Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thomas awoke anew, his gaze drawn to the hazy cerulean canopy adorned with veils of gray. The muted symphony of morning murmurs surrounded him, voices intertwining like whispers of dawn, as lives stirred to life with the tender embrace of the day ahead.

In the depths of his mind, he could taste the fleeting memory of a meal, a gift from Frypan, while the sharp gazes of Minho and Brenda lingered like shadows. Thomas navigated the delicate currents of memory, steering clear of Sonya, whose presence echoed the haunting essence of Newt, and exchanged brief, poignant words with Aris, carving moments in the turbulent chaos of his heart.

In the fog of his mind, Thomas struggled to recall the aftermath of that day. Perhaps he wandered the tranquil paths of Safe Haven, offering a hand to those still tangled in their troubles, stole moments for lunch, then eschewed dinner for a solitary stroll to the whispering waves of the beach.

Yet one memory pierced through the haze like a sharp blade: the reckless thrill of filching one of Vince’s guns.

To be ensnared is to inhabit a solitary realm, a gilded cage without a key. Caged by walls like a trembling cur, fangs exposed in a display of bravado, while the curled tail betrays the dread within.

Thomas, however, was not ensnared—not here, not now; the island's embrace was unconfined, liberated from the claustrophobic grip of the Maze’s merciless walls, which loomed ominous over fragile lives and fractured souls, echoing the sorrowful cries of a Griever, its barbed sting a harbinger of despair.

He was untouchable, far from Wicked’s clinical grasp, safeguarded from the maddening Cranks that prowled the cursed Earth, and distant from the specter of death lurking nearby.
In this haven, Thomas found safety, a bitter truth that stung sharper than he cared to admit. The remnants of loyalty—and the bruised hearts of those who survived—bore witness to their scars, the deep-rooted trauma gnawing at their weary spirits. He held a quiet vigil for those lost, the carved names etched into stone like unyielding tombstones, fingers quaking as fleeting memories coursed anew through his mind.

Chuck, Teresa, Alby, Jeff, Clint, Winston, Jake.

Yet, in this refuge, unease coiled around him like smoke.

Mary, Zart, Ben, Adam, Dave, Billy, Hank.

Had Thomas ever truly known safety?

Newt.

He grieved for the nameless, those consumed by the chaos, their essence erased by the flames of past anguish. What if WICKED had merely retreated, its shadows plotting in silence? Was Ava Paige's and Janson's demise the end of their relentless pursuit, or merely the prelude to a darker chapter? Was WICKED still a looming threat, awaiting its new architect of despair?

How many souls, vibrant yet forsaken, must find their eternal rest beneath the ashes of despair before the scales tip towards salvation?

How many innocent lives must Thomas witness, tethered to a grotesque table, dark veins pulsing through their tender skin, as the taint of a cruel flare steals their essence?

Young hearts, shrouded in desperation, raise guns to their temples, imploring mercy; to avoid the abyss of mindless existence, to cling to the dwindling ember of humanity as they spiral away from this world.

A generation extinguished, silence reigning in the void.

What worth was his cure, a vessel brimming with healthy blood, if Thomas could not forsake his own existence for the sake of humanity? What was he if not a fading shadow of hope?

If only he had shed his stubbornness, hurried with purpose, dragged along a fractured spirit-like Newt faster to Terresa who begged Thomas to kill him, perhaps desperation wouldn’t have led Newt to take a fatal step, ending their entwined fates.

Newt was lost as the rest of them, his once vibrant warmth abandoned in the Last City, a canvas marred by dark veins etched on pale skin. His dazzling eyes, now mere voids, no longer flickered with that captivating light, no longer reflecting the amber glow of sunrises, only haunting abysses of despair.

In a storm of anguish, Thomas wept like the dying sun sinking into a chasm of despair, the memory clawing at his heart, mirroring the void left by Chuck and Teresa.

Each echo of silence in the room was a knife, twisting deeper, as frantic radio static assaulted his ears, a haunting reminder of lives teetering on the edge.

