Chapter Text
It rained last night.
The humidity makes it difficult to grab a decent breath. His side throbs and his lungs scream, but he doesn't slow his stride. His eyes have long since adjusted to the cloying darkness of the night. He runs along the shore, shoes sinking into the sand with every step.
He stumbles. Chokes on a breath. Then regains his pace and keeps going.
Running. There's something almost therapeutic about it; in the way he can focus on his burning lungs and aching legs. It's something to occupy his mind other than his thoughts. Thoughts which start out innocent enough, but almost always turn on him, eventually.
Because he’s starting to heal. He's starting to forget, his mind attempting to shield him from the trauma.
Which leg was the one with the limp? It was the right… right? No, no it was definitely the left.
He stumbles again. This time, he falls. The sand cushions his fall, but in a way that sickens him in its familiarity.
Sand. Sand everywhere.
Always fucking sand. He's tired of it.
Get up, keep going. Keep going, his mind urges.
“I can't,” he rasps.
You can. Get up.
He swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper.
A husky laugh rises in his throat like bile.
He moves to push himself up. His arms shake from the strain, and his old bullet wound makes itself known with a sharp lance of pain through his torso.
“I can't!” he screams. “Don't you get that?”
What did his laugh sound like? Don't you remember? Which leg had the limp? He's gone he's gone he's gone he's g
Get up. Keep going.
I can’t!”
He can't, but he does. He staggers to his feet, hands trembling, and runs.
He runs until the sky starts to brighten. Until Minho comes looking for him, as he does every morning.
“You stupid shank,” Minho says, eyes bright with concern, and drags him back to reality. To responsibilities. To a life that seems to slowly be losing its meaning.
Every day is the same, but the hollow feeling in Thomas’s chest doesn't leave, no matter how much he tries to run from it.
He's starting to forget.
And it's breaking him. Piece by piece.
He rarely sleeps.
He tries to run from that, too. Tonight it decides to finally catch up to him.
He's exhausted himself to the point where dreams evade him.
When he wakes up, it's dark.
Something is different, a voice whispers in the back of his mind. The too-soft cot beneath him is hard and unyielding. His back aches and his neck twinges.
Did I fall on the floor last night?
The normally warm, often muggy air is replaced with a chill that seeps into his very bones.
He inhales, and the smell of metal and dust and oil floods his lungs.
Something is different.
His eyes seem to refuse to adjust to the dim lighting.
He sits up. Holds his hand in front of his face. If he squints, he can just make out his fingers wiggling.
Something is different.
He gropes at the ground beneath him, ready to push himself to his feet. His fingers curl around the cool metal grate, small holes giving him grip.
Something is wrong.
The cage jolts then begins to move. It steadily picks up speed, a whirr to accompany the acceleration.
“What?” he whispers.
Get out.
“Where am I?”
It's a dream it's a dream it's a dream it's
Okay, so wake up, for fuck’s sake!
The whirring gets louder. He's going up. Fast. Too fast.
All at once, the Box jerks to a halt.
“No. No no no.”
He's had dreams like this before.
There are always two common themes: that he never sees Newt, and that he wakes up.
A sliver of light slashes through the darkness. It widens, and he has to shield his eyes from the piercing brightness of it.
He pulls his arm away before his eyes fully adjust, and the light burns, makes his eyes water. Figures loom above him, pressing in on all sides and craning their heads down to get a good look.
His head spins with the familiarity of it all.
Congrats. You've finally lost it completely, he thinks.
He stares, shocked into silence as the murmurs begin to pick up in volume.
“Go get him,” someone calls out.
And then Gally drops down into the Box with him, making it rattle. He leers at Thomas, face smeared with dirt and eyes glittering.
“Day one, Greenie. Rise ‘n shine.” His breath smells absolutely rancid.
“You seriously need to-”
Gally grabs him by the lapels of his shirt and yanks him up, out of the Box. He hits the dirt, hard.
And it hurts.
You can't feel pain in dreams, can you?
The thought is fleeting, and he struggles to stand, his legs nearly buckling beneath him.
His scans the crowd of Gladers.
His eyes find Chuck and linger. He rips his gaze away and finds Alby. Gally. Frypan. Everyone. The ones he saved and the ones he failed. All except Newt.
