass bit into his back. Pain unfurled, hot and infinite. His vision collapsed into a tunnel hewn from primal, suffocating terror.

This was it. This was how he’d meet his end.

   “Newt!” Thomas’ voice again, closer, desperate.

Suddenly, the Crank was gone—wrenched away in one violent shove. The air detonated with the brittle shiver of glass, the rending crack of bone, the sound tumbling into the dark two stories below.

Newt rolled onto his side, coughing. Glass bit into him again, but pain had lost its hold—muted, distant. His body felt foreign, hollow and weightless, as though he were slipping out of his own skin. Each breath came like a burden, shallow and uneven, dragged in against the will of his weary lungs.

He tried to rise—and failed. The world swayed, unsteady, teetering toward collapse. Then hands were there. Hands, firm and unrelenting—Thomas’ hands—pulling him upright. Thomas. Heat seared through his numbness. Thomas had not left him. Thomas had saved him.

Newt clung instinctively, fingers tangling in whatever part of Thomas he could reach—his shirt, his shoulder. His chest heaved like a storm-beaten sea. Bile rose, but there was no time.

   “You good?” Thomas panted, his voice rough, his grip a vow.

   “Yeah,” Newt rasped, throat burning. “Thanks, Tommy.”

   “Come on!” Thomas urged, hauling him forward.

They staggered after the others. Ahead, Minho’s voice came, tearing through the thunder of their steps—a whip cast into the muscle and marrow of their flight.

   “Keep going!”

And Newt did. Because Thomas was still holding on.

   “Through here, through here!” Frypan shouted, waving them toward a narrow doorway that might once have been an employee passage.

   “Let’s go! They’re coming!”

   “Where are we even—”

   “Just keep running!”

The corridor funnelled them into a coffin. Walls closed in like living stone, the air thick with dust and the metallic stench of fear. Behind them, the roar of Cranks swelled—a tide that would not be outrun. No windows yielded to the weight of the passage; only a few doors remained, mocking in their reticence.

Thomas yanked at the first—locked. The next—locked.

Doors slammed under his fists, one after another, locked. Metal rattled and groaned, but held. Newt’s stomach sank into the pit of his chest. They were trapped.

   “Come on, they’re right behind us!”

   “Dead end!” Minho shouted.

   “Get us out of here, Thomas!” Teresa screamed, her voice ragged with panic.

The Cranks poured into the choke point, shrieking, bodies slamming against each other in their frenzy to reach fresh prey. 

Thomas slammed his shoulder into another door. It groaned, gave an inch, then jammed. Teeth bared, he hurled himself again, the sound of desperation cloven in the air.

   “This one!”

   “I’ll hold them back!” Winston barked, planting his feet. He lifted the stolen gun, and the crack of shots tore the hall apart. Two Cranks jerked, staggered—but did not falter. They came frothing forward, the bullets seeming to slide off their madness.

   “Get that door open!” Winston roared.

Shoulder to shoulder, they threw themselves against it. Frypan launched with bone-jarring force. The lock screamed and snapped under pressure. The door burst open.

   “Go! Move, move!” Minho shouted. “Come on! It’s open!”

They hurried through, one after another. Winston came last. Just as he crossed the threshold, claws closed around him.

   “Winston!”

They dragged him down. Bony fingers hooked deep into his belly, blood streaking dark across his shirt.

   “Help me!” His voice cracked, desperate and high. “Please!”

Newt and Frypan seized his arms, pulling with everything they had. The Cranks were relentless. Nails dug deeper, peeling flesh, tearing at muscle. Winston’s cries became sobs, ragged and broken.

   “Hold the door!” Thomas bellowed to Minho, bracing himself against the frame as more Cranks surged behind those clutching Winston.

   “Don’t let go! Please—don’t let go!”

The door shook beneath their weight, groaning under the pressure of bodies and rage. Thomas’ voice cracked over the chaos, ragged with strain: “Pull him! Pull!”

Newt’s arms burned, his jaw locked, his mind fracturing under the sound of Winston’s scream. And then—sudden—he came free. The three of them crashed backwards in a tangle of limbs, Winston howling, his middle slick with blood.

   “Go! Go now!” Thomas roared, cutting through the chaos of the Cranks’ uproar.

   “Get up, Winston!” Frypan begged. “Get up!”

They hauled the injured boy upright, staggering together, groaning under the effort. Thomas and Minho slammed the door, bracing it with their weight as claws punched through the gap.

   “Minho, go!” Thomas shouted, voice strained. “I’m right behind you!”

Newt risked a glance back. His stomach knotted. Thomas stood there, a living barricade—bearing the weight, a wall of flesh and bone against death itself. Once again, he was playing the bloody hero.

   “Let’s move!” Minho answered, lunging forward to catch the others.

The door rattled and groaned behind them as they spilt into what appeared to be a parking garage. Night air struck stinging and crisp in their lungs. Rusted cars stood like tombstones left and right, skeletal beams of collapsed ceiling spearing down through the darkness.

They were running again.

They ran until Winston sagged, half‑conscious, crumpled between Newt and Frypan. Until Teresa stumbled, pale and hollow‑eyed. Until Newt’s leg screamed with every step, each stride dragging knives up his spine. Until Minho hauled them beneath a fractured ledge where concrete and steel leaned toward each other, forging a jagged canopy—a grim promise of shelter.

   “Get in!” Minho ordered, voice low, rough with exhaustion.

They collapsed into shadow, chests pounding, sweat stinging their eyes. Behind them, the Cranks’ howls thinned into the distance—but never ceased fully.

Newt sank against the cold ground, shoulder to shoulder with Frypan and Teresa. Every thud of his pulse sounded in his head, loud enough to drown thought—each beat a hammer against his ribs.

And then it hit him.

Jack.

He wasn’t with them.

Jack hadn’t made it.

Jack was gone.

Notes:

Okay, hear me out—I know not everyone will agree, and that’s fine, but Newt’s outburst in Scorch Trials has always bothered me. They’ve never had a concrete plan before, and Newt’s defining trait is and always has been loyalty. From "The others may have their doubts, but they’d follow you anywhere" to "From the moment you ran into the Maze, I knew I would follow you anywhere," this sudden challenge to Thomas—"Well, we followed you out here Thomas and now you’re saying you have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing"—feels inconsistent with who he is at his core.

It makes a lot more sense for Teresa to deliver this kind of confrontation—she has her memories, aligns to some degree with WICKED’s methods, and was essentially kidnapped by the boys. So her calling out Thomas for dragging them out without a clear plan feels natural. I know "People in the mountains? Mountain people? That’s your plan?" has become a somewhat iconic line for Newt, and I apologise for giving it to Teresa in my canon, but to me it just always felt out of character for him.

I don’t hate the movie, obviously, I love it too much, which is why we ended up here, overanalysing every word. I don’t expect everyone to agree, but that’s my take, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on this! :)

Chapter 17

   The night pressed in around them like a living thing—restless, shivering, breathing through the cracks in the ruined walls. It crawled and whispered against their skin. The air stank of rust and rot and the faint, metallic tang of Winston’s blood, already drying. Dust settled over everything like a burial shroud. Somewhere in the distance, Cranks still moaned—a symphony of ruin, voices rising and collapsing like waves gnawing at a shore that no longer existed.

Each time the cries faded, Newt’s breath caught. He waited through the silence, counting heartbeats, measuring the quiet like a wound closing too slowly. They never drew nearer. They just refused to end.

Winston whimpered in his sleep, a thin, broken sound. Frypan muttered under his breath—something low, trembling, maybe a prayer. The word itself felt foreign to Newt. Prayers. As if anyone was listening. As if anyone ever had.

He’d never spared much thought for gods. Wouldn’t have known where to begin, even if he’d wanted to.

The Maze had been their only matter, and Newt had never thought of the Creators as anything close to divine. But he knew some—Gally among them—had seen it differently once.

The thought of Gally still hurt, bound to the others by the same quiet ache—Chuck. Alby. Zart. Ben.

Newt silently added Jack to the list.

His gaze found Thomas a few feet away, a darker shadow folded against the concrete. He lay still as death, but not asleep; Newt could feel it, the quiet hum of thought radiating off him like static. Neither spoke. The silence between them felt delicate, as if a single word might make them come apart.

The cold was a strange kind of companion, threading through his clothes, nesting deep in his bones. It wasn’t the kind of cold he’d known in the Maze—the sharp bite of dawn before the Runners left, or the damp chill that clung to corridors where sunlight never reached. This was older, hungrier—a grave-cold that hollowed you from the inside until even your heart longed to hibernate. In the Maze, there had been purpose—motion, direction, something to chase or flee. Now they were stranded, and the wind slipped through the cracks of the world like a ghost still searching for a body to wear.

At some point, his hands moved without him knowing, burrowing into the scavenged jacket for warmth. His fingers brushed something hard. He drew the objects out and held them up to the sickly light bleeding through a fissure in the concrete above.

A ballpoint pen, dented, its silver body dulled by grime. A small pendant—metal cylinder on a leather cord, worn soft from a stranger’s skin.

They caught the light weakly, relics that still remembered the world before it burned.

Newt turned them over in his hands. Someone had owned this jacket. Someone had chosen these things, carried them close. Maybe they’d written with that pen once. Maybe the words had mattered—love, fear, confession. Maybe they’d worn the pendant every day until the world ended. He wondered where they were now. Maybe he’d rather not know.

He closed his eyes and faced the Crank behind the bars again—the sores, the yellow eyes swimming in madness, the smell that clung to memory like oil. The man had screamed for death until his throat tore. Newt had wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

Had the man locked himself in? Or had someone else done it for him—a friend, a brother, a lover—promising to come back? He could almost hear the echo of the lock clicking shut, the brittle kindness of it. Hope turned cruelty. Love turned mercy.

   Was it, though?

The man’s screams still lived in Newt’s skull, clawing at the dark; Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!

He stared down at the pen, his grip tightening until his knuckles blanched. Why hadn’t that Crank just done it himself? Why beg for release instead of reaching for it?