The shadows of his nightmares wrapped around him tighter, each flicker of darkness revealing more terrors.

Yet amid the chaos, a flicker of truth remained—he was cherished, enveloped in the warmth of friendship. They fought to shield him, just as he stood ready to plunge into the abyss for their continued light, a silent vow shared in the depths of sacrifice.

Thus, Thomas stood at the precipice of decisions, knowing his next move would carve wounds upon their hearts.

Thomas feels the weight of his own heart's betrayal, a selfish desire clawing at the remnants of his fragile spirit. After all the storms he’s weathered alongside them, to squander this moment on his own aching need feels like a cruel twist of fate.

How would Minho react, he wonders, with shadows of loss already haunting his every step? The pain of a stolen friendship clings like an unshakable ghost, and here he stands, a thief at the threshold of another wound.

Yet, what if he could seize this fleeting moment, to cast off the burdens that cling to him like the fallen souls of his past? A fleeting reprieve from relentless sorrow. Selfishness gnaws at him—selfish, selfish, selfish.

The gun lay like a stone upon Thomas’ fevered flesh, the icy metal sending tremors spiraling through him, akin to chilled tides caressing his legs. His grasp, firm around the sturdy grip, heightened as his gaze lingered on the tumultuous ocean waves crashing against the sands, erasing footprints and exiling remnants of the past.
The abyss of the deep ocean.

Had Newt ever gazed upon the resplendent expanse of the deep waters?

A hollow semblance of laughter clawed its way from Thomas’ throat, fading into the starlit void and the shadows of the relentless tides.

Of course, Newt never laid eyes upon that cursed ocean.

He was lost to the void.

Thomas, in a bittersweet stupor, withdrew a tiny wooden figure from his pocket, the weight of dried blood clinging to the trinket, stubborn and unyielding, despite his desperate scrubbing in pure water.

He never fulfilled the promise made to Chuck; in a world fractured and cruel, how could he? So why did he cling to hope in the search for the boy’s forsaken family? Thomas had betrayed the trust of that younger soul, too consumed by despair to save him, barely emerging from the labyrinth before the shadows claimed Chuck's lifeless form.

It ought to have been him.

Should’ve been Thomas, the one to catch the cruel bullet's kiss instead of Chuck, whose light flickered out far too soon.

Should’ve been Thomas, left to perish on the scorched earth while Winston clung to life.

Should’ve been Thomas, the one who bore the weight of Minho’s abduction by WICKED, thrust into a nightmare of endless torment.

Should’ve been Thomas, plummeting from that crumbling tower, not Teresa, whose cries echoed in the void.

Should’ve been Thomas, embraced by darkness that day as Newt fell away into silence.

Why was it him still breathing, the architect of that merciless maze? The very snare that ensnared countless innocent boys, adrift in terror, utterly lost in their plight to survive the relentless hunt. How many understood that hope was nothing more than a mirage beyond the maze's treacherous walls?

The cold muzzle kissed Thomas' temple, his eyelids fluttering shut as an unexpected wave of tranquility enveloped him, soft as a lover's embrace. The necklace draped against his chest, Newt's necklace, radiated an icy solitude, a reminder of loyalty twisted into suffering.
How ruthless was the weight of his own heart! He should have focused on the others, the souls still yearning for his strength. Yet, there he lingered, a breath of relief washing over him, surrendering to the fate of one among countless bodies surrendered to the earth, where worms would twine through the hollow remnants of his gaze, dining upon the facade of his existence, now a mere fragment of Mother Nature's tapestry.

At least in this final act, he would still serve a purpose.

In the silent chambers of his heart, Thomas yearned fiercely for Minho to carry on, a vibrant spark of life for Newt and himself, until the final breath.

He envisioned Minho, darting through the world with that familiar sharp wit, restored and vibrant alongside Brenda and Frypan.

Thomas felt his finger tremble against the trigger, his grip slackening around Chuck’s figure, the wind a gentle caress that swept away the warmth from his cheeks, as fresh tears cascaded down his face.