“Where-” he starts, but he chokes on his sentence, emotion threatening to overwhelm him.
See? He's not here. It's a dream, you'll wake up at any moment now.
“Welcome to the Glade,” Alby says, but it barely even registers in Thomas's mind.
And it's the same. It's all exactly the same. Except for Newt.
He's not here.
Hopelessness curls around his chest like a vice.
You're dreaming, it's just a dream.
It can't be. It's too real. There's no way.
“Look at the Greenie. Looks like he's about to pass out,” Gally says, snickering.
That's not what he said the first time, is it?
“I can't remember,” Thomas says, and he surprises himself by speaking the words instead of just thinking them. His eyes dart over to Alby.
“It's normal. Same thing with all of us,” Alby says, “your name, though. That'll come back in a few days. It's the one thing they let us keep.”
And that's when Thomas notices the difference. He hasn't been thrown in the Slammer, and yet he's having the same conversation he'd had with Alby.
You're changing things already.
Is that such a bad thing? It's a dream anyway, what does it matter?
Thomas's throat threatens to close up on him. “What’s happening?”
Alby smiles. “All right, everyone, back to work! You can pester the Greenbean later.”
The Gladers slowly disperse back to their jobs. Thomas’s gaze falls on Chuck and he watches the boy all the way back to the Homestead.
“-you get me?”
Thomas blinks and forces himself to look away from the crooked building. “Uh. What?”
Alby shakes his head. “You'd better listen, shuck-face, cuz I'm not gonna repeat myself a third time.”
Thomas nods.
Alby seems satisfied enough, for he starts talking again, gesturing around the Glade.
“We eat here. Sleep here. Grow our own food, build our own shelter. Whatever we need, the Box provides. The rest is up to us.”
It's the same. It's exactly the same.
“The Box,” Thomas deadpans. Dreams are never this vivid.
Alby gives him an odd look. “Yeah. They send it up every month with fresh supplies and a new Greenie. This month, that’s you. Congratulations.”
Thomas blinks. He looks around for some sort of error, hoping for something to jump out, to make it more obvious that this, in fact, is not real.
The blood drains from Thomas's face, and his breath catches.
Newt is grinning.
“Hey, you alright, Alby?” he says, and Thomas doesn't have to try to remember what his voice sounds like anymore because he's here and alive.
Thomas stares. Logically, it doesn't add up. What Thomas is visibly seeing versus his own thoughts, it doesn't make sense.
This...this can't be real ...right? There's no way. Right?
Alby laughs. “Greenbean, meet Newt.”
“You alright there, Greenie? Look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost,” Newt says, and he laughs at his own joke, offering a hand for Thomas to shake.
I have, he thinks, and a choked noise escapes him.
“You...you’re…” alive.
Newt lowers his hand and a concerned frown slowly creeps onto his face.
And Thomas has to do something. Something, because Newt is worried and Alby is starting to look suspicious, and maybe it's not a dream.
Newt speaks up again, voice hesitant. “Hey Alby, I'm gonna take him to the Med-jacks. Have him lay down before he passes out or something.”
Then there's a hand against Thomas's lower back, guiding him in the direction of the Med-shack, and Thomas's mind is a shitstorm of thoughts and questions.
You can save him.
It's not real.
This is different, it's different, you're changing things. Stop changing things.
He doesn't have to die. None of them do.
“It's not real, none of this is real. You're dreaming, Thomas, it's just a dream,” he mumbles to himself, because he's starting to hope, and if he wakes up from this, he thinks he'll shatter completely.
“You've remembered your name already?” Newt says, and he sounds impressed. “Usually it takes a few days.”
“Wh...what?”
Newt continues, but his palm against his back is a spot of warmth seeping through his shirt, and Thomas finds himself so focused on it that he misses Newt’s words entirely.
He's been doing that a lot, especially with Minho, blanking out to the point where he misses entire conversations.
Focus, idiot.
“What?” he says again, praying that Newt will repeat himself, if only so that Thomas can hear his voice.
“You sure you're okay, Thomas?”
All at once, Thomas can distinctly remember the scuffle, the way the knife plunged into Newt’s chest, the way blood seeped onto Thomas's hands, the way Newt paused, whispered “Tommy”, about to say more, but then collapsed.