Because nothing ever was that simple. And if anyone understood that, it was Newt.

He’d once latched onto the edge, staring into the Maze as dawn bled through the fog. The stones below had been silent, patient, waiting for him to meet the ground. Above, the sky had stretched wide and empty—a pale echo of the hollow within his heart.

And yet, it hadn’t been meant to be. His body had refused. Some cruel, instinctive part of him had clung to life like a parasite. He could still feel the ivy that had broken his fall—its embrace harsh and unrelenting. If only he’d been braver. If only he’d climbed higher. If only he’d let go at the right moment.

But he hadn’t.

His memories of that morning were riddled with gaps, but the guilt was whole.

And now here he was—still breathing. Still waiting. Still cold.

The pendant winked faintly in his palm, a glimmer of some stranger’s faith. He closed his fingers around it, pressing until the edges bit into his skin. Then he shoved both objects back into his pocket, as if burying them might bury the thoughts that came with them.

In the distance, the Cranks wailed again—a sound that peeled the air open, raw and unending. It swept across the ruins, over the sleeping boys, a warning and a vow entwined.

Newt wondered how long it would be before he joined them in screaming.

He sank sideways, shoulder pressed against the rocky surface, eyes following the fracture in the ceiling that framed the starless canopy beyond. The sky looked diseased—pale light gnawing at the edges of shadow, clouds driven before the moon by the abating storm.

Sleep didn’t come for him that night.

He sat there until the dark thinned and drained into grey, watching the shadows shrink, watching the light grow too sharp to bear. The day promised heat and dust and more running—but for now, there was only that quiet, the in-between moment before the world remembered how to hurt again.

The sun crowned the ruins, a fierce white wound in the sky. Newt squinted into the glare, his eyes bleary, when a flicker of black caught his gaze through the swirling dust.

A bird—or something that wore the shape of one—picked its way through the rubble, feathers slick and coal-dark. It paused often, tilting its head as if weighing them, eyes too bright, glinting with a knowing that unsettled Newt. Each time Newt blinked, it seemed closer—its claws ticking faintly against stone, its head jerking in restless motions, as though trying to shed the weight of the dead world around it.

There had never been birds like this in the Glade. Only the chickens the Gladers raised—dull-eyed creatures too docile to sense the blade. But this one—this little scrap of life—carried something different.

A shiver ran the length of Newt’s spine. He stayed still, lacking the strength to chase it off. What was the point? The bird wasn’t dangerous. Not like everything else out here.

The creature inched closer, emboldened by their stillness. Its wings twitched once, a sound like dry leaves in the wind. Then it began to peck at one of the backpacks, sharp beak rattling against a metal buckle.

The noise startled Thomas awake.

  “Hey—hey!” he barked, jerking upright. “Get out of here!”

The bird flared its wings and darted back, landing lightly on a broken pillar. It stared at them for a long moment—one eye fixed on Thomas—then gave a single, deliberate caw. It sounded almost like mockery.

Thomas stood, squinting toward the horizon. Newt watched him as Minho, Teresa, and the others began to stir, groaning softly, faces pale and drawn. 

   “They’re gone,” Thomas said after a moment, his voice rough.

Frypan blinked up at them, eyes red and swollen. “Who?”

   “The Cranks,” Newt said. “Haven’t heard them for a while.”

   “Yeah,” Thomas murmured. “Think we’re safe… for now.”

Newt’s gaze drifted over the ruins—the splintered concrete, shattered glass, the open expanse strewn with debris. The silence offered no comfort. Silence meant something else was listening. Still, he nodded. No use cutting Thomas down for trying. They all needed their whisper of hope, however frail.

The others rose slowly, peeling themselves off the cold floor, groaning as if twenty years had been added to their bones overnight. Winston tried to sit up and hissed with pain. The makeshift bandage around his middle had soaked through again, edges dark and crusted with blood.

Frypan reached for him. “Hey, man. You okay?”

   “Yeah,” Winston lied, voice paper-thin. He took the hand anyway and let Frypan haul him upright.

It was still early—the sun far from its zenith—but after last night’s storm, the air in their hideout felt unnervingly still, as though the world itself were holding its breath. Morning carried an eldritch, dreamlike quality, as though reality had slipped its leash. It felt liminal, something that didn’t quite belong to the living or the dead. The storm had passed, yet the air still tasted metallic, dry as powdered bone.

The black bird let out a throaty croak that echoed down through the hollow skeleton of the building.

Thomas shouldered his pack. “Let’s move. Minho, take point. Aris, Fry—get Winston steady.”

They climbed. The ascent was slow, boots scuffing against cracked concrete, breath rasping in the heat. When they reached the top deck of the ruined parking structure, the city unfurled before them—if it could still be called that.

It was a graveyard of towers. Blackened spires rising out of the dust, windows punched out, faces streaked with soot. Some buildings had slumped sideways, leaning into each other like drunk giants. The streets below were fossilised rivers of wreckage—cars welded together by rust and time, half-buried in dunes of glittering sand. A metal tide, frozen mid-collapse.

No grass. No trees. Only the wind, whispering through glassless windows, threading the ribs of a dead civilisation.

Minho didn’t slow to look. He just kept walking, jaw set, eyes scanning for a path forward. The others followed without a word. Newt lingered for a heartbeat longer, looking down at the endless sprawl.

   “What the hell happened to this place?” Frypan asked, voice low, reverent in its way.

Newt’s answer came quiet, barely a ripple in the deadened air. “I don’t know. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a long time.”

Aris gave a small, brittle laugh. “You think the whole world’s like this?”

No one replied.

Newt’s mind drifted back to the Glade—to the fantasy of what they’d believed waited beyond its walls. He’d only ever had fragments, hazy images stitched together from the scraps of understanding WICKED had left him. No memories. Not really. With nothing real to hold onto, he’d clung to the idea that the world outside was still whole, that freedom would mean something once they found it.

Turns out, he’d been wrong.

What they’d found out here wasn’t freedom. Just another kind of cage—hotter, harsher, without walls to blame.

Could sun flares alone have done this? Or had the world finished the job itself, in the years that came after?

He glanced up at the sky again, so deep in his own thoughts that he almost missed them at first—the shapes stirring in the distance.

They rose from the dust like statues washed ashore, two tall, rag-wrapped figures moving with the slow, deliberate certainty of tide-worn driftwood. Their garments hung in tatters—a patchwork of beige and darker scraps, denim and leather stitched together by desperate hands.

Where faces should have been, the cloth was split into narrow slits—their eyes hidden, yet Newt could still feel their gaze on him. Where skin showed, it was raw and red, the colour of old wounds that had given up on healing. Their hands were cracked and scabbed, fingers gnarled and brittle as dead twigs.

   “Who are you?” Minho called out, his stance carved from that same reckless bravado that had carried him through a dozen close calls—the kind that never quite knew the line between courage and provocation. Less courage, Newt decided then, and more a death wish masquerading as defiance.

The figures answered with silence. Their chests rose and fell like tired bellows, the fabric over their mouths fluttering as if words were a burden too heavy to summon. One drew away in a slow, deliberate arc; the other mirrored the movement, and together they began to circle the Gladers with the quiet, inevitable patience of vultures at a carcass. Veiled hollows, where eyes seemed to dwell, followed them with steady intent, measuring without haste, as though the world had become a slow, meticulous ledger of what remained.

Newt hated the narrowness of it—his vision funnelled to a single pivot point, trying to keep both figures in sight and failing. When they met again behind the group, they stopped—motionless, waiting.

   “There are a whole lot more of us than there are of you,” Minho said, his voice steady, hard as the baked dust underfoot. The words hit the air like a wager. Newt winced at the edge beneath them. Desperation had a sound, and it never carried well in daylight.

   “Start talking. Tell us who you are.”

A dry rasp came from the left figure, words ground from a throat that sounded long unused to gentleness. “We’re Cranks.” 

   “Cranks? Like those in the mall?” Minho stepped forward, putting himself closest to the strangers. He laughed, but it had the wrong shape—nervous, thin.

Beside him, Newt felt Thomas shift—a small, instinctive movement that brought him half a step ahead. A barrier. Newt understood it, even appreciated it in some quiet, bitter corner of himself, but the gesture burned all the same. That unconscious protection, that unspoken assumption of fragility. He didn’t want Thomas thinking he needed saving—didn’t want to be the burden that made Thomas stop short.

Still, he said nothing. Didn’t move. Couldn’t. The air felt brittle enough to shatter if he so much as breathed wrong.

Thomas stood rigid, shoulders drawn tight. The pulse in his throat fluttered, a small, frantic thing barely contained beneath his skin. For a moment, Newt thought he’d break—thought he’d let fly the words that would ignite this standoff into violence. But Thomas only stared, jaw locked, eyes hard with the effort of restraint.

The other Crank spoke then, voice higher, almost conversational—and that made it worse. “Came to see if you’re our kind. Came to see if you’ve got the Flare.” The fabric over his mouth shivered with each word, as though the syllables were insects seeking to crawl out.

Minho turned a look on them both, Thomas first, then Newt, brows rising in a gesture pointed enough to pass for speech.

   “What difference would that make?” Newt heard himself ask before thought could intervene.

The man laughed, dry, ragged, and the cloth over his face shifted, taut against the bones beneath. “Don’t matter,” he said. “You got it, you’ll know soon enough.” He tilted his head, and the air around him carried the faint, sick tang of old metal and rotting fruit. It made Newt’s stomach turn.

   “Well, what do you bloody want?” Newt stepped from behind Thomas, planting himself beside Minho. He felt ridiculous. Exposed. Like a child trying on the shape of a man. “What’s it matter to you if we’re Cranks or not?”

The voice that answered was slow, like gravel grinding in a jar—feminine in cadence, if not in sound. Newt decided it must be a woman. “You look too clean. Too fresh to be children of the Scorch. Where’d you come from? Where do your paths lead?” There was a ritual in her questions, a terrible etiquette. Hunger lurked in it. Rules. As if the questions themselves were a sieve, sorting the living from the doomed.