He pondered, grappling with dread over who among the lost souls in Safe Haven would discover his lifeless form adrift on the shore—who would bear the burden of informing Vince of his departure.

But not Minho, anyone but Minho.

Thomas pressed the cold steel harder against his temple, his gaze locked on the ocean's eternal dance—a sight Newt would never behold. In that fleeting moment, he sought an apology to the entire world for whoever was still listening.

"I’m sorry."

For those who still lingered awake in the twilight's embrace heard the unforgiving echo of a fresh bullet carving its fateful path through the unfolding depths of Thomas’ mind, as the force of the bullet forced the boy's memories to the brink, dark crimson seeped into the pale grains of sand, crafting a dark pool that would tell its tale to the dawn.

###

Minho held no memory of himself as a wary sentinel of slumber.

A creature of dawn, he often awoke before the sun's tender kiss, dressed in anticipation for his invigorating morning sprints. Call it madness, yet it was the rhythm of his existence.

Old habits cling like ivy, refusing to yield to time's relentless embrace.

So, when Minho's eyes flung open, his body jolting upright, bones creaking in objection, a chill permeated his heated skin, sudden dread gripped him like a vice.

Something was amiss. His gaze darted across the dimly lit room, counting each still figure wrapped in the dusk's blanket, as he stealthily crept from his cocoon, a silent guardian ensuring reality wasn't cloaked in illusion.

Someone was absent; the tapestry of breath felt incomplete.

He halted before Thomas’ tightly coiled sleeping bag, its massing folds betraying the absence of life beneath. In the cavern of Minho's being, fear coiled tightly, blossoming into a suffocating dread.

“Thomas?”

Chapter Text

Word on the street is that in the twilight of your life, those dusty memories roll back like an ancient film reel flickering in your head.

They whisper that in your last heartbeat, death wraps around you like a warm, silky shroud, inviting you to surrender sweetly.

To follow that bright light.

No more torment.

No more agony.

Just an echo of emptiness, plain and stark.

Yet, this doesn’t vibe with the notion of dying.

Someone was pushing him along a corridor. The air was thick with the scent of cold steel and antiseptic, a far cry from what the Safe Haven offered up.

In the depths of his awareness, three things clung to Thomas like tight vines.

First, the pulse of life coursed through him, relentless and fierce. Concerning, Thomas was quite sure surviving from a bullet through the brain was close to zero.

Second, ghostly figures cloaked in those white lab coats flickered at the edges of his vision, their features blurred and menacing. It reminded Thomas of WICKED too much.

Lastly, an aching void echoed in his mind—he was lost, adrift in an unknown surrounding that felt too familiar for his liking.

Beneath the unyielding straps that constricted him, Thomas’s body spasmed, a caged creature fighting against its invisible captors.

Gloved hands descended like tendrils, relentlessly trying to restrain his defiance, and he recoiled in a visceral surge of resistance, snapping his head to glimpse more of those indistinct faces.

The world around him was muted, drowned in a distant sea that blurred reality, igniting a deep fear within him. Instinct clawed at his core, a survivor's desperation resonating in his every fiber; he was the prey, hunted and trembling.

It's what kept him alive for so long, those instincts, whenever he does stupid shit that left Newt frowning in disapproval towards his actions and Minho looking at him with exasperation, all while still making sure he’s alright.

Because that’s what good ol’ Thomas does. Self-sacrifice himself to save his remaining friends.

Every. Single. Time.

But now? Thomas wouldn’t be sacrificed for anybody anymore.

A searing pain erupts from behind his back, something was prodding him hard.

Needles? Scalpels?

Doesn’t even matter, Thomas wanted them gone. Away from him.

A weak protest escapes out Thomas’ dry lips, how does he get them to stop it?

ᴳᵉᵗ ᵒᶠᶠ

Get off

Get off

GET OFF

G E T O F F

GET OFF OF HIM

Thomas screams, a piercing wail echoing the anguished howls of humanity's eternal torment.