The way he died, right there on the cold, filthy ground, and it had been no one’s fault but Thomas's, in so many ways.
I could've saved you.
Thomas squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment, takes a steadying breath, and opens them again.
Even without looking at him, Thomas can feel Newt’s gaze, and Newt begins to slow his pace. Thomas does too. He has to force himself to look over, to meet Newt’s eyes.
His expression is set, an odd mix of seriousness and pity that Thomas can't recall seeing before.
“I can promise you right now, this is real. You're not dreaming. I know it seems bad, so bad you almost wish you were dreamin’, but it gets better, I promise. First Day was scary for all of us. But I can tell you're strong. You'll be alright.”
And Thomas knows he doesn't have a choice. “I know.”
Newt eyes him. “There's somethin’ different about you, Greenie. You're not like the others.”
Thomas shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. “So. This is real.”
“Yeah, pretty bloody real.”
“Okay,” Thomas says, and he begins thinking.
Newt drags Thomas to his arrival bonfire, despite Thomas's protests.
“It's for you, Greenie. Of course you have to go. No fussin’, come on.”
Thomas frowns but allows Newt to steer him in the direction of the large fire and crowd of boys. Newt pushes him down to sit, then removes his hand from Thomas's shoulder.
“You stay here. I'm gonna go get us some drinks.”
“Sure,” Thomas says, and he cranes his head over his shoulder to watch Newt approach Frypan with a beaming smile.
Thomas's eyes drift around the bonfire, resting on each Glader, the ones he can name and the ones he can't.
His heart pangs for all of them, named and nameless.
Thomas's gaze finds Chuck. The boy is settled near the fire, knife in one hand and a chunk of wood in the other.
A hollow feeling spreads through his chest when he realizes that he hasn't spoken to Chuck yet. Rather than go with Chuck to set up his hammock, Thomas had gone with Newt to the Med-shack. And, along with that, Thomas avoided his not-so-friendly encounter with Gally by the Doors.
In all honesty, Thomas had completely forgotten about it up until now.
You need to start thinking about things. Start prioritizing, he admonishes, then stands.
He has to fix it and talk to Chuck.
Thomas walks over and settles down beside him. Chuck glances up, then looks back down at his figurine, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“That looks really good,” Thomas says, by way of starting a conversation. Once again, Chuck glances up, though this time he looks surprised.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” he says. Then looks Thomas over. “You're the new Greenie.”
“Yep.”
Chuck’s frown deepens. “You sure don't act like a Greenie.”
Now it's Thomas's turn to frown. “What do you mean?”
Chuck shrugs, and he returns to his carving. “I don't know… You just seem really calm for all of this.”
Thomas almost represses his laugh, then decides to let it loose anyway. “Trust me, man, I'm not calm. At all.”
Chuck gives a small laugh of his own, a smile curving his lips. “Well, you're doing better than I did, anyway. I was the Greenie before you.”
“I kn-”
A laugh rings out, cutting Thomas off. A wave of relief crashes through him.
Think before you speak, or you're gonna ruin this whole thing.
There's no guarantee that this is even real, it doesn't matter what I say.
“Bloody hell, Thomas, you don't listen too well, do you?” Newt shakes his head with another small laugh. “We’re gonna have to fix that.”
Thomas looks up at Newt and snorts. “Sure.”
Newt pops his hip out, arms folded across his chest. The familiar pose makes Thomas's heart ache.
“I suppose I'll take it easy on ya, First Day ‘n all. I see you've met Chuckie.”
“Yeah,” Thomas says, and directs a smile in Chuck’s direction. “He's a pretty cool dude.”
Chuck beams, and Newt settles down on Thomas's other side, taking a long pull of his drink.
“You're cool, too. Y’know, for a Newbie,” Chuck says, and his following laugh holds a tone of uncertainty, as though he's worried Thomas will take offense to the joke.
“Thanks, Chuck,” Thomas says sarcastically. “Way to make a Greenie feel welcome.”
Chuck smiles goofily.
Thomas turns to look at Newt, only to see that he's already staring at him, gaze scrutinizing.
Newt shakes his head and takes another gulp of his drink. “Ya know, I know I said it before, but there's somethin’ different about you.”
Thomas glances back at Chuck, who's nodding in agreement.
“It's awesome,” Chuck states. “You're so much nicer than the rest of these shanks.”