Minho glanced at Thomas. “What do we tell them?”

Thomas searched Newt’s eyes before answering. “I don’t know. The truth?”

Minho let out a dry laugh, sharp with sarcasm. “The truth? Nice one, Thomas. Brilliant as always.” He turned back to the Cranks. “We’re looking for an organisation that calls itself the Right Arm. Ever heard of ‘em? Supposed to be somewhere in the mountains. Mean anything to you?”

The left figure answered as if Minho’s words were nothing but a breeze on a tombstone. “Not all Cranks are gone. Not all past the Gone.” He said the last word heavy and final, like a place-name you could fall into. “Different ones, different levels. Learn quick who to befriend, who to burn, who to kill. Better learn real quick if you’re coming our way.”

Minho’s jaw tightened. “What’s your way?” he asked.

The Cranks stood motionless, patient and terrible beneath the merciless sun. When the woman spoke again, her voice was low, threaded with something ancient and foreboding.

   “If you don’t have it yet,” she said, “you’ll have it soon. In these spheres, only the infected live.”

Newt forced his voice out, though his tongue felt like sandpaper. “So what? You want to mark us? Trade us? Take our things?”

The left figure spat. “We take what we need. We mark what we can’t eat. We sing to our sick. We teach them to howl, so the others remember how to fear.”

Thomas shifted, tension rippling off him in silent waves. The Cranks tilted their heads, and though Newt couldn’t be sure, he felt their unseen eyes fixed on him. Their attention wasn’t hungry—not animal, not wild—but deliberate, calculating, as if they were keeping a ledger and had just found a place for his name.

A small, cold voice stirred in the back of his mind, whispering the truth he’d never been able to bury: you can hide from many things, but not from what’s inside you. Disease. Grief. The quiet, treacherous wish for the world to stop.

And in that instant, Newt understood—the Cranks weren’t aimless. They were only further down the same road. Whatever world these creatures belonged to, the Gladers were already trespassing in it.

The woman’s voice came again, almost kind. “Come with us,” she coaxed. “Or move on. The sun burns. The sand will take what you leave.”

Newt tasted dust and copper, the memory of the Maze sharp at the back of his throat. Somewhere inside, a part of him began to tally the options like a man counting coins in the dark: run, fight, bargain, die. None of them felt like winning.

He met her eye-slit and found no promise there—only a future he had been moving toward without knowing it.

   “Not yet,” he said. Not defiance, not hope—just a small, unvarnished sound.

Thomas turned to him, irritation flickering across his face, but said nothing. The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

Then, in eerie unison, the Cranks began to laugh. A laughter torn from their own bowels, raw and ragged, spilling from their throats. The sound rolled and fractured through the street until its source dissolved, bouncing across the ruins like a thing unmoored. It made Newt think of rusted hinges forced open after decades of silence. A flock of black birds startled into the air, beating frantic wings against the heat.

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

The taller Crank tilted his head, listening to something distant. The other followed. Without a word, they turned and stalked away—slow, deliberate, as if, to them, the Gladers had already ceased to exist. Their wrapped forms faded into the haze, swallowed by dust and the pale glare of morning.

Minho spat into the sand, a curse slipping between clenched teeth.

  “Well—that was odd,” Frypan muttered, brow creased in bewilderment.

No one disagreed.

The Gladers lingered a few seconds longer, staring after the vanishing shapes until the heat thickened, pressing heavy against their skin. The tension still sat under Newt’s ribs, a tremor that wouldn’t settle; that laughter clung to him with the nagging tickle of a fly he couldn’t swat away.

Thomas looked at him then—a fleeting glance, unreadable—before turning away to help Winston with his pack.

Minho gave a sharp whistle, the kind that always meant move. “We’re burning daylight,” he said, already walking.

   “No,” Frypan muttered, “daylight’s burning us.”

But they followed anyway—listless at first, then steadier as motion dulled their thoughts. Step after step, until walking itself became a kind of numbness.

Thomas suddenly slowed. His head lifted, brow furrowed. “Hang on. Stop.”

Everyone froze.

    “Do you hear that?”

For a moment, there was only the hiss of sand shifting at their feet, the faint rattle of wind through wreckage. Then Newt heard it—distant, wrong. Not thunder. Not wind. Mechanical. The low hum of engines.

It came from above.

Realisation hit him low and sure, spreading through his back like a vein of ice.

   “Get down!” Thomas shouted. “Everybody—hide! Hide!”

   “Over here!” Minho yelled, pointing toward a fractured structure where shadow pooled deep. “In here—move!”

They scrambled, tripping over broken concrete, crowding into the shelter of what had once been a stairwell.

A heartbeat later, the air split with the roar of rotors. Two helicopters tore overhead—black shapes flanking something larger, a transport craft bristling with sensors that gleamed like cold eyes. The machines swept low, their shadows dragging over the ruins like nets cast to catch the living.

Newt’s pulse hammered in his throat.

   WICKED. There was no doubt.

   “Oh, shit,” he breathed.

    “They’re never gonna stop looking for us, are they?” Minho said, voice flat.

No one answered.

They stayed low until the sound faded, until the last echo of engines dissolved into the horizon. Then Thomas lifted his head, scanning the sky.

   “Come on,” he said.

They emerged one by one, squinting into the light. The air shimmered, thick and metallic, tasting of rust and decay.

They climbed over debris, boots scraping against jagged metal and melted stone. They kept close to the ruins, where scraps of shade clung like ghosts—but the sun found them anyway, unforgiving and endless.

After a while, they wrapped whatever they had—scarves, sleeves, torn shirts—around their faces and hands. Even breathing hurt.

The city fell away behind them, its skeletal towers shrinking into a mirage. Ahead stretched the wasteland—sun-blasted and bone-white, a graveyard of what the world had been.

Newt brought up the rear, his shadow long and wavering across the cracked earth.

He didn’t look back. There was nothing behind them worth seeing.

The horizon rippled with heat. Far off, the mountains crouched—pale blue phantoms trembling against the glare. Salvation, maybe. Or just another cruel trick hope plays on fools.

Newt adjusted his pack, swallowed the dryness in his throat, and kept walking.

Above, a single black bird circled once—a dark fleck against the white blaze of the sun. Then it tilted its wings and vanished into the light, leaving the sky empty once more.

Chapter 18

Notes:

I’ve been writing almost every day for the past month—though not always for this story. My naive past self committed not only to Fandom Trumps Hate but also, of course, to the Maze Runner Secret Santa. The good news? By the end of December (or beginning of January), not one, not two, but three long(ish) Newtmas fics will be online!

The downside is that updates here aren't as frequent as I’d like them to be. But if you stick with me until January, I promise to do better. My apologies for the long wait for this chapter… and for its contents.

   Winston’s condition worsened with every tortured metre they pressed forward. They pretended not to notice—perhaps because Winston had pretended first—stumbling onward, his face a cracked monument to perseverance. But Newt could not be fooled.

He saw the tremor in Winston’s hands, the fever-glint flickering in his eyes, and recognised it as a mirror of his own struggle. His leg, the bad leg, no longer answered him; the brace offered only the semblance of support. It had long surrendered its comfort, and sand had crept beneath it, crawling like merciless, invisible insects, biting, scratching, and drawing fire from his flesh with every faltering step. The desert seemed to claim him wholly—each grain a sharpened fang sinking into skin, each undulation of the ground a cruel betrayal, as though the very earth delighted in exposing the fragility of his body.

The heat was worse still, no longer a mere force of nature, but a living thing—serpentine, insidious—coiling through his veins, hollowing him from within, a slow and merciless combustion that left only the fragile skeleton of a man, stumbling forward on borrowed strength.

Every step was a surrender, and yet the march continued, inexorable, as though the Scorch itself had decreed that neither endurance nor despair would find respite here.

Thomas and Minho pressed ahead, propelled by sheer, stubborn momentum. Even they faltered now—the cadence of their steps stuttering, the fire that usually blazed in Minho absorbed by the encroaching heat. Teresa, Frypan, Aris—all of them had been reduced to drifting spectres, trudging through a sun-struck purgatory. No words passed between them. The only sound that pierced the oppressive air was Winston’s coughing, harsh and uneven, like gravel forced through a narrowing throat, each rasping note arriving closer together, more insistent.

Thomas led the way toward a dune that blotted out the horizon, its slope so steep it seemed to mock the very notion of progress. All Newt could see was sand and light—endless, devouring. It crawled into their clothes, into their lungs, into the marrow of thought itself. He could no longer discern where his own body ended and the desert began.

   “A little further!” Thomas shouted from ahead, his voice thin, carried by the wind.

Newt tried to answer, but no sound emerged. All he longed for was to collapse, to surrender—to let the Scorch have him, to be swallowed into its shifting surface until he became indistinguishable from the dust. Yet he kept moving, driven by a cruel, primitive tether: the need to follow Thomas. His gaze clung to that solitary silhouette against the burning sky—his only horizon, the single axis around which the rest of the world seemed to dissolve.

They crested the dune at last, lungs clawing for air that only seared deeper into their chests. The sight that met them was both ruin and revelation. Before them lay the Scorch—vast, unbroken, a roiling sea of dust, dark spires and shattered frames of abandoned buildings jutting like reefs from its endless swells, beautiful only in its brutality. Finally free to move without walls, without boundaries—yet in every direction stretched desolation, infinite and indifferent. A liberty that burned with the sacred, terrible fire of extinction.

Thomas raised a hand, pointing toward the far-off edge of the world. “Those mountains. That’s gotta be it,” he said, his voice both hope and command. “That’s where we’re going.”

Newt squinted against the glare, trying to keep despair from curdling his tone. “That’s a long way off,” he murmured.

   “Then we better get moving,” came Minho’s grim reply.