He clamped down on the unprotected hand nearest to him, unleashing a sharp yip from the man up above him, his teeth sinking into flesh.

It hurts!

A cry of agony erupted from his lips once more. The pain smoldered within, like a searing mark, tearing through the top layer of his skin.

Why couldn’t they understand that it hurts?

In the murky haze of the backdrop, an older woman's voice barely surfaced through Thomas’ clogged earways, her gaze sharp enough to slice through the fog of Thomas' mind, though she eluded his sight like a whisper in the wind.

"Sedate him."

With a jolt, someone wrenched his head upward which forced the wounded hand out from Thomas’ unforgiving mouth, disorienting his already clouded vision, as a stinging sensation crawled along his exposed neck.

Another figure clamped a breathing mask onto his face, compelling him to inhale the sickly sweet air that washed over him like a warm tide, sapping his strength and dragging his eyelids down.

As darkness encroached, his gaze latched onto a singular figure looming above him.

Those brown eyes, reminiscent of a cow's gentle gaze, clashed with the crystalline depth of the clearest ocean blue, much to Thomas’ horror with a sense of dread.

He knew those eyes.

Thomas knows those eyes.

Teresa.

That’s impossible.

Thomas had watched, watched, Teresa plummeted to her death with a bittersweet smile gracing her beautiful features, the burning building collapsed beneath her feet as Thomas could only watch from just a short distance.

Too young, she died too young of a woman. Perhaps not yet a fully grown women like Ava Paige. She was just a young teenager, trying to do what was best in her heart, for the world.

But then again, weren’t they all?

All of them, pretending to be adults in a adult world and getting their hands dirtied to protect themselves from harm.

The dead won’t return, regardless of immunity, for a lifeless shell cannot be resurrected.

Thomas is heavily aware of this cruel truth; his anguished pleas for Newt to return back home with him echo into an abyss of silence, as he holds the cold form of his fallen friend.

There is no such thing as a divine intervenor.

Cruel, what a cruel joke to play.

Was what Thomas wanted so badly too much to ask? Too selfish of him? Too greedy?

He left Minho behind.

Thomas left everybody behind again.

All dissolved into the abyss, slumber reclaiming his sight anew as Thomas surrendered to the embrace of the sterile bed.

It’s just a dream, Thomas assured himself, over and over again.

Just a dream.

A last cruel dream before life finally goes away and Thomas could rest for real this time.

The strong copper taste in between his teeths says otherwise.

Teresa gazes in quiet contemplation.

Her keen eyes, aglow with curiosity, scrutinize the unfolding drama while her fingers dance across her notes, immortalizing the moment in her vast databases.

Ms. Paige once hailed her as sharp-minded, a girl blessed with wisdom.

But even with that brilliance, she finds herself grappling with the perplexing enigma of why Thomas, of all souls, would metamorphose so unexpectedly.

What had he meant by all of those?

Her pinks lips pursed into a thin frown.

She knew Thomas believed in the cause of WICKED, he must still be, WICKED was the only one going to save all of humanity in search of cure.

But Thomas confused her too much.

Thomas told Teresa that he couldn’t continue watching his friends die one by one anymore, that he needed to do something because what they were doing was inhumane.

But the pros outweighed the cons, this needed to be done.

Sacrifice was sometime necessary.

Chapter Text

The same agonizing cacophony blasts through Thomas' thoughts like a freight train.

A jarring, soul-shredding screech that gnaws at him, like nails scraping mercilessly against a chalkboard, mingles with the acrid scent of sweat and packed crates invading his senses, and then there's the view.

The harrowing reality of being trapped in the Box.

Thomas sprang to his feet, stumbling awkwardly, crashing back against one of the crates. His back met the unfortunate touch and caught against the feeling, his view turning slightly as he tumbled down on his ass.

Stingings bursted through his unmarred flesh, no question it was turning crimson upon impact, likely bruised too.

A soft hiss slipped from his lips as Thomas clumsily massaged his back, soothing the burnt skin.