Newt’s curious gaze morphs into a look of mock offense, and he leans across Thomas to swat Chuck on the arm.
Thomas barely refrains from tensing at the close proximity, and soon enough Newt is leaning away, leaving a small gap between them.
The gap is small, but to Thomas, it's universes and stars and galaxies all rolled into one. It's a living, breathing entity that Thomas can feel with every inhale and exhale.
“Here,” Newt says suddenly, shoving the jar at Thomas. “Put some hair on your chest.”
Thomas eyes the brown liquid suspiciously, almost tasting the bitterness already. Still, both Chuck and Newt are looking at him, expecting, so Thomas takes a drink.
He grimaces, but this time he manages to swallow it, refusing to embarrass himself already.
He hands the jar back to Newt.
Newt looks at him. Then Chuck. Then back to Thomas.
He shakes his head, sets the jar on the ground, and reaches down to rub his ankle. “You're somethin’ else.”
The bitter taste of the alcohol lingers on the back of his tongue like bile, and suddenly Thomas feels sick.
This is when he's supposed to start asking questions about the Maze.
They sit in a blanket of silence, despite the whooping cheers and drunken shouts of the other celebrating Gladers. A few minutes pass before Chuck pockets the figurine and the knife and he stands, walking off in Frypan’s direction.
Thomas is done screwing stuff up. At least this way he'll have an excuse for having this knowledge later.
“So what's out there?” he asks, voice little more than a rasp, and he gestures towards the looming wall nearest to them.
If Thomas didn't know Newt as well as he does, he would've missed the way Newt’s eyes flash, the way his fingers pause and hover over his ankle for just a moment before returning to their ministrations.
“We call it the Maze,” Newt says, a tone of hesitation entering his voice.
“Is that the way out?” Thomas asks, hoping to push the conversation to an end sooner.
Newt blinks in surprise. “Yeah, actually. We've got Runners who've been mapping it for years trying to find the exit. Haven't had much luck.”
“‘Runners’?” Thomas echoes.
Newt nods, eyes fixed on his leg. “Yep. The only shanks brave enough and fast enough to go out there. It's dangerous, not just anyone is up to it. Only Runners are allowed in the Maze. Which means you'd do well to stay away from it.”
“Oh,” Thomas says. A beat of silence passes. “Okay.”
Newt glances at him. “No more questions?”
“Not...not really, no.”
“...Good that.”
The gap between them feels larger than ever. Not only is it physical, Thomas feels the emotional gap as well. More than anything, Thomas wants to bridge that gap, to press his shoulder against Newt’s and listen to his stories from before Thomas ever showed up in the Glade, the way they used to. He wants that hollow feeling in his chest to go away.
Thomas looks at Newt.
Because he is Newt, but he's not Thomas's Newt, and Thomas can hardly bear to even think about it. He has so many memories of them—various moments over the six months they spent trying to save Minho pop into his head—but this version of Newt hasn't experienced any of it. It's as if it's been erased, and Thomas doesn't think he can fix it.
This isn't his Newt.
This might as well be a stranger.
“Well.” Newt clears his throat. “I suppose I ought to go introduce you to everyone.”
He pushes himself up and offers Thomas a hand. “C’mon.”
Instead of protesting, Thomas follows without complaint.
Newt introduces him to the Builders, to Winston, to Clint and Jeff, to Ben and Minho and the rest of the Runners, and whoever else they pass by.
Thomas repeats the names—new and old—in his head on a loop, and he makes no comment about wanting to be a Runner.
Gally staggers into him and almost knocks him off his feet anyway.
Thomas steps into the wrestling ring with dread sinking in his stomach like a ball of lead.
Let Gally win, let Gally win, let Gally win.
Thomas thinks they could be friends this time around. Having Gally’s friendship could be the very thing that would save Chuck’s life. So Thomas is bound and determined to make it happen. Even if that means humiliating himself and losing.
His plan to lose goes to shit the second Gally charges at him. Thomas's instincts take over and, instead of allowing himself to be bowled over, he side-steps, and Gally stumbles as he slows himself down. The Gladers around them whoop and shout.
Gally runs at him again. Thomas dodges again. He finds himself winning without meaning to.
Then, lying on the ground, Gally kicks Thomas’s feet out from under him.