Hardly had he spoken when Winston fell. One moment upright, the next—gone. He folded in on himself like a marionette with its strings severed and tumbled down the far side of the dune’s crest. Face-first, he slid several metres through the scorching sand before coming to rest, half-buried, the grains cascading over him like water over a body already sinking beneath the tide.

   “Winston!” Thomas shouted, breaking into a run. The others followed, half-sliding, half-falling, sand searing their palms, dragging at them as they closed the distance and fell to their knees.

   “Hey—hey, Winston!”

They turned him over. His breath came in ragged, desperate gulps, his throat working against a sound no living creature should make. Sand matted his black hair and clung to the sweat-slick skin of his brow.

   “Winston!” Minho barked, his voice cracking, strained against the oppressive heat.

   “He’s hurt bad,” Frypan cried, though none needed to be told.

   “What do we do?” Teresa knelt beside him, her hands gentle yet trembling. She tried to still the twitching, to cradle him, but her own fingers shook as she touched Winston’s cheek.

Newt looked at Thomas—not expecting an answer, and yet searching for one all the same. The sound that tore from Winston’s chest yanked him backwards through memory—to the Maze, to the screams of the Changing. The same animal agony, the same acrid stench of sweat, iron, and despair. Panic prickled along his limbs; his own breath came too fast, ragged and shallow, echoing the terror he remembered.

He felt Thomas crouch beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Newt leaned into the contact without thought—something solid in a world determined to unravel. Thomas pressed back, firm and wordless. Whether by conscience or instinct, Newt could not tell, nor did it matter. For a fleeting moment, they became a single point of gravity, holding stubbornly against the desert’s merciless pull.

Thomas’ gaze lingered on Winston, then drifted beyond—to the trembling line where earth met sky, where the mountains shimmered and bled into the haze. Newt studied his profile: the rigid set of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the quiet tension coiled in his shoulders.

   “Shit,” Thomas whispered, and Newt did not need to hear more. The thought had already settled between them, unspoken yet absolute. Winston would not make it—not like this.

Thomas rose, and with the motion, the brief tether between them snapped. The loss of that small, wordless contact struck Newt deeper than it should have. He swallowed the ache and turned back to Winston, forcing steadiness into a voice that trembled despite him.

   “Winston,” he murmured. “Can you hear me? It’s okay. Just… hold on.”

Teresa uncapped one of their bottles and lifted it to Winston’s cracked lips, the skin flaking like old paint. She poured a few drops between them, but most slipped uselessly down his chin, soaking into the sand.

   “Easy,” she whispered, though Winston’s eyes were already half-glazed, tracking shapes that did not exist. His breaths rasped through the still air, each inhale borrowed from a life the desert seemed eager to reclaim.

Thomas stood over them for a long moment, fists tightening and loosening at his sides, as if trying to clutch something intangible—a solution, a reprieve. Then he turned abruptly, the motion sharp enough to send motes of dust curling into the sun-struck air.

   “Come on,” he said to Minho. “We need something to carry him with.”

Minho made no objection. Newt watched them vanish down the slope, their silhouettes shrinking against the shimmering dunes. The sun glared mercilessly, swallowing their forms until only the motion remained—two figures scavenging through the detritus of a dead world: rusted ribs of some ancient relic, twisted rods, the remains of civilisation slowly surrendering to sand and wind.

Teresa dabbed Winston’s fevered brow with a strip of cloth, the gesture too human, almost absurd against the vast cruelty surrounding them. The acrid smell of sunbaked rust drifted on the wind, and Newt hated how intimately familiar it had become—the scent of the world’s slow decay, still exhaling through its hollow bones.

By the time Thomas and Minho returned, the light had shifted—harsher now, the sun nearing its zenith, blazing down with an almost sentient glare. Between them, they carried a pair of long metal rods and a heap of scavenged scraps: wire, torn tarp, a section of mesh that might once have been a fence.

   “Best we could find,” Minho muttered. His voice was ragged yet steady, bearing the calm desolation of one who had renounced deliverance, who no longer courted the whims of fortune.

They worked in silence. Thomas bent the rods against his knee until they yielded to a crude, uneven shape. Minho lashed them together with wire, improvising a litter with the grim ingenuity born of necessity, muttering curses when the metal cut his palm, defying his will.

   “Could really use a Builder’s expertise right about now,” he muttered—the words rough-edged, half-breathed, half-bitten.

He didn’t speak the name, yet Newt felt it all the same—Gally. He could almost see him there: sleeves rolled up, jaw set, refusing to fail even in this wasteland. They could have benefited from his skilful hands, his defiant stubbornness. The thought stung sharper than the relentless sun.

The tarp went over last—stiff, frayed, yet enough to bear Winston’s weight.

When they lifted him onto it, he groaned, a sound dragged up from the depths of his chest. His head lolled sideways; his eyes fluttered, catching on Newt for a fraction before sliding past him, unfocused.

   “Hold him steady,” Thomas said quietly.

Frypan took one end of the makeshift stretcher, Minho the other, and they began to drag him across the sand. 

Newt limped alongside, his leg aflame, his mind curdling with helplessness. He wanted to tell Winston to hold on—to fight, to resist—but the words died before reaching his tongue. The desert did not care for courage. It only cared for time and how long a body could endure before folding back into dust.

He looked at Thomas again—head down, eyes locked on the distant mountains, as if sheer will could draw them nearer. There was something almost cruel in that focus, that relentless drive forward. Yet it was the only thing keeping them alive.

Newt adjusted the scarf around his face, the heat biting into his skin. “We’ve got you, mate,” he murmured, and he could not tell if the words were for Winston—or a ward against the emptiness threading through his own chest.

The group moved on—slowly, a caravan of lost souls crossing the sun’s cruel stage. The wind picked up again, carrying dust that shimmered like powdered glass.

Newt brought up the rear, his limp growing heavier with every step. He watched the line of footprints they left behind—shallow depressions already filling, erased almost as soon as they were made, as if the Scorch itself were intent on forgetting their very existence.

He remembered the Cranks’ words: Only the infected live here.

And he wondered—wondered if it were true, if the sickness had seeped deeper than blood, into the very marrow of those who persisted. Perhaps survival itself was the contagion, a slow corrosion that hollowed the living as surely as any disease.

His leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, each step a jagged reminder of the debt his body demanded for the cruel pretence of forward motion, joints grinding in silent protest. Yet each movement seemed granted, fragile and borrowed—a tenuous strength drawn from the self he had once been, whose vigour had long since deserted him, leaving only the semblance of a man, dragging himself through a world that had no need for him.

The others forged onward, bowed beneath the relentless sun, beneath the weight of heat and exhaustion. Winston’s litter scraped the sand, a dry, drawn-out rasp, brittle as a whisper of dying wind. Newt kept his eyes fixed on the shifting grains beneath his feet, counting each laborious step, until he became aware of Thomas beside him, fallen back silently. He gritted his teeth, forcing the limp into a veneer of control—but it was futile. Thomas had noticed already; even through the scarf wound tight around his head and face, Newt felt the intensity of his gaze—a quiet, unwavering weight that settled on him, heavier than the desert heat pressing from every side.

   “Tommy, stop.” His voice came rough, sand-scoured. “Don’t ya look at me like that.”

Thomas blinked, the line of his brow knitting, but he said nothing. The wind carried the unspoken between them, thick and suffocating as the heat itself.

Going downhill was worse. The slope pressed weight onto his bad leg, each shift of sand sending tremors up through flesh and bone. The world tilted, slid, and steadied again. Once. Twice. Nearly—

Thomas’ hand shot out. Fingers caught Newt’s arm, firm, certain. For a single heartbeat, he leaned into the presence that both anchored and unmoored, Thomas’ touch threading through his chest with a sharp, consuming pulse of relief and panic.

He jerked away, nearly toppling on the shifting sand, as if physical distance could erase the pull, the vulnerability he could not bear to admit. Every fibre of him screamed to cling, yet the terror of showing weakness drove him backwards.

   “Sorry,” Thomas muttered quickly, eyes dropping to the sand. He tucked his hand against his side, as if to punish it for reaching out.

The apology burrowed into him, a pinprick of conscience, a subtle torment too acute to dismiss. He swallowed, feeling the heat of shame crawl up his throat, staining his cheeks. Pain from his leg had seeped upward, weaving into the ache in his chest, a thrum that lingered behind his ribs—relentless, insistent, impossible to ignore.

He cleared his throat. Opened his mouth, only to close it again. His eyes fixed on the shifting sand, on the jagged mountainscape in the distance, anywhere but Thomas. 

Finally, he let out a slow, shuddering exhale, daring to tilt his gaze back toward Thomas, bracing himself for whatever truth—or judgment—might lie in his eyes.

   “No, Tommy,” he murmured, the nickname soft on his tongue. “I’m sorry—” He faltered, exhaling through the tension coiling in his chest. “I know you don’t think of me like that,”—a burden—“it’s just…”

   I don’t want to be another body you have to carry. 

He left it unspoken, yet the implication hovered there, a flicker of something unspoken in the emptiness between them, cold and accusing.

Thomas’ gaze held his, unwavering. The scarf hid half his face, but his eyes—too earnest, too alive for a world that had little room for such things—spoke everything.

   “You’re not,” Thomas said simply. “Whatever you think you are… you’re not that.”

A hoarse summons reached them from afar—Frypan: “We need to keep moving!”

The moment’s ephemeral hush collapsed.

Newt nodded once, compelling his limbs to obey. Each step was a small betrayal, the ache in his leg flaring with every uneven stride. He fell into step beside Thomas, shoulders brushing; and when Thomas glanced over, Newt forced the faintest, fragile grimace of a grin. “Don’t worry, Tommy,” he murmured, the words tasting like ash on his tongue. “I’m fine.”

And though each step seared through him, he kept moving—because forward was the only lie he still knew how to tell.

The air shimmered with ever-swelling heat; the world a furnace. Newt began to believe the sun could consume them whole—skin first, then thought, then bone. He had long imagined this was the limit, yet the Scorch had a cruel habit of proving him wrong, layer upon layer of suffering waiting to be unearthed.