“Mmmm, Okay—ow, that hurts.”

Not a dream—most certainly not a dream; isn’t pain one of the first indicators that slumber has eluded you?

Thomas thinks that him out of all people, should be all too aware of what feels like, being sleep-deprived and driven on determination to carry his two feet.

However, just in case, Thomas slapped himself across the face. Another sharp stinging bloomed and tingled his cheek. Yep, not a figment of his imagination, that’s a wrap. Which, unfortunately, meant Thomas is alive. His brain matters still remained intact inside, providing him thoughts and insight.

Thomas pushed himself off his feet, with far more grace then a newborn doe, and began to think. Panic? A dead end—like WICKED's twisted game where they snatched Minho (But you lost Newt in return) and a clearer mind helps with reasonable solutions.

But let’s get real, what kind of twisted games were afoot in this place?

Thomas, the gritty soul, knows he's kicked the bucket—supposedly dead, but yeah, he’s out of the game. Just a lifeless shell waiting for Mother Nature to reclaim him. His selfish moves painted a stain on not just his own life, but on the world around him, as Thomas let so many down.

It all started crashing down hard on him. The stark truth of Thomas’ most reckless and self-centered 'sacrifice' sank in like a lead weight. Thomas gnawed at his lower lip, the metallic tang of copper still lingering like a bitter reminder.

The antidote, Thomas is—was the antidote, and he couldn’t just grit his teeth for one more fleeting moment to ensure the serum was brewed before choosing his end? Was there even a soul left on this earth with the talents of Mary or Teresa? The other mad minds at WICKED? The very notion made Thomas wretch, he had plunged humanity deeper into the abyss than it already teetered.

Another situation like Newt’s, to be killed by another hands.

Another situation like Brenda’s, to remain in fear.

Another situation like Minho’s, to be left behind in a world of monsters.

Thomas barely had a chance to ride the wave of his thoughts when the Box, fed up, unleashed a blinding burst from its wretched faux sun.

Hold up.

Hold up??

Wait—stop—!? He’s not prepared!

Thomas launched his long, spindly arms high, a desperate shield against the relentless stares he sensed would torment him relentlessly through every moment of this existence.

His ears, liberated at last from the maddening clangor of metal grinding in agony, caught the muted murmurs of (familiar) young men.

Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap!!

Thomas didn’t want this, he doesn’t want to back here at the hellhole that started it all, because nothing became right after his appearance in the Glade.

Thomas peered past his arms, forcing himself to look upon the faces he had once watched formed into pure fear, the color of skin paling as Death crawls closer to each of them, the very same faces that Thomas had all let down due to his incompetence.

So young, Thomas just remembered, of how young all of them really were.

Just boys.

Just a group of young boys trying to keep surviving instead of living.

Fuck, focus on the main subject here, Thomas! Swimming back into a depressive state even after finally realizing he’s brought back from the dead for some unknown reason does not give it an excuse to ignore his situation.

Thomas lowered his arms from his face, met with a gang of boys shooting him sly, mischievous glares, ready to spook the fresh Greenie of the week, just for kicks. At least, that was the plan. Thomas couldn’t shake the memory of his epic face-plant upon arrival—pure cringe if you dare to ask him.

So, how's Thomas meant to respond this time?

His gut told him to bust outta that box, shoving through everyone too stubborn to budge, and track him down.

A heavy silence enveloped them, with Thomas returning a gaze as empty as the void itself.

Well, this was awkward.

Gally, Gally opened up the gates and hopped down smoothly, Thomas tucked his legs closer to himself, huddling against the same crate from earlier that bruised his back as a reality check.

He’s here, despite Thomas seeing the boy not too long ago at Safe Haven. Probably asleep in his hammock with Minho, his Gally and Minho weren’t back at the Glade that haunted their dreams in the back of their minds.

“Whoa there, Greenie.” Gally threw his hands up, brows arched like he was watching a show as Thomas curled in on himself as a reflex, attempting to look as defenseless as he could in hopes of calming him down.

