Chapter Text
The woods is somehow more ominous in the day than it had been at night.
Of course, that could be because Thomas is hyper-aware that he's going to be attacked any minute.
He steps into the small clearing that marks the graveyard. Either the Sloppers aren't keeping up with maintenance, or everyone avoids the place, because the crosses are all in various stages of brokenness. One, in particular, catches his eye.
The name George is carved deep into the rotting wood.
His blood runs cold.
Brenda had a brother named George.
But there's no way it could be the same boy, right?
But, somehow, Thomas knows it is. And he feels an overwhelming wave of guilt crash over him for not realizing it sooner.
And while Thomas didn't go back far enough to get the opportunity to save him, he still feels like it's his fault.
Feels like everything’s his fault.
The clumsy footsteps coupled with harsh, heavy breaths make Thomas pause. He straightens up from his crouch and turns around.
Thomas looks at Ben with a pained bitterness, taking in the veins warping his appearance and the dark, crazed eyes.
He's stung, but he looks like he's got the Flare.
“Ben, listen to me,” Thomas says urgently, “I know you think this is my fault, and you—”
Ben screams and launches himself at Thomas. Thomas pivots and begins to run, flying through the trees without even a glance behind him.
Despite Thomas's speed, Ben catches up. Though Thomas supposes he shouldn't be surprised, he absolutely is when Ben tackles him from behind and sends both of them rolling down a small hill.
He staggers to his feet and holds his hands out placatingly. “Ben, listen, you need to calm down and let me explain—”
Ben is on his feet and throwing himself at Thomas in a flash.
Thomas runs, trying to think strategically but finding himself unable to think at all over his own rasping breaths.
The trees begin to thin, and Thomas can spot the Gardens. He shouts, knowing that Newt will come to his aid as soon as he breaks from the tree line.
Ben’s fingers catch the hem of Thomas's shirt and both of them crash to the ground. Thomas kicks at him, but Ben hardly responds to the blows, screaming and fighting to get his fingers around Thomas's throat.
The impact of the shovel against the side of Ben’s face makes Thomas wince, and he scrambles to his feet, still heaving for breath.
“Ben, what are you doing?” Newt hisses.
“What happened?”
Thomas looks up from where various Gladers—Newt included—have Ben pinned to the grass. Alby is staring at him, expression twisted in confusion.
“I… I don’t…” Thomas looks around, hoping for an answer to come to him. He can’t blame Ben. That would guarantee the boy a Banishment.
“What happened?” Alby asks again, anger seeping into his tone. Thomas doesn’t answer. Alby shakes his head and looks down at Ben, brow furrowed.
“I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Ben dissolves into sobs, and Thomas can’t stand the devastated look on Gally’s face.
Alby’s frown deepens. “Someone lift his shirt.”
Gally does.
“He’s been stung.”
“In the middle of the day?”
They stare at the blackened veins in silence.
Thomas shifts, glancing around the shell-shocked Gladers. “It was my fault.”
Newt looks up, incredulous. “Your fault?”
“That he attacked me, I mean,” Thomas hastens.
“How the bloody hell was it your fault?”
“I…” And, for the life of him, Thomas can’t think of an answer.
“Greenie, I’ll talk with you later. Go wait at the Med-shack.” Alby gestures to Ben, expression troubled. “C’mon, let’s put him in the Pit.”
Thomas can hear Ben’s screams and cries all the way across the Glade. He sits outside the Med-shack. Chuck silently joins him and continues working on his figurine.
Thomas is grateful for the company.
Two sets of footsteps approach and Thomas looks up to see Clint and Jeff locked in a hushed conversation.
Clint smiles at him. “You just keep getting into trouble, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “So, you hurt?”
“I think I'm fine.”
“Let me see,” Clint says, and tugs Thomas arm out to inspect a shallow cut. Clint hums. “We might have to amputate.”
Thomas furrows his brow.
Jeff laughs. “You always want to amputate.”
Alby and Newt show up after another five minutes, though they don’t speak, allowing Clint and Jeff to work in silence.
“Well,” Jeff finally says, “you’ll live.”
Clint wraps the cut and waves him off. “Alby, he’s all yours.”
Chuck glances up from his carving for the first time, and Thomas notes the way his brows are pinched in worry.
Alby looks at him, eyes searching. He simply says, “Explain.”
And god, how Thomas wants to. Wants to explain everything that’s going on. But he can’t.
“Alby,” he says, “what’s gonna happen to him?”