The wind rose, but brought no fresh breeze, no hint of relief. It lashed the sand against them, hissing through fabric, clawing at their eyes, invading their lungs. Every breath felt borrowed from the desert itself, laden with dust and ruin. Their garments offered little armour; their bodies were puny vessels for a world too vast, too indifferent.

   “Gotta find shelter!” Thomas’ voice cut through the storm, half-swallowed by the gale. His scarf was drawn high, his arm lifted against the onslaught like a lone soldier warding off invisible phantoms.

They stumbled onward until the silhouette of a structure emerged through the swirling dust—crooked metal and fractured concrete, the ribs of some long-forgotten thing half-swallowed by the sand. Perhaps it had once been a bridge, or an overpass; now it was a sentinel of the past, jagged and silent. The rusted husks of old cars jutted out like monuments to oblivion, their paint long scoured away, windows filled with drifting dunes. The Gladers did not hesitate. They slipped beneath the cracked span, entering the fragile mercy of shade.

Newt sank against a slanted girder, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his neck, trickled into his collar, and dried almost as swiftly. Winston’s litter laid down nearby, still, save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Frypan rustled through one of the packs, the sound unnaturally loud against the backdrop of the Scorch. “We should eat,” he rasped, voice roughened by strain. “Doesn’t matter if it’s hot as hell—we’ll need the strength.”

No one argued. Minho grunted his assent and joined Frypan, prying open one of the dented cans they’d scavenged from the ruins of the mall. The scent of metal and brine spread through the shade, sharp and stale. Teresa and Aris shared another, passing it between them in silence, each swallow a weary concession to survival. When she lifted the can to Winston’s mouth, he turned his head aside, lips pressed shut in a faint, stubborn refusal. She didn’t press the matter—only set the can aside and brushed the sweat-matted hair from his brow.

Newt compelled himself to eat, but the stuff disintegrated on his tongue—dry, tasteless, a ghost of a potato, or perhaps nothing at all. His stomach rebelled, yet he swallowed it all the same.

Thomas sat opposite him, silent, shedding his jacket in one fluid, unthinking motion. He unwound the scarf from his face and let it fall into his lap. Sweat traced slow, luminous lines through the grime, catching in the hollow of his collar, a subtle map of motion that drew Newt’s gaze with a pull he could not resist. The air itself seemed to waver around him, hesitant and reverent, as if uncertain whether to touch or to retreat.

On Thomas’ wrist lingered the faint, yellowed ghost of a bruise—Newt’s own imprint, left in a moment of panic. He remembered the heat of that instant: the desperate clutch of his hand, the pulse thrumming beneath his fingers, the wild, unnameable need to hold on. The bruise was fading now, just another mark on a body littered with them; Thomas didn’t seem to regard it anymore. But Newt did; its echo thrummed through him still, a quiet, insistent reminder of the life—and the longing—that refused to be erased. He noticed everything: the deliberate, weary cadence of Thomas’ movements; the way light pooled in fractured rivers across his cheekbones, spilling over the scattered constellations of moles; the quiet gravity in the tilt of his head. There was a terrible, exquisite beauty in it, a cruel proof that life could still assert itself in this desolation. And he—Newt—could still feel; a blaze unbound, defying a world designed to dull the heart.

He watched, mouth parched with a thirst no water could quench, as Thomas rose, lifting the hem of his shirt, brushing away not merely sweat and dust, but the oppressive burden of the day, as though trying to erase its memory from his flesh. The gesture bared the curve of his stomach, the faint hollows and subtle tension of muscle; he was not sculpted like Minho, yet every sinew, every quiet tremor of motion, held Newt in thrall—a soundless undertow that drew and unmade him all at once. His gaze lingered on the dark trail that disappeared beneath Thomas’ waistband, his chest tightening with an ungovernable want, shot through with guilt and something perilously close to—

He only recognised the spell’s hold when Frypan leaned in, a roughened finger beneath his chin, nudging his gaze elsewhere. There was a flicker of mischief in Frypan’s dark eyes—muted, but undeniable. A small ember of humanity kindling amid the world’s indifference.

Newt cleared his throat, ashamed of the lapse, of the quiet treachery of it. That he could feel tenderness—desire—amid the struggle for survival seemed incongruous, almost illicit. Yet it consumed him regardless.

   “Bugger off,” he muttered.

Frypan grinned, a rasp of laughter escaping him despite everything. “Didn’t say a word, shank,” he said, and returned to his meal.

Minho ordered them to rest and wait until the elements themselves chose to relent—whether the sun, in its tyrannous zenith, would abate, or the sand-storm, in its thin and ruthless rage, would tire first; in that suspended interval they were prisoners beneath a narrow strip of shade, poised between the slow unravelling of their limbs and the world’s broader dissolution.

But Thomas could not sit still. He paced the scant patch of ground like some ill-caged creature, his steps abrupt, his shoulders sharp with an inner motion that was not exhaustion alone; even sullied and worn by the heat, something in him kept kindling—an energy Newt could not name and would not have tried to command away. To bid him be still would have been as reasonable as to bid the earth herself to cease her circling of the sun.

At last the gale dwindled to a dry and whispering voice. Newt rose, taking his small chance to steal beyond the bridge’s ribs and relieve himself behind a slab of rusted metal. The desert’s silence then pressed close and strange, as if the absence of the others’ voices made the world too honest; when he returned, the place where he had left human figures lay altered—Thomas gone.

Panic rose in him, blind, immediate, and all too human; it loosened only when he caught sight of that familiar bend of shoulder some fifty metres away, Thomas standing with his back to them, his head inclined toward the smudged promise of distant mountains. Relief and a sour resentment rose in Newt together; he sank beside Minho, who—without exchange of needless words—pressed a canteen into his hands. Newt drank two small swallows that performed the lie of ease but did nothing to dissolve the dryness that stuck in his throat; water, here, was not mere drink but a rationed lifeline, a thing too precious to squander.

Teresa knelt beside Winston’s fever-racked form, smoothing his brow with a tenderness that felt almost indecent in such a landscape. When she rose and crossed the short distance toward Thomas, Newt moved before thought could catch him—half rising, only to feel Minho’s hand close around his wrist.

  “What?” Newt hissed.

  “Slim yourself, shank,” Minho muttered—gruff words undercut by the steady, wordless care in his eyes.

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Yeah, sure.” Minho’s mouth twitched. “Dial it back a notch. Not like they’re gonna start making out in front of us.”

Newt pulled free but didn’t follow; nor could he make himself sit, whether out of restlessness or dread. He leaned against the concrete as if bracing for gusts not yet come, every nerve taut as a wire, keeping watch over the small, private scene. Thomas and Teresa spoke close, their faces tipped toward one another; the wind toyed with Teresa’s hair, and some animal, ugly thing in Newt’s chest tightened at the sight—an old and jealous bruising of the heart. He hated them for looking so like one another, for the easy communion they seemed to share, as if some seam had been mended between their thoughts and left him without a stitch.

   “How’s it looking?” he called, his tone carrying more bite than sense.

Thomas turned; their eyes met across the strip of sun and sand, and for a suspended moment, Newt felt caught, exposed, and entirely self-conscious.

   “It’s a little further,” Thomas answered—careful, clipped, yielding nothing and, perhaps because of that measured calm, revealing yet less.

Newt looked away first and muttered—half to himself, half to the wind—“That’s not very convincing,” and dropped back beside Minho and Frypan. Winston lay motionless near them, his skin shining with fever, the lids of his eyes twitching with dreams that did not belong to the living. 

Newt drew out the battered notebook and let his fingers drift across its empty pages, some torn away long ago. He traced the faint, ghostly impressions left by a pen—delicate ridges pressed into paper warped and brittle under the Scorch’s relentless heat. His hands trembled as he searched for the pen in his pocket, but found nothing worth writing. His mind felt both overflowing and hollow, a storm held captive in a single, empty chest.

Frypan broke the hush with the coarse humour of men who prefer anger to despair. “If this is another one of their games,” he spat, “why don’t WICKED have the decency to show their ugly faces? I’m fed up with playing blindfolded.”

Minho snorted; his voice a tired, uncompromising rasp. “They’d best stay well away from me. If that rat‑faced slinthead shows his face again, I’ll deal with him.” He sealed the threat with a slow, ceremonial gesture—thumb drawn across his own throat—his eyes rolling back as if invoking some grim benediction.

Newt let out a thin, humourless laugh. “Cheers to that, mate,” he said, and closed the notebook, tucking it away as if he might hide from the paper’s blank expectation.

They were distracted only for a moment—long enough for thought to dissolve into silence—and then everything happened at once.

Winston rolled from the litter with a strangled cry, the pistol already clutched in his hand. Minho, honed by years of Maze‑born instinct, reacted without hesitation, lunging toward him. The shot cracked through the air, blind, striking concrete above. Dust cascaded down in a pale shower, a miniature apocalypse settling over them.

   “Shucking hell!” Frypan cursed, rushing to aid Minho, who grappled with Winston in a brutal tangle—grunts, fists, the dull scrape of skin against grit. 

   “Hey!” Aris shouted, gesturing wildly.  “Guys, get down here!”

   “Winston, what are you doing, man?” Frypan barked, torn between fear and authority. “Give me that!”

With a final, violent wrench, Frypan tore the weapon free just as Thomas and Teresa stumbled into the maelstrom.

   “What’s going on?” Thomas demanded.

   “What happened?” Teresa’s eyes flicked across the fray, trying to make sense of it.

   “I—I don’t know,” Frypan stammered, every syllable trembling. “He just woke up, grabbed the gun—tried to…”

   “Give it back,” Winston rasped, his hand trembling, reaching, pleading. “Please… give it back.”

   “Winston!” Thomas dropped beside him. “Winston, look at me.”

He tried to lift him, to steady him, but Winston only doubled over, convulsing. A dark, tar-thick liquid spilt from his mouth, tracing long, obscene threads across the sand. 