Deep down, Thomas knew Gally could’ve toss him aside like a feather without breaking a sweat, but it was oddly comforting. Comforting enough that Gally hadn’t yet grown to hate Thomas’ company.

Given the twist of fate that dogs Thomas, this could very well turn around, snapping at his heels as the storm of chaos swells ever closer on the horizon.

Actually, now that Thomas was really thinking about it. Was the space around him blurring?

###

Gally, basking in his own brilliance, cast no light upon the icy beads of anxiety that clung to Thomas’ flesh, a chilling second skin. He said nothing of the way the Greenie exuded vulnerability, as if inviting the world to strike him down for the mere act of being human.

Gally has witnessed the depth of fear, the new Greenies trembling like leaves in a storm, their emotions a tidal wave crashing through fragile hearts, each surge a testament to the weight of their unease.

Yet this?

The Greenie felt no fear of Gally.

No, the Greenie was frozen, terror-stricken by the sight looming over him.

But hold on, it ain't the reason you'd imagine.

The Greenie wrapped himself up tight, claws piercing into his tender palms as his gaze fixated above the Box, locking in on something.

On someone.

Now, Gally wouldn't brand himself a decent guy, maybe sympathetic at times that lingered within him, but nice? That’s just like labeling Alby a jolly leader who beams sunshine every single day.

Truth be told, Gally lacked the tender spirit to unravel the tempest of feelings swirling within the Greenie’s wide, shimmering gaze. Who possesses such hauntingly vast and teary orbs, if not a soul adrift in uncertainty?

Gally clutched the collar of the Greenie, yanking him from the depths and pulling him toward the verdant embrace of the earth. A sharp, fleeting gasp escaped the Greenie, his breath trembling as he stumbled, yet somehow found his balance, teetering on the brink of unsteady ground.

Once more, had Gally possessed even a flicker of kindness, he would’ve inquired about the Greenie’s well-being, seeing the ghostly pallor that haunted the shank’s visage beneath the harsh rays of the sun. But kindness was a stranger to him, and it was to Newt, the Second-In-command, that most Greenies naturally flocked, like moths to a flame.

Perchance he ought to have.

Perchance Gally ought to have.

For the Greenie appeared more ensnared before Gally rescued him from the abyss of the Box. His gaze clashed with another, pupils expanding in disbelief at a figure shimmering beyond the cackling throng of boys.

"Newt...?"

A whisper—soft, fragile. Yet it sliced through the chaos like a blade, louder than any scream, heavier than any shout. The weight of that single name sent a tremor through the air, stilling every breath, every movement.

The Greenie wavered. Once.

Then again.

His chest rose in a shallow, unsteady gasp before his legs gave out beneath him. His knees struck the ground, hard, but he didn’t seem to feel it. His brown eyes, wide with something unspoken—fear, recognition, something more—fluttered once before rolling back. A strangled sound slipped past his lips, then silence. His body crumpled, surrendering to the dark.

And the world stood still.

Chapter Text

Just minutes into the chaos, the Greenie crumpled before them, leaving nothing but a tense silence behind. Wonderful. But what gnawed at Newt was the murky fog of confusion swirling around him.

Newt’s eyes darted between the unconscious Greenie and Alby, his brow furrowing with concern while his heart raced against his chest. “Well, that’s a bloody first,” he muttered, stepping closer to the kid sprawled on the ground.

(Newt promptly brushed aside the trembling whisper of the Greenie, the name slipping into his ear like a secret carried by a fleeting breeze. It lingered there, a haunting melody that sent icy shivers racing down his spine, igniting a storm within.)

Who was this new kid? Those piercing eyes seemed to slice through the very fabric of Newt's existence, yet they revealed not a scrap of identity. It sent a shiver down his spine, an all-too-familiar discomfort of life in the Glade. Memory vanished like shadows at dawn—only names lingered, and who was to say if they belonged to the ghosts of a past life?

The other Gladers swarmed around Newt, hovering over his shoulders while their voices a murmur of anxious whispers as all eyes locked onto the leaders. Alby and Newt, First and Second-in-command. 