“He broke one of the few rules we have,” Alby states.
Thomas makes a noise of protest. “He was stung! He obviously wasn’t in control of himself. He’s never hurt someone before, has he?”
“No, but—”
“Exactly,” Thomas interrupts, gesturing frantically. “So, you can’t—”
“Greenie, cut it out,” Newt snaps. “Stop interrupting, just listen. We do things a certain way for a reason.”
“But he attacked me. So shouldn’t I be the one that gets a say in his punishment?”
Alby shakes his head. "I don't have time for this klunk," he mutters, then walks off.
Thomas, Newt, and Chuck watch him go.
“Listen, Thomas,” Newt finally says, turning back to him, “the rules are one of the only things keepin’ this place afloat. And you wanna break ‘em? For a guy that attacked you for no reason?”
Thomas snaps his head over to Newt. “Who said it was for no reason?”
Newt scowls. “Well, I’m gonna assume that unless you actually decide to tell us what bloody happened, shuck-face.”
“You can’t Banish him,” Thomas says. “Keep him in the Pit, I don’t care. But you can’t Banish him.”
The look on Newt’s face darkens. “And what if he tries to attack you again?”
Thomas hesitates. I just need more time.
“If he tries to do it again, then fine. But at least give him a chance.”
“Why do you care so much?” Newt asks, his expression easing into something soft and confused.
“Just…trust me, okay?”
Newt stares at him.
“Um…” Chuck hesitates. “For what it’s worth, I agree with Thomas. Shouldn’t we at least give him a second chance? It’s not like he’s...well, sane.”
“Bloody fucking hell.” Newt rakes a hand through his hair. “You do realize there’s no cure, right?”
The words are said with such a certainty that it steals the breath from Thomas’s lungs. Newt continues, oblivious.
“There’s no cure for what Ben has. We’ve had boys get stung before. We let Ben out of the Pit, he’ll just attack someone else.”
Thomas swallows. There is a cure. And Ben can get it this time because I don’t have to sting myself for memories.
“No,” he manages. “You don’t know that.”
Newt mutters something under his breath.
“What?” Thomas asks, leaning closer. Newt snaps.
“I do know that! I’ve seen it happen!”
“Just trust me? Please?” Thomas begs. He doesn’t know how else to convince him. “I promise, there’s still a chance for him.”
Newt’s eyes narrow. “You can’t promise something like that.”
Thomas clenches his jaw.
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I just did,” he says.
A raspy scoff escapes Newt’s parted lips and the anger visibly fades. Newt closes his eyes, and for half a second, Thomas catches a haunted brokenness shadowing his face. Then Newt blinks, and sets his mouth in a firm line, all signs of vulnerability gone.
“You know what? Fine. We’ll do it your way. But if someone gets hurt, it’s on your head, not mine.”
“I get it,” Thomas nods, and he feels like he can finally breathe for the first time since he’s shown back up here. “Thanks, Newt.”
Newt scowls. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Chuck pipes up for the second time as Newt walks off toward the Homestead.
“That’s weird.”
Thomas tears his eyes away from Newt’s hitching stride to look at Chuck. “What’s weird?”
Chuck shrugs and returns to his carving, concentrating much harder than necessary. “Nothing, just…. Newt probably wouldn’t have agreed to that if anyone else had suggested it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thomas asks, frowning.
Chuck shrugs again. “Nothing, I guess. It’s just interesting.”
Part of Thomas wants to pester him, to ask what he’s getting at, but then he spots Gally approaching.
Gally looks angry—but, in his defense, Gally always looks angry—and Thomas really isn’t ready to deal with him just yet.
A muscle in Thomas's thigh tenses, urging him to stand and appear less cowardly. He doesn't move, just waits for Gally to come stomping over.
“What the hell, Greenie,” he snaps, stopping a few feet away with a deep glower on his face. “What the hell was that?”
“Woah, hey, what're you blaming me for?” Thomas says, tilting his head up to meet Gally’s glare.
“Ben wouldn't attack you for no reason. He wouldn't hurt anyone. Stung or not. And the entire way to the Pit, guess what he's screaming?”
Thomas thinks he knows.
“He’s screaming: ‘I saw him. He did this.’ All sorts of crazy stuff. And I…. He—” Gally’s chest heaves and he chokes on his words. Thomas is shocked by the sight of tears in Gally’s eyes.
“Hey, Gally—”
“No,” he rasps, and he glares through his tears. “Just... don't.”