Thomas doesn't have time to catch his fall before the side of his head hits the ground, much like before. A white-hot flare of pain ricochets through his head.
A pained noise pulls from his throat, and instead of his name flashing in his mind, his head just pounds. He pushes himself up, wincing.
“You okay, Greenie?”
“Stop calling me Greenie. It’s Thomas,” he snaps unthinkingly. Then clamps his mouth shut.
Silence reigns.
Then Alby cheers, and the tense silence fades into something forgotten as Thomas is shoved to the center of a mass of screaming boys, holding their drinks to the sky in some sort of odd toast.
Thomas refuses a second drink, his head still throbbing from the blow.
Long fingers curl around his wrist and pull him through the crowd, weaving through the drunken Gladers.
Once they reach the edge of the group, they stop.
“Ya sure you're alright? You hit your head pretty bloody hard.”
Of course it's Newt. It's always Newt.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” Thomas says. Then thinks for a moment.
He raises a hand to the back of his head and exaggerates a grimace of pain. “I mean, it might be a good idea for me to go to bed.”
“Of course,” Newt agrees. “I'll show you your hammock.”
He doesn't sleep. His insomnia from the Safe Haven seems to have carried over, along with his memories.
But his strength. His endurance. His scars. Nothing physical made the transfer like his mind and mental state did.
He is—his body is—exactly the same as the first time. And it scares him to death.
Your memories, you've got those, he reminds himself. That'll have to be enough.
Thomas lays on his hammock, the gentle rocking motion making tired, fogging his thoughts over with the pull of sleep.
So he sits up, swings his legs over the side of the hammock, and makes his way towards the Deadheads, hoping the walk will clear his mind a bit.
“I can save him,” he whispers. “I can.”
And he could. If he plays his cards right.
Then that small voice in the back of his head decides to pipe up.
But what about everyone else?
Thomas pauses. I can save them, too.
If you start changing everything, the voice murmurs, you might not even have the chance to save him. If you had to choose between Chuck or Newt, who would it be?
And that's what brings him to his knees, muffling his sobs with his hand and fighting the scream that bubbles up in his throat.
That's the moment he knows for certain that it isn't a dream. Because no dream feels like this.
You can't save everyone. You have to choose.
I can't.
Then they both die, all of them do. Again.
I can change it.
You can't change what's already happened.
It hasn't happened yet.
You have to choose.
I'm not gonna choose who lives and who dies. Thomas knows his choice. And suddenly his sole purpose in life is getting his friends out of this hell alive. All of them.
Even if that means he himself dies instead.
For Newt, for Minho, for Chuck, for Gally, for Alby, Winston, Frypan, hell, even Teresa, Thomas would die a hundred times over.
Teresa comes up soon. What are you gonna do?
The thought comes from nowhere, striking Thomas so hard that the tears stop and his mind spins.
He thinks. He thinks and thinks and thinks but in the end, he still can't decide whether to forgive her or not. So many people died at the Right Arm because of her.
Regardless of whether he forgives her, he knows he doesn't trust her. Will probably never trust her again.
But he needs her. Because although Thomas's life force is the cure, he doesn't know how to access it. He can bleed for Newt and the rest of humanity as much as he'd like, but it means nothing unless Teresa or Mary can distill it into a proper serum.
And for Mary to stay alive long enough for that to happen, Thomas needs to get through to Teresa.
All at once, Thomas's thoughts hit a wall. A decision that he can't make heads or tails of.
If you want to convince Teresa not to betray you, you have to tell her. Tell her everything.
But the more rational part of his argues that telling anyone would be a hazard, a risk that Thomas doesn't know if he can take. Not if it means more death.
No one else deserves to die because of him.
What am I supposed to do?
Thomas is mere seconds from vocalizing the words, some sort of pathetic prayer, when the sound of rustling footsteps catches his ear.
He scrambles to his feet and darts for the cover of a large tree, peering out and squinting to get a look at the Glader causing all of the noise.
Thomas quickly realizes that it's not one Glader, but two.
Both of them are attempting to be sneaky, shushing each other and muffling their laughs as they trek further through the trees.
Thomas is intrigued. This is new.
The two Gladers stop, and Thomas can just make out their dark shapes.
“Shh, you're gonna get us caught again.”
Thomas doesn't recognize the voice.