Alby crouched down, pressing two fingers to the Greenie’s neck. “Still got a pulse,” he grumbled, but his expression remained tight. “Shuck-face barely made it two steps before droppin’ like a sack of klunk.”

Newt exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, can’t blame him. Bet he’s scared out of his mind, just like we all were.” He shot a glare at Gally. “You didn’t have to go roughing him up the second he got here, ya know.”

Gally crossed his arms. “Wasn’t roughing him up. Just helpin’ him out.”

Newt rolled his eyes but didn’t bother arguing.

He knew he shouldn’t anchor himself entirely to the mysterious Greenie ( you must ), but the chaos of the other brawling boys demanded his leadership, their wildness a fire he had to tame. Alby held the situation with a steady grip, and for now, Newt trusted him to handle the Greenie.

Alby sighed, straightening up. “Get him to the Homestead. Let the Med-jacks deal with him. We’ll figure out the rest when he wakes up.” Alby called for Clint and Jeff, the only two people that basically kept them all alive from their stupid shenanigans.

Newt swung his head, the golden strands of his hair cascading down, teasing his brow with each movement, burdened by a torrent of questions, the answers evading him like shadows in a maze. 

Something about the new Greenie told Newt that life in the Glade was about to get a whole lot more interesting. At least the shank wasn’t a bloody psycho—he seemed relatively normal if you ignored the whole fainting bit from less than five minutes ago.

Newt exhaled sharply, shaking off the uneasy feeling creeping up his spine. He turned back to the crowd and clapped his hands together twice, the sharp sound cutting through the murmurs.

“Show’s over, shanks! Get your sorry arses back to work!”

A few reluctant grumbles echoed before the Gladers scattered, boots crunching against the dirt as they returned to their tasks.

Newt stole one last glance toward Clint and Jeff as they disappeared toward the Med-jack hut, the too-light Greenie slumped between them. His gut twisted, but he shoved the feeling down.

The Med-jacks had it under control. They didn’t need him hovering.

Even if every instinct told him otherwise.

*

Clint and Jeff grunted as they reached down to grab the unconscious Greenie, expecting a struggle to lift him. Instead, the boy’s body practically lurched up with their pull, his unexpected lightness throwing them off balance.

“Shuck—” Jeff swore, nearly stumbling backward. “Is he even eatin’?”

Clint, who had just managed to steady himself, shot Jeff a look. “No way he’s this light. Kid looks normal-sized, should be heavier.”

Jeff adjusted his grip, his expression turning more puzzled than concerned. “Maybe he’s sick or somethin’. Ain’t never had a Greenie this bad off before.”

Clint pressed two fingers to the kid’s neck, frowning. His pulse was there, steady but weak. “Gally must’ve scared the life outta him.”

Jeff huffed, throwing a glance toward Gally, who stood nearby looking more irritated than guilty. “Yeah, well, better hope he wakes up soon. Last thing we need is a half-dead Greenie on day one.”

“C’mon, let’s just get him to the Med-jack hut. Figure out what’s wrong with him after.” Clint shifted his hold, and together, they carried the oddly light Greenie toward the hut, the unease settling deeper in their guts.

Something about this kid wasn’t right, or that could just be Clint having a damn stomachache.

The Med-jack hut wasn’t much, but it was quiet. Clint and Jeff lowered the Greenie onto one of the makeshift cots, both still thrown off by how damn light he was.

Jeff grabbed a damp cloth, swiping the sweat off the kid’s forehead. “He’s burning up,” he muttered, reaching for a waterskin. “Bet he’s dehydrated as hell.”

Clint, already in full Med-jack mode, pulled up the Greenie’s sleeves to check for any signs of injury. His breath hitched. “What the—?”

Jeff looked over and immediately stiffened. The kid’s arms were covered in scars. Not fresh wounds, but healed-over slashes, thin and jagged, some barely visible while others left faint ridges against his skin. They didn’t look like accident scars either—more like something deliberate.