Gally turns, heading in the direction of the Doors. For a brief, concerning moment, Thomas thinks he’s going to go out into the Maze, but then Gally veers off towards the Pit.
Thomas rubs his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”
And it’s not over yet. You’ve got until tomorrow night before the Doors shut to find an excuse to go into the Maze and kill a Griever. We’ll need the key to get the door open, and if Minho and Alby don’t go, then they won’t come back late, and I won’t have a reason to go running in.
“Fuck,” he swears softly. How am I going to solve this one?
The answer presents itself in the oddest of ways.
Thomas had been woken by Ben’s screams early in the morning, mingling with the grinding screech of the Doors opening. As such, he’d watched the Runners go out. Which is why, on his way over to Newt and Chuck, he nearly drops his lunch tray at the sight of Minho racing back through the Doors as if he's being chased, red-faced and wheezing. Minho braces his hands on his knees and bends over, his panting audible even from this distance.
Thomas stares for a moment, then turns and sets his food on the table, appetite long gone.
“Thomas, what…” Newt begins, but then he spots Minho as well.
Thomas doesn’t wait for Newt to get up. He races over to Minho, setting a hand on his shoulder and leaning down.
“You okay, man?” he asks.
Minho coughs and waves him off, shrugging Thomas’s hand from his shoulder. He speaks between rasping breaths. “Yeah, fine.... Do me a favor...and go get Alby, would ya?”
“Minho, what the bloody hell are you doing back?” Newt asks, slowing to a stop a few feet away.
The Runner doesn’t answer. The minutes creep, and slowly, Minho catches his breath, straightening up.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “Look, just go get Alby. I don’t feel like explaining this twice.”
Thomas turns to go, only to see the man in question running over, Chuck not too far behind. Chuck must’ve seen and gone straight to Alby. Smart kid.
“What’s going on?” Alby says, eyes flickering back and forth between Minho and Thomas and Newt. “What happened?”
Minho leans back against the wall of the Maze, smirking.
“I found a dead one.”
Alby frowns. “A dead what? Griever?”
Minho’s smirk evolves into a sly grin, teeth flashing. “Yep.”
Newt looks bewildered, but Thomas can’t help but be insanely curious. This was certainly a new development, and Thomas wants to know what triggered it.
“What do you mean?” he asks, and he can feel Alby’s gaze burning into him.
“I found a dead one,” Minho repeats. He wipes his forehead again. “Figured I’d come let you know instead of trying to mess with it first.”
“Smart move,” Alby agrees. “You ready to head back in there? Or do you wanna wait ‘til tomorrow? Your call.”
Minho takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, nodding. He cracks his neck. “Let’s go now. I want as much time to check this thing out as possible. It might not even be there tomorrow.”
Alby mutters something of an agreement and turns to Newt. “You’re in charge ‘til I get back.”
“Be careful,” Newt says, not even attempting to hide the worry in his voice. “Both of you.”
Minho claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll be back before you know it. Probably a few hours before dinner, even. It’s not like we’re planning to have a slumber party with the thing.”
Newt doesn’t even crack a smile.
“We’ll be fine,” Alby agrees. “See you in a bit.”
With that, Alby turns and jogs through the Doors. Minho gives Newt a mock salute. He looks at Thomas and winks. Then runs into the Maze.
Between the three of them, the silence is thick and pressing. Newt clears his throat.
“Well,” he says, voice shaking just slightly, “we’d better go eat, then back to work.”
As they walk back, Chuck leans over to Thomas and whispers, “I wonder what killed it.”
Me too, man. Me too.
They settle down at the table, and Thomas picks at his food, still not particularly hungry. He rests his left hand in his lap and bounces his knee.
He tries not to think about the sense of foreboding that cloaks him like a shadow.
But the feeling follows him around the rest of the day, no matter how hard he tries to shake it. If anything, it gets worse.
Something bad is going to happen. Something bad is going to happen.
Dinner comes and goes. They return to work.
Something bad is going to happen.
One glance at Newt’s face shows that he’s thinking the same thing.
The rest of the Runners return in sets of two, as is custom.
A half an hour creeps by. Time itself feels as if it has slowed to a sluggish crawl. The Glade has plunged into a somber silence.
Thomas chops at the base of the tree trunk. Newt does, too.
Chuck carves.
Time passes.
Abruptly, Newt stops in the middle of his task and drops his machete, not uttering a single word as he stands and walks over to the Doors, joining a small group of Gladers already there.