   “No…” Frypan whispered, retreating, the sound hollow and fragile against the scene. Thomas recoiled too, scrambling back on unsteady feet, eyes wide.

Newt remained a prisoner within his own flesh, rooted, paralysed—the body present, yet ungoverned; his mind pitched into a spiralling helplessness, incapable of movement, of breath, of thought, as if the world had contracted to the sickening, blackened arc of that moment.

They had all feared it. None had dared to give it voice. And now the truth crawled into the light, terrible in its becoming.

Winston coughed again and collapsed sideways, rolling onto his back. His limbs fell limp, his eyes glazed with fever. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his shirt. The bandages over his wounds were darkened, the blood no longer red but blackened, like rot pressed into cloth. Veins writhed from underneath them, pulsing, branching, spreading like roots seeking soil—the infection moving as though it were alive.

   “It’s… growing,” he gasped, disbelief and pure terror tangled in his breath. “Inside me.”

No one moved. No one spoke. Newt’s eyes found Thomas—not for guidance, but for recognition; for the solace of seeing pain made human in another.

Winston’s hand dropped; he pulled his shirt down again and let his head rest against the sand. “I’m not gonna make it,” he whispered. His eyes, when they opened again, were terribly lucid.

He turned toward Frypan, who still held the gun as though it might bite him. “Please,” Winston breathed, voice shaking, “don’t let me turn into one of those things.”

Frypan’s breath stuttered; he adjusted his hold, as if the weapon’s weight were no longer physical, but moral—too heavy for any hand to bear.

Newt swallowed. The decision came to him not as a choice but as an inevitability—something already written, awaiting only his hands to turn the page.

   “Wait, Newt—” Thomas’ voice broke behind him, hoarse with protest, as Newt stepped forward.

Gently, he pried the pistol from Frypan’s unresisting grasp. The metal seared his palm, heavy with consequence. He sank to his knees beside Winston, whose trembling fingers glistened with sweat, and pressed the weapon into them, guiding his hand until the barrel found its resting place against his chest.

Winston’s collapse was a mirror held too near, a vision of the path that waited, patient and sure. The clarity of it struck through him—cold, clean, absolute. When his own hour came, he would not be carried; he would not become another burden upon those he loved. He fancied, in a small and bitter honesty, that in such an hour he would choose the swift release. There was a certain mercy, he thought, in choosing one’s own ending.

He understood Winston’s wish—perhaps more deeply than anyone could.

   “Thank you,” Winston whispered. A faint, hollow peace crossed his face—relief, terrible in its purity.

Newt understood that, too.

Winston swallowed, each word a labour of effort. “Now… get outta here.”

Newt rose. He did not look at Thomas. He did not look at anyone.

He only turned, shouldering his pack, and walked—through the harsh light, through the scorched sand. He did not glance back. Not once. He moved relentlessly, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the fate he was leaving behind, yet knowing, with a hollow certainty, that no matter which way he went, he would arrive there again. Eventually.

Behind him, the others followed, slow and wordless—a procession of ghosts skirting the edge of the living world. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, so unnervingly still it felt unreal.

Then the shot came—flat, final, and echoing across the barren plain.

Newt halted. Closed his eyes. The sound lodged within him, setting his heart to stumble beneath its solemn weight, beneath the cruel knowing that another’s beat had ceased—forever.

Notes:

If you’d like to read something that delves deeper into Newt’s character and his fear of being a burden to Thomas and the others, I highly recommend Oh, Dove by toadstoolthrone. It’s a beautifully written piece with spot-on characterisation, and I love it dearly

Chapter 19

   The sun bled into the horizon, a molten sphere spilling gold and crimson across a sky that seemed already dying. Its last light carved jagged, clawing shadows over the wasteland—a grave of dust and ruin where even the wind grew weary. Sand clung to hair, to lashes, to lungs, layering their skin with a fine, suffocating veil of grit. Beneath their boots, the earth splintered and moaned—parched, fractured, as though the world itself had long since surrendered.

Sweat no longer rose; their bodies had nothing left to offer. Breath rasped shallow and dry through cracked lips, and thought itself dulled, blunted by exhaustion. Only the faint, trembling silhouette of the mountains ahead—ghostly and flickering in the haze—urged them forward. Whether salvation or mirage, it mattered little; it was a point to walk toward, and that alone sustained them.

Newt lagged behind, shoulders bowed beneath a weight far greater than fatigue. He watched the back of Thomas’ head, already knowing—without needing the confirmation of his face—the expression he wore: that deep, soul-struck weariness, the kind that seeped from the spirit rather than the flesh, a grievous exhaustion untouched by any promise of rest.

They had lost too much. Too many lives. Too much time. Too many pieces of themselves left strewn across the wasteland behind them—splintered remnants that no hand could gather, no mercy could mend. Still, they walked, and the scorched earth muttered beneath their steps, as though resentful at having to bear the weight of the hope-starved wanderers who trudged across its ruin.

It was only their second night out alone, yet they had already outlasted Janson’s grim prognoses. There was no triumph in it. Survival no longer masqueraded as victory; it had become something quieter, darker—an instinctive, lingering pulse in those too bruised, too sorrow-worn, to surrender to the silence waiting at their heels.

Two lives lost since their flight from the facility—Jack, Winston—and the tally would not end with them.

The mountains ahead rose like a procession of graveyard monuments against the bruised dusk, while WICKED’s malevolent breath slithered along the backs of their necks, icy tendrils—steady as hunger, inevitable as corruption threading through flesh, pursuing them with the slow, unerring certainty of carrion’s fate. There had been no room for grief, not while the sun scorched the earth into a white delirium; but now, as its final embers guttered and died, surrendering the world to the other cruelty—the merciless chill—the deeds of the day returned to them with sharpened teeth. Only in this bleak hour, when night cinched itself tight around their spent forms, did the weight of all they had endured descend with its full, bone-deep gravity.

They made camp in the lee of a rusted ship, half-swallowed by the dunes; its colossal hull canted as though seized mid-voyage by the encroaching sands. The sight was disconcerting: metal containers, once lashed firmly to the deck, had toppled sideways like offerings abandoned to time, all shrouded beneath a thick layer of windblown dust. Newt found himself wondering how far the waters had fled to leave such a relic marooned here, a solitary cenotaph in a desert that seemed to have never known an ocean.

When they were certain no Cranks lurked within, Frypan struck a spark and coaxed a fire to life. At first, Newt thought it reckless. Yet as the night fell completely and the cold seeped marrow‑deep, shameful relief unfurled within him at the tremulous glow. Here, the world swung mercilessly between extremes—scorching days and frigid nights that scoured to the bone, as if the very air sought to pare them down to their last trembling essence. Even in its cage‑like confines, the Glade had been gentler in that regard. Still, not for a moment did Newt wish himself back there. Better to die beneath an open sky, claimed by sand or madness, than ever again feel the chains of WICKED tighten around his throat.

They sat around the fire in silence. Sparks leapt upward—brief, bright things—before vanishing into the great unbroken dark. Newt’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, toward the dead: Jack and Winston, yes, but also Alby, Chuck. Gally. Faces that refused to fade, shadows that lingered at the edges of memory. He knew the others felt it too. They would carry these names with them wherever the road led, each one made immortal by remembrance alone. As long as someone still held the record of their passage, they would never be wholly gone

Winston’s face remained a fresh scar upon his thoughts.

When he had begged for the end, Newt had met the plea with a still, unwavering comprehension, feeling solemn compassion and despair entwined. Even now, the memory carried no guilt—only sorrow, and a strange, dreadful peace. Winston’s death had been an act of grace, not cruelty. He had faced his fate with a courage Newt could only envy, a final act of defiance in a world that offered them precious little choice. Let others judge; in his bones, Newt knew it had been right. Winston’s death had been his own to claim, and in that claim lay both honour and the grim kindness of sparing them the task of extinguishing what the virus would have left of him.

Still, grief writhed in the hollow of Newt’s chest, a serpent coiled in perpetual ache. Each loss stripped another layer from their beings, leaving only the thinnest, trembling threads to bind them. Newt had long accepted the grim inevitability: he would not be spared, and he was already taking the measures the future demanded. Sooner or later, its scathing hand would claim him. It was no question of if, only of when.

His fingers slipped into his pocket, brushing first against the pendant, then the folded scrap of paper secreted beside it—a note, hastily wrought, his silent testament. Torn from the notebook, the words had been scrawled with a trembling hand, each stroke a quiet act of defiance, conceived in the hollow interlude between the echo of Winston’s gunshot and the lingering ache of every new bereavement.

It took all of Newt’s will not to yield to the familiar demons clawing at the frayed edges of his mind, urging him to end it then and there. Since learning he wasn’t immune, those whispers had grown bolder, darker, slipping like poison into the cracks left by exhaustion and fear. At times, he wondered whether this was already the Flare threading its way through him—warping instinct, staining thought, drawing him ever closer to the abyss with each passing day.

He knew better than that. Those self‑destructive shadows had stalked him long before the virus had a name. And apart from the treacherous murmur of his mind, his body showed no hint of progression—no fever, no tremor, no fracturing of self. That alone suggested a different truth: the darkness was no handiwork of the Flare, but something older, a gnarled root burrowed deep within him, a relentless weed of despair that would not be purged, a bleak inheritance that had always clung to his marrow, entwining itself with the light of his mind and bending him toward the void.

And yet—
Thomas.

Newt felt that if anyone could guide him through the Stygian currents of his mind—the shadowed, treacherous waters he had so recklessly courted—it would be him: Thomas, the antidote to the venomous bite of his depression, drawing him from the underworld of despair. He was unsure whether to be grateful—or to despise himself for needing such a thing—but he trusted that Thomas would not falter, would not turn, even as Newt’s own feelings remained unspoken, unrequited, trailing silently behind, bound by hope and shackled to the certainty of his own devotion. For this moment, relief suffused him—a grim, tenuous comfort that he could still feel anything at all.