“Last time was all your fault, Ben,” says the second Glader, and there's a voice that Thomas couldn't forget if he tried.
But Gally sounds different. Thomas has never heard Gally sound happy, but he thinks that's the emotion in his voice.
Gally? Ben and Gally? What are they doing out here?
Thomas’s question is answered when Gally is cut off mid-sentence by Ben kissing him.
Thomas thinks he probably could've stomped through the Deadheads screaming and the two of them wouldn't have noticed his presence. He’s quiet on the way back to his hammock anyway, not wanting to wake any of the others.
He drags his blankets out of the hammock and arranges them on the ground. Though less comfortable, it's stable.
And if Thomas needs anything right now, it's stability.
Thomas lays down, and spends the rest of the night brainstorming how to keep Ben alive this time.
By the time the sun begins its ascent, Thomas has a rough outline of a plan, one so ridiculous that he might actually be Banished for it. And a backup plan, but the actual chances of it working are slim to none.
But the only other option is to tell Newt and Alby that this has all happened before. Thomas is fairly certain he'd only get locked in the Slammer for his troubles. Maybe even Banished, if they think he's working for WCKD.
Gally’s gonna kill me, Thomas thinks. The thought brings a smile to his face.
“What’re you smiling about? Better question: why are you on the ground?”
Alby sounds faintly amused, and Thomas sits up, his joints popping.
“Couldn't sleep,” Thomas answers with something akin to a shrug, and Alby nods.
“That'll happen,” he says, and he sounds more understanding about it than Thomas had been expecting. “But we all pull our own weight around here. So you'd better sleep nice and good tonight, cuz you're gonna be helpin’ out around here just like everyone else.”
There it is.
“Got it,” Thomas replies, and he shoves himself to his feet. He runs over his plan in his head.
“Hey, Alby?”
Alby breathes out something close to a sigh. “Yes?”
“When do the Runners leave?”
Suddenly, Alby looks much more invested in the conversation. He frowns deeply. “How do you know about the Runners? I never explained the jobs to you yesterday.”
For a brief flash of a moment, Thomas panics. Then he is struck with the realization that he doesn't even have to lie.
“Newt was telling me about it at the bonfire.” Thomas had been hoping that repeating that talk would pay off. He seems to be in luck.
Alby nods, slowly, and the quizzical looks eases up. “They should be getting ready to go right about now, actually.”
Shit. That's not enough time.
“Can I go talk to them first?”
The confused expression returns, accompanied this time by faint agitation. “Greenie, they've gotta do their job. Don't need you getting in the way.”
“Right. No, you're totally right,” Thomas says. He shakes his head for good measure. “Sorry.”
“It's fine. Now, come on, got somethin’ to show you.”
Alby leads him to the wall, talking the whole time, explaining the three rules of the Glade, which he didn't have the time to explain the day before. Thomas doesn't bother listening, instead opting to keep a close eye on the closed Doors nearest to the Homestead, the ones that Ben and Minho should be exiting soon enough.
This isn't gonna work, Thomas realizes. I've got to get away from Alby.
“Hey, Alby?”
Alby stops, gives him a dirty look. Thomas must've interrupted him.
“I, uh…” Think, Thomas, think. He runs his hand through his hair, and his fingers brush over the knot on his head, tender to the touch. “I hit my head pretty hard last night at the fire. And I- I'm kinda feeling a bit sick.”
Thomas is beginning to feel sick, not because he hit his head, but because his Plan A is already not looking too good.
Alby looks him over. “You do look like crap,” he muses. “Newt took you to the Med-shack yesterday. Remember where that is?”
Thomas nods. Please don't come with me, please don't come with me...
“Good. Head over there. Clint should be awake, he’ll check you out.” Then Alby’s waving him off. “We can do this later. I've got stuff to do. I'll come find you around lunch. When you're done with the Med-jacks, go find Newt. He’ll start tryin’ you out for jobs.”
Thomas forces himself to walk, not run, to the Med-shack. Once he's out of Alby’s line of sight, he breaks into a sprint, racing to the Map Room.
Except there's no one there.
Which means-
The rumbling screech of the Doors sliding open slices through the air like the blade of a knife.
“Fuck.”