Thomas exchanges a look with Chuck and the two of them follow wordlessly. Newt slips up to the front. Thomas and Chuck follow.
More and more boys join them. The Gladers pack together tightly, the boys in the back trying to see over the heads of the boys in the front, everyone trying to catch a glimpse of some sort of movement.
“They should’ve been back hours ago,” Gally murmurs, crouched down next to Chuck. Thomas is beside Newt, close enough that he feels the way Newt tenses.
“They’ll make it,” Thomas says, but the reassurance falls flat. Gally gives him a dirty look. Newt releases a shaky breath.
“Doors will be closin’ any minute now,” Newt says, voice oddly hollow.
Come on, come on, come on…
“There!” Chuck cries, taking a small step forward and pointing into the long corridor. Gally grabs Chuck’s arm and pulls him back.
Thomas stares at the hunched form of Minho, heaving Alby’s limp body along behind him. The Gladers explode, yelling words of encouragement and for Minho to hurry.
I have to time it, he thinks.
A sharp squeal escapes the gears along the Doors. They begin closing in, a low rumbling sound.
The Gladers’ screams get louder. But even then, Thomas catches Newt’s horrified whisper.
“They’re not gonna make it.”
Newt grabs his hand. Thomas lets him. He leans forward, eying the Doors, which seem to be increasing speed.
Minho loses his grip on Alby and both of them hit the ground.
Come on, come on, come on…
“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, squeezing Newt’s hand once before letting go. He wants to say more. He runs into the Maze instead.
He feels Newt’s fingers grasp at the back of his shirt.
He hears Chuck scream, “Thomas, no!”
And he slips through the gap, staggering forward from his momentum.
The Doors seal behind him, an echoing crunch, a grinding sound that could’ve easily been his bones. Thomas shudders at the thought.
“You stupid fucking shank. Why would you…. Stupid. Well, good job, anyway. You just killed yourself.”
Thomas frowns at Minho. He approaches, eying Alby cautiously.
“What happened to him?” he asks, searching for an injury.
There. On the side of his head. A raised lump, the area around it bloodied.
Just like last time.
“He got stung,” Minho says, his words followed by a hacking cough.
Maybe some things just have to happen. Regardless of what I do to change them.
The idea does not sit comfortably with Thomas.
So, with slight difficulty, he shrugs it off.
“Let me guess: Griever wasn't dead?” Thomas says.
“Oh, it was dead. Its little buddy sure wasn’t, though. We weren’t expecting a live one to be with it.” Minho wipes at his forehead, leaving behind a streak of dirt. “Doesn't matter anymore. We’ll all be Griever chow in a few hours. Maybe less.”
“Don't think like that,” Thomas says, near pleading. The sun is setting and they need to get Alby up the wall, before they run out of time.
“Why? It's the truth. We're already dead.”
“We don't have to be,” Thomas points out.
Minho laughs. It's a croaking, rusty sound. He drops his head down between his knees, making no attempt whatsoever to get up. “Greenie, do you know anything ? No one survives a night in the Maze.”
Thomas closes his eyes briefly. “Okay. What about Alby?”
Minho grunts. “What about him?”
“We can't just leave him here!” Thomas says in exasperation, throwing his arms out.
“Why not?”
Thomas regrets his next words before he even utters them.
“Think about Newt.”
Minho raises his head. His eyes narrow. As Thomas had expected, Minho stands, leaning against the wall to help support his exhausted body.
“‘Think about Newt’?” Minho echoes. He scoffs, then fumes silently, shaking his head. “You don't know anything. Okay? You don't know me and you sure as hell don't know Newt.”
Thomas begs to differ, but knows better than to vocalize such things. Especially now, when night is falling and time is waning.
“Just…. Don't you think it'd be better to at least give him a chance to live?”
Minho presses his lips together and stares at Alby’s prone form. Then looks up at Thomas, gaze calculating.
“What did you have in mind?”
“The wall,” Thomas replies quickly. “We get some ivy around him, pull him up there as high as we can.”
Minho nods, slowly. “Okay…. But the second a Griever comes around that corner, you two are on your own.”
“Deal.” I managed just fine last time, this shouldn't be much different.
The process of hauling Alby up the wall is much more difficult than Thomas recalls it being. Perhaps in part to his lack of focus, and perhaps in part to...well, his lack of focus.
He’s caught up in trying to remember exactly which twists and turns he took to evade the Griever and end up with Minho last time, but it’s impossible to recall such specifics after so many months.