Newt was startled from his thoughts as Aris fed the fire, dry branches snapping and sending sparks leaping like fugitive stars before they were devoured by the night. Frypan sat close, his cheeks glinting with tears in the flickering light, each droplet catching the orange blaze like a tiny, incandescent jewel, suspended in transient being. Newt’s hand rose, instinctively, to his own face, and he was not surprised to find it wet with the same inexorable grief. Across the fire, Thomas’ eyes shimmered with moisture as well, and even Minho, hands locked in the rhythmic whirl of a spinning knife, made no attempt to cloak the quiet desolation that gripped him.

Teresa, to Newt’s right, remained stoic, betraying nothing of the thoughts churning behind her calm exterior. But she had not known Jack or Winston as the others had. Not like Frypan—friend to both, who had already borne the heaviest toll of loss: Gally, Chuck, and now Jack and Winston. Even as Newt mourned for Alby, he found a grim consolation in the fact that Thomas and Minho remained beside him—a faint, flickering comfort, yet one tinged with the sombre acknowledgement of all that had been stolen.

   “I can’t believe they’re dead,” Frypan rasped, voice ragged, like sand scraped across stone. He made no effort to wipe the streaks on his cheeks, letting the tears fall freely, as though yielding to the very gravity of the darkness that pressed upon them.

   “People have died before,” Minho said, flipping the knife open and shut with mechanical precision. Then, as though the motion could carve away the knotted tumult within him, he seized a stick that had rolled from the fire and scraped at the soot.

Frypan watched him, throat bobbing with a sound caught somewhere between anguish and disbelief. “Not like this,” he said.

Minho’s hand stilled mid-scrape. He looked up sharply, meeting Frypan’s gaze. “What’re you saying? The way people died in the Maze was no less cruel. Remember that cut-in-half shank? What about the Grievers?”

   “No need to remind me of the Grievers all the time,” Frypan muttered, swallowing hard. “I’ll never forget them. But that’s not it. Then it was on WICKED. Now… it’s all us. WICKED didn’t pull Jack down those escalators. WICKED didn’t infect Winston. That was us. Our choices. If only we’d never left, then maybe—”

   “Then we’d be dangling from ceilings, drained dry for our blood,” Aris cut in quietly, so low that Newt nearly missed it.

   “Maybe Winston and Jack could still be with us,” Frypan said, adamant, each word heavy with dolour, steeped in the misery of loss.

   “No,” Minho snapped, jabbing a finger—knife still in hand—toward Aris. “That shank’s right. At least we’re not guinea pigs for those shuck psychopaths anymore.”

   “Maybe,” Frypan said, a dry rasp, charred, acrid as smoke. “I’m just not sure we’re faring much better out here than we did back in the Maze.”

Minho said nothing. He resumed whittling, the stick already bare and pale as bone.

Newt’s eyes found Thomas, framed by the firelight that trembled over his face in restless yellows, shadows rippling across the planes of his features. His jaw was drawn tight, lips compressed, eyes fixed on the flames as if they could hold back the world. But Newt saw through the mask—beneath it, guilt and doubt roiled like obsidian currents, dark and unyielding, pressing against his own chest with a weight that made his ribs ache. He knew, with an intimacy born of shared suffering, how fiercely Thomas condemned himself.

   “I know I’ve said it before,” Frypan murmured into the silence, “but I miss the Glade.”

At that, Thomas rose with sudden, almost startled motion. He spoke no word, offered no explanation—Newt didn’t need him to give one—and stepped into the darkness, swallowed at once by yet another gathering storm.

He waited, glancing at Minho, then at Teresa, half-expecting someone—anyone—to rise and follow. But Teresa remained seated, arms drawn tight around her knees, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the firelight, distant. When no one else did, Newt rose.

   “Don’t,” Teresa said, her voice low, a quiet command that carried the weight of authority without a shout. “He needs to be alone right now.”

Newt paused only for a heartbeat, the firelight flickering across his face, before tightening his jacket and slipping silently into the night after Thomas.

The storm’s edge tore across the barren ground, flinging sand like spectral shrapnel, each gust tasting of loss and tarnished resolve. Thomas had not gone far—just far enough for the others’ voices to fracture and dissolve into the wind. He leaned against the jagged metal of an overturned container, shoulders drawn inward as if the cold and woe were twin chains, each pressing him into the night’s merciless, enveloping embrace.

Newt adjusted his scarf, tugging it closer, each step hesitant, measured, as though the very air might betray him. He lowered himself onto the sand a few paces away, maintaining a careful distance, not wanting to intrude, yet incapable of leaving Thomas to the solitude of the night. Their eyes met for the briefest flicker, and Thomas remained silent, neither greeting nor dismissing him. A quiet relief seeped into Newt’s bones, a faint pulse of warmth in the frost.

Around them, the wind moaned like a grieving spirit, and in his hands, Thomas turned Chuck’s small wooden figure over and over, fingers tracing the worn edges, as if the motion might conjure meaning from the senseless atrocity the inert shape embodied.  

Up close, Thomas appeared utterly spent, and Newt knew he was scarcely any better. Dark crescents yawned beneath their eyes, carved by nights too long and haunted by unrelenting nightmares; their faces were gaunt, skin stretched taut over bone, sculpted by hunger, worry, and the cruelty of the Scorch. They might not know their true ages, yet the world had aged them far beyond reckoning.

   “You haven’t slept a wink since we left, have you?” Newt began, stating the obvious.

Thomas kept his eyes lowered. “Do you… also think we should turn back?” His voice was flat, toneless, a wisp struggling to bear the weight of the question.

   “No,” Newt said, the word trembling on his lips, fraught with the dark import of what Thomas had implied.

   “I could understand if you wanted to, you know… after Winston. I—”

   “Tommy, slim it,” Newt cut him off, gentleness woven through the quiet steel of his voice.“I don’t want to go back. Not now, not ever. Not one wretched bone in me would even dare look behind.”

   “But you’re not immune,” Thomas said, stripped of all pretence. His fingers clenched around Chuck’s figure, trembling.

   “That I am not,” Newt admitted.

   “So what if—?” Thomas began, only for the question to shrivel, caught in the briars of a possibility too terrible to speak. “What if—?”

   “I am next,” Newt said, plain, uncompromising, cruel in its honesty.

Thomas closed his eyes, his fingers continuing their slow, desperate tracing along the tiny figure’s contours, as though its delicate lines might yet yield an answer the world refused to give.

   “Listen,” Newt whispered, tongue darting over lips dry and cracked from sun and wind, tasting iron and dust. “Frypan was only letting off steam.”

Thomas shook his head, eyes cracking open as if forced from some bleak inward place. Exhaustion dragged at his features, pulling his words into something heavy, resigned. “He’s right, though… I’m the reason we’re stuck out here.”

Newt’s heart clenched, Thomas’ self-reproach cleaving through him like a blade honed on sorrow. He leaned in, eyes tracing the shadowed angles of Thomas’ face. “No,” he said, soft but sure, a conviction spoken into the gloom. “You’re the reason we’re free.”

For a long moment, Thomas didn’t respond; the quiet between them pressed down heavier than any words of reassurance Newt could muster. He studied him—the boy who had once seemed untouchable, invincible even. Now, he appeared diminished, shrunken beneath everything he endured. Cheekbones sharp, skin pale against dark hair, eyes shadowed with doubt—but beneath it, all the same Thomas. The boy who had once kindled light in the most haunted corridors of Newt’s life.

And beyond everything else, Newt saw him—not the leader, not the rebel or saviour—but Thomas. Thomas, who had become the axis of Newt’s existence, the gravity of his heart, the quiet impossibility he could not turn from.

His gaze lingered, intense, almost confessional, and Newt felt the weight of his own heart pressing against his ribs, fearing Thomas might read its hidden truths if only he dared lift his eyes and truly look. Yet when Thomas remained bowed, head lowered, a quiet, stubborn pulse of courage stirred within Newt’s chest.

   “The others might have their doubts,” he murmured, “and that’s fine. But they would follow you anywhere.”

   “They follow you, too,” Thomas answered.

Newt shook his head, a subtle tremor betraying his effort to stay composed. “It’s different with me, though. You know it is.”

At last, Thomas lifted his head, brow drawn tight, and their eyes met across the darkness—fathoms deep, exhaustion and pain surging like a dark tide, shadowed pools, each a tempest mirrored within the other.

   “I don’t know where we’re going,” Thomas said. “We’re lost.”

   “We’ve been lost before,” Newt replied, holding his look, unwavering.

   “Not like this.”

The words echoed Frypan’s earlier lament, a grim refrain of blame Thomas seemed determined to shoulder—far too heavy for any one soul. And Newt, helpless to steady him, felt a quiet, urgent swell rise in his chest—a need to shield even the faintest spark of hope from the encroaching darkness that threatened to snuff it out.

   “There’s a place for us out there somewhere,” he said, each word trembling with all the weight of feeling he could summon. “I don’t know where it is, but I know a lot of our friends died to get us this far. So we can’t give up. You can’t give up. I won’t let you.”

Thomas stared at him, and in that gaze, Newt let slip every last pretence. He longed to be seen—truly seen—if only for a fleeting instant. Slowly, his hand rose, settling on Thomas’ back, lingering like a slender conduit of solace, a delicate thread binding two drifting hearts. He ached to speak more, to stave off the shadows hungering for Thomas’ faith, yet he understood the narrow confines of what he was allowed to give. All he was, all he had, he would have laid bare, had Thomas but asked. Still, the offering remained uninvoked; its possession, its command, Thomas’ alone.

   “Come on, man,” Newt said, rising to his feet. “Get some sleep, yeah?”

He moved to withdraw, but Thomas’ fingers closed around his wrist before he could fully pull away—tentative, almost shy, yet enough to halt him. Thomas inclined his head, a quiet question hovering in the arch of his brow, eyes wide with an unfamiliar vulnerability. He did not let go. The warmth of his touch seared into Newt’s skin, a fleeting lifeline in the cold expanse of night, and he welcomed it like air drawn after a plunge beneath dark, silent waters.