He runs back to the main clearing, but he already knows he's too late. Sure enough, when he turns to look at the Doors, they're wide open, and there's no one standing in front of them.
Thomas missed his chance.
“Plan B, then,” he mutters.
A scratching, shuffling noise gets his attention. He turns around, only to see one of WCKD’s little spies—a beetle blade—clinging to the trunk of the tree behind him.
And that's when Thomas realizes, I can't tell anyone about this. Because then WCKD will find out. Then any upper-hand I've got will be gone.
So Thomas can't mention the time travel thing. To anyone.
I'll just have to wait until we get to the Facility. The Scorch at the latest.
“Thomas? What’re you doin’ standing around?”
Thomas shuts his eyes for a brief moment. Takes in a deep, shaky breath.
Was Newt on top of me like this last time? It's like everywhere I freaking turn, he's there. I can't get away from him.
And as much as Thomas had missed that smile, every time he sees him it's like a knife stabbing him in the chest.
How adequate, Thomas thinks grimly, turning to face the second-in-command.
“I was, uh...just coming back from the Med-shack. Alby-”
“The Med-shack?” Newt says, brow furrowing cutely. “What for?”
“My head. It was just hurting a bit, but I'm fine now.” No use in making him unnecessarily concerned, especially with the stress that would be thrown onto him in a few hours.
Teresa's coming up soon.
The rest of the Glade is starting to wake up.
“Whatever you say, shank,” Newt shrugs. “Get your name on the wall, then?”
“Not yet,” Thomas answers, “Alby said he'd grab me at lunch and have me do it. But he told me to find you and that you’d help me see what job works out.”
Newt cocks his head to the side, expression thoughtful. “Then, I suppose we can start testing ya. Come on, mate.”
Thomas follows him over to the Gardens, where Newt stops and greets Zart, who's already hard at work.
“This is Zart. He's the Keeper of the Track-Hoes,” Newt explains.
“Got him starting with us today?” Zart asks, glancing up from the soil.
“Don't think he'd do too well with the Slicers or the Sloppers,” Newt shrugs and Zart mumbles something of an agreement.
Newt approaches one of the many tall trellises made of thick branches and launches into a long, detailed explanation.
Thomas focuses more on the sound of his voice than the actual words.
“Well?” Newt prompts, and Thomas jolts, looking up from the ground.
Newt laughs. “Grab a shovel, shank, and get to work.”
The next few hours pass with light conversation and a few sarcastic remarks on Newt’s part.
Thomas finds it shockingly easy to fall back into the groove of things.
Lunch comes and goes, and Thomas etches his name into the wall, right beneath Minho’s. He returns the knife to Alby and walks back over to the Gardens.
The sun bears down on them. Thomas rolls his sleeves. Newt shucks off his overshirt and ties it around his waist.
Has anyone ever tried climbing to the top? The words linger in Thomas's mind, but he refuses to utter them.
“Hey, Newt?”
Newt hums and glances over at him, quirking an eyebrow.
Thomas hesitates momentarily, trying to figure out how to phrase his words. He has to get the idea in Newt’s head now, or else his plan to keep Ben from being Banished might not work.
“So you've got the rules, right? Well, what happens if someone breaks one of them?”
Newt frowns. “You'd better not be plannin’ on it.”
“No, of course not!” Thomas says hastily. “I was just wondering how you reinforce them.”
“The shanks who break the rules get punished.”
Thomas lets out a long breath. “Right, but how?”
“They get...sent out into the Maze.” Newt shifts uncomfortably, and he suddenly refuses to meet Thomas's eye. “And...no one’s ever survived a night in the Maze. We call it a Banishing. Only ever done it twice.”
Thomas processes the words carefully. He looks at his hands. “Why? Why not give them a second chance?”
Because if Thomas deserves a second chance to fix all of his mistakes, surely Ben deserves a second chance at life.
Newt doesn't reply, and when Thomas looks back over at him, he sees that Newt has completely stopped working, staring unseeingly at the ground.
“Hey, Greenie?” Zart says, and wipes his brow, smearing dirt across his forehead. He remains oblivious to Newt’s sudden silence. “Do me a favor?”
Thomas doesn't look away from Newt, even as he replies. “What do you need?”
Zart pushes an empty, dirty bucket towards him. “Go get us some more fertilizer?”
Thomas pauses.
Shit.