A piercing, screeching whirr reaches them down the corridor. Thomas and Minho lock eyes.
“Good luck, Greenie.”
“Minho, wait—”
But it's too late. Minho releases his grip on the vine and Thomas is yanked forward, feet losing traction on the ground. He digs in, the vine burning into his palms and his shoulders straining.
“Minho!”
Thomas looks over his shoulder to catch the Runner sprinting around the corner, without even a glance back.
Another warbling screech rings through the air. Closer this time.
Shit shit shit shit shit shit—
“Shit shit shit shit,” he mutters under his breath, bracing himself and pulling the vine back down with all the strength he can muster. He swings himself into a small gap underneath the wall, hidden by the overhanging ivy.
He finishes tying the vine off just as the Griever enters the corridor. Thomas closes his eyes and listens.
click click whirrrrr
click whirrr click click click
The sounds halt for a brief second, and Thomas holds his breath.
But then they continue, fading as the Griever leaves.
At least I didn't cut it as close this time.
He slides out of his makeshift hiding space, pushing himself up.
Thomas takes a deep breath, and he turns back to look at the huge, looming Doors. The only thing keeping him cut off from the Gladers. From Chuck. From Newt.
He shakes his head to clear it.
And he runs.
His body relaxes into the familiar thrum of his heart and slap of his feet against the smooth stone floor. An hour passes without even a glimpse of a Griever. It gets dark.
Another hour passes, to Thomas’s rough estimation. He hasn’t seen Minho, either.
He’s probably fine.
A shriek of a Griever slices through the silence, bouncing off the walls like mad laughter. Thomas stops.
And nearly gets tackled by Minho, running so fast he looks almost to be flying. Minho slows down just enough to grab Thomas’s wrist, then starts hauling ass once more.
Thomas looks past Minho and spots the Griever not far behind.
“Run!”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. In the darkness, it’s impossible to tell where in the Maze they even are. Minho might know, but Thomas sure as hell doesn’t, so he only hopes that Minho takes him the same route as the first time.
He does.
“Come on, follow me!” Minho shouts, not that Thomas has much of a choice with the death-grip on his wrist. “This section’s closing, come on. We can lose it down here.”
Thomas rips his arm from Minho’s grasp but continues running, purposely falling behind. Minho doesn’t look back until he reaches the end of the corridor. He stumbles to a halt.
The left wall of the corridor groans, then begins closing in.
“Thomas, what are you waiting for? Get out of there!”
The Griever screams, and Thomas turns to see as it rounds the last corner.
Come on… come on.
The Griever steps.
Stops.
Steps.
Thomas waits, ignoring Minho’s yells.
To Thomas’s dismay, the Griever doesn’t rush at him.
It steps.
And stops.
And steps.
So Thomas waits.
He waits.
He waits….
He waits too long.
Thomas turns back to the closing section, prepared to put on a burst of speed and crush the Griever between the compressing walls, only to see the gap is much smaller than he expected.
I won’t make it.
Minho seems to realize this at the same time Thomas does.
“Go around it and meet me! Take two lefts, a right, a left—”
But he’s cut off by the rumbling bang of the walls closing together.
The Griever roars behind him.
Thomas runs.
Another Griever joins in the chase at some point.
He alternates, running and getting far enough ahead to lose them, then hiding, be it behind a curtain of vines or around the corner of another wall, in the shadows.
And somehow, somehow, he makes it to morning. Part of him wonders if that’s thanks to WCKD. He just hopes that Minho had the same luck.
The Grievers leave him alone as soon as the darkness begins to ease up, replaced by a steadily growing light. The one that had been pursuing him just...disappears.
When there’s enough light to see the numbers on the walls, Thomas finds himself to be in Section Four. He doesn’t know shit about the rotations of Section Four.
His hands shake and his mind is glazed over with exhaustion.
He perks up at the rumble of the Doors opening.
It takes him far too long to find his way to them, and he doesn’t come across a Runner the whole way. The sun is high in the sky and it’s probably around noon before Thomas recognizes some of the wider hallways and the patterns of the ivy.
He turns another corner, shoulder smacking against the wall from turning too soon, and stops. He stares at the Glade.
Chuck leaps up from his post in front of the Doors, his face paling.
“Holy shit," Chuck whispers. "Guys, he’s back!”
“Hey Chuck,” Thomas says, smiles, and promptly loses consciousness.