   “Newt, I—how are you? I mean, are you okay?” Thomas asked, voice low, almost bashful, tempered with careful restraint.

Newt exhaled sharply, half in exasperation, half in the recognition of the care hidden within the question. Of course he wasn’t okay; Thomas did not need him to say it. And yet, embedded in those words, there was concern—soft, probing, unbidden. It both pricked and warmed him, a double-edged comfort.

   “I’m fine, Tommy,” Newt said firmly, easing Thomas’ finger from his wrist with deliberate gentleness. “If that changes, you’ll be the first to know,” he added, the promise laced with a bitter edge, a quiet acknowledgement of the precariousness of their world.

Thomas’ brows drew together, uncertainty flickering across his face like shadows across a moonlit wall.

   “Teresa said something…” he began, faltering, voice tapering off as his gaze drifted into the distance.

   “Said what?” Newt asked, irritation sharpening his tone.

   "Never mind," Thomas said, deflecting. "It’s… nothing."

Newt did not press. He told himself he didn’t want to know, that whatever Teresa had said was none of his concern—if Thomas didn’t wish to share it, then neither did he. He forced a shrug, a shallow concession to reason, though the rift between what he felt and what he allowed himself to show yawned wide. Jealousy, bitter and insistent, nibbled at him, creeping where he least wanted it.

He eventually returned to the others, leaving Thomas to his thoughts, and by the time Thomas finally rejoined them, the fire had dwindled to a bed of sullen embers, their faint glow barely rousing the night from its blue-tinged gloom. Newt lay curled on his side, arms drawn tight against the bite of the cold, each shallow exhale a ghost of white, twisting into the darkness and vanishing as if it had never been. He listened, attuned, as Thomas’ footsteps approached—tentative, weary, yet unmistakably his. They faltered at the edge of the smouldering coals, then paused.

For a long moment, only Frypan’s soft snoring and the wind’s wail punctuated the silence.

Then Thomas lowered himself into the sand behind Newt—close, closer than was necessary, yet not so close as to admit anything. Still, near enough that Newt felt the inviting heat radiating from him through the cold.

Newt shifted, a subtle movement, fingertips brushing the rough weave of Thomas’ jacket sleeve. As if reading that tiny signal, Thomas eased forward without hesitation, bridging the remaining space. Newt didn’t pause to think—he simply moved, looping an arm around him, drawing him in. Thomas allowed it, his back settling against Newt’s chest as though the space had always been his.

Emboldened by the ease of it, Newt slid his hand beneath the jacket, fingers splayed over the steady thrum of Thomas’ heart.

Thomas did not flinch; he did not tense. Instead, his hand rose, settling over Newt’s, pressing it more firmly against his chest. His fingers were cold from the wind, yet they warmed almost instantly to Newt’s touch, as if seeking it, as if needing it.

Newt knew Minho was awake nearby, a silent sentinel against the dark, but he could not bring himself to care. Let the whole bloody Scorch bear witness if it chose. All that mattered was Thomas—his warmth, the rise and fall of his breath, the steady rhythm beneath Newt’s palm that confirmed he was here, alive, not lost to the night or swallowed by grief.

Perhaps it did not matter where they went next. Perhaps the world had scorched their path into something unrecognisable, faithless, broken. Yet with Thomas pressed close, steady and breathing, the wasteland felt a fraction less merciless.

Any place, Newt realised, could be home—so long as Thomas was there.

Thomas shifted slightly in Newt’s arms, and that was when Newt noticed it—the tiny wooden figure still trapped in Thomas’ fist, the little carved head jutting from white-knuckled fingers.

A dark, unholy solace twisted through Newt’s mind, a flash of instinctive understanding that perhaps Chuck had been granted mercy in death, spared the blistering disillusionment of this world—a world bereft of parents, of all the guileless hopes and dreams he had nurtured in his far-too-brief time in the Glade. Just a month. That was all the time Chuck had ever known.

He must have let the thought slip aloud, for Thomas stiffened in his hold. A tense moment lingered before Thomas offered a small, reluctant nod, as if admitting to a shared sin.

   “I thought the same.” Thomas let the words go in a low, unsteady hush, as if even they felt the shame of being spoken. “And I’ve been sick with it ever since.”

   “Don’t…” His voice fractured, and his hand clenched of its own accord, fisting in Thomas’ shirt in a grasp he could neither justify nor release. Thomas responded with a sharp, uneven breath; his fingers threaded through Newt’s tight hold—not to free it, but to fasten it, to anchor him in place. The touch arrested his heart, only to cast it again into a frantic, fevered rhythm.

   “Don’t,” Newt said again, softer now, gentled by the swell of feeling that pressed hard against his ribs, too vast for words and yet begging for them. “Don’t bloody tear yourself apart over it. Thinkin’ it doesn’t make you a bad person—far from it. Chuck deserved none of this.”

   “Neither do you.”

The words sank into Newt, plunging to depths he had walled from himself, and stirred what he thought dormant.

Thomas couldn’t know what that simple kindness did to him—how it slipped past armour and bone to rouse the darkest, most yearning parts within. The parts that longed to shield Thomas from every horror, every loss, every grasping hand the world might set upon him—to guard him even from the wounds he dealt himself, and, in some twisted, fervent way, from the very part of him he could not still, the part that desired Thomas beyond reason, beyond restraint.

He stalled, balanced on the edge of impulse, before leaning so slightly that his nose skimmed the shell of Thomas’ ear. When he spoke, the words emerged as a whisper—cracked, raw, pared to the bone.

   “And yet I am here. Because I choose to be. Here. With you.”

Thomas’ hand remained atop his, and in the hush between their breaths, Newt felt the thrum beneath his palm—a small, startled flutter. It held him fast like nothing else could; his own pulse yielded, bending toward it, attuning to the subtle cadence beneath his hand, until the two beats entwined, a single, resonant rhythm—an intimate harmony poised on the edge of revelation.

Newt leaned just enough to glimpse the small wooden figure still cradled in Thomas’ other hand. “Would you mind… givin’ that to me? Just for a while.”

Thomas went very still. Newt felt it at once—the catch of breath, the subtle recoil of muscle, the faint, instinctive tightening of his spine. A cold shiver of dread ran through him. Had he crossed some unseen line? Pressed too close, too soon? 

Then Thomas exhaled, and the last vestiges of caution fled with it. The rigid line of his shoulders softened, yielding in increments: the faintest tilt, the slightest concession of weight. He did not recoil, did not resist; he simply remained, as Newt’s arm drew him closer. When he loosened his grip on the wooden figure, it was slow, reluctant, as if prying open a wound. Newt felt the subtle quiver beneath his palm before the small carving slipped free.

Thomas laid it there with the care of one entrusting a secret—or a scar—to another’s keeping.

Newt closed his hand around it, sliding the figure into his pocket with careful intent, where it nestled beside the pendant and the folded scrap of paper he dared not dwell upon—tokens that bound him to truth, to loss, to Thomas in ways he could not name without breaking.

  “I’ll carry it for you,” he said, as if he meant only the figure.

Yet what he bore was far more—
the grief,
the guilt,
the whole of Thomas itself, laid bare and trembling into his hands.

Thomas settled more fully against his chest, drawing Newt’s hand back to the place over his heart as though it had always belonged there—an unthinking gesture, instinctive and intimate. The weight of Thomas leaning into him, trusting him enough to rest there, felt both transient and monumental.

Newt lowered his forehead to Thomas’ shoulder, closing his eyes. Thomas smelled of sweat and dust, and something impossibly familiar—warm and real. It grounded him, steadied him, and unmade him in the same breath.

   This is enough.  
   It has to be enough.

Anything beyond would trespass on a delicate line, a boundary neither had named, yet Newt instinctively felt.

Time shifted around them, folding and stretching, minutes melting into hours, or perhaps into the span of a single shared breath. The fire murmured somewhere behind them; the wind swept low across the dunes, carrying only distance, irrelevance.

   “About earlier…” Newt said, unable to contain himself, voice softer than the shifting sand. “When I said I wouldn’t let you give up, I meant it.” His throat tightened, but he pressed on. “I believe in you, Tommy. Always have.”

Thomas did not stir; he lay in Newt’s arms, still as if the world itself had paused, and Newt wondered if sleep had claimed him mid-thought.

Then—so faint it might have been imagined—

    “Thanks, Newt.”

And in the hush that followed, Newt allowed himself a dangerous, fleeting faith—that for this night, this hour, this breath, closeness such as this was his to hold.

   You’re welcome, he thought.
   You always will be.

Notes:

Forever salty that this scene didn’t make the cut. For all the obvious reasons, of course—but also because I’ve always seen it as a direct counterpoint to the scene between Thomas and Teresa that comes just before. It’s such a clever narrative choice, crafted to show Thomas pulled between the opposing counsel of Newt and Teresa, and its deletion only makes the loss feel all the more poignant.

We have Teresa earlier, reproaching Thomas—she tells him it’s not too late to turn back. Thomas begins to doubt; he feels lost. He even confesses to Newt that he doesn’t know where they’re going.

And then Newt speaks. He says the exact opposite of what Teresa told Thomas. He tells him they have to keep going, because too many friends have died to get them this far, because there is a place for them—a place far from WICKED, far from everything that haunts them. And ultimately, it is Newt’s words that Thomas takes to heart. Thomas follows them, all the way to the end. Until he loses Newt.

Newt tells him, 'You can’t give up. I won’t let you' And yet, the instant Newt draws his last breath, is the moment Thomas does give up. He got Minho back. Brenda. Frypan. Jorge. The Right Arm. All the people he’d spent months fighting alongside, surviving with. Safe Haven is right there, waiting. But he doesn’t want it. Not without Newt.

That's canon.

And it’s why this scene matters so profoundly to me. It is pivotal—not just for the characters’ arcs, but for the emotional trajectory of the story itself.

Notes:

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of The Maze Runner (fili's version)