“This ain’t normal.” Clint’s voice dropped. “Greenies don’t come like this.”

Jeff frowned. “Could be from before he got sent up.” He glanced at the kid’s face—pale, sweat-drenched, twitching slightly like he was stuck in a dream. A nightmare. “Still, never seen a shank show up lookin’ like this.”

Clint’s unease deepened. “Help me sit him up. I wanna check somethin’.”

Jeff grabbed Thomas under the shoulders while Clint carefully lifted his shirt. Both of them froze.

A long, clean surgical scar ran from the center of the Greenie’s chest, straight down past his navel. The skin was still pinkish, the wound closed but disturbingly recent.

Jeff exhaled sharply. “Shuck me.”

Clint traced the edge of the scar lightly, his expression darkening. “No way this is normal. What the hell happened to him before he got here?”

Jeff let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “No clue. But I get the feelin’ this kid’s gonna be a whole lot of trouble.”

Neither of them had an answer. But one thing was clear—this Greenie wasn’t just another newbie. Something was seriously wrong.

And the Glade was about to find out just how wrong.

Chapter Text

Thomas dreaded waking back up.

He passed out. Lost consciousness. Went toward the light. Blacked out completely—in front of everyone as his big first impression.
(Second, Thomas. You’re back. )

Not exactly the entrance of a lifetime for a kid dropped into a shuck maze full of strangers with no clue about the outside world. Jesus Christ. It was already bad enough that he face-planted in the middle of the Glade. Now he had to live with the fact that he fainted .

On day one.

Seriously. How does someone just… flop ?

He felt fine—kind of. No limbs missing. No organs (that he knew of) stolen or misplaced. He hadn’t taken anything weird...Maybe.

Thomas paused.

He didn’t remember .

…

Thomas doesn’t remember?

…

Thomas couldn’t remember.

That—That was bad. That was really, really bad.

He should remember.

He should remember.

Thomas knew he hadn’t eaten much those last few weeks after Newt died—barely drank, only when Minho shoved a bottle into his hands or when Sonya dragged him into the Med-jack tents and glared him into sipping something.

But that was before .
Before he made the decision to end it all.

Before he chose to blow his brains out across the beach sand.

He chose that ending.

Made peace with it, didn’t he? Sat on that beach with the barrel pressed right between his eyes, salt wind in his face, the stink of blood on his clothes. He didn’t even flinch. There was nothing left to fight for.

Newt was gone.
Teresa was gone.
Everyone he loved had either died or walked away.

So he pulled the trigger.

That was supposed to be it.

He’d done it. He ended it. He knows he did.

Why was he breathing? Why did his chest ache like something had sliced him open and stitched him back together with gravel and fire?
Why was his head pounding like he’d been hit with a brick?

Why did it smell like antiseptic and sweat and—hay?

His body felt like lead. Every nerve beneath his skin itched and burned and pulled taut. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. All he could do was float in that suffocating space between unconsciousness and reality, where panic bled slow and heavy.

What the hell happened to him?

His body was weaker than it should’ve been. Muscles slack, nerves jittery and slow to respond. When he tried to curl his fingers into a fist, they just trembled.

Not fear. Not entirely.

Exhaustion.

Emptiness.

The kind of numb that came after .

Eyes cracked open, just barely. The world came back in pieces—shapes, blurs, muted color. A flickering lantern in the corner. Faded wood beams overhead. Shadows dancing quietly across the ceiling.

The Med-jack hut.

He was in the Glade.

Somehow, impossibly, he was in the Glade again.

No.

No no no no no—

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the sting didn’t go away. His chest pulled tight, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob that never made it out.

It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

He’d left Newt behind. Watched the world burn a second time. Held the gun in his hand.

He was supposed to be dead.

And yet—

Here he was. Again. Back at the start.

A shivering breath pushed past his lips. His hands clutched weakly at the edge of the cot, grounding himself in the rough texture of the sheet, the ache of his healing body, the weight of a second chance he never asked for .

Alive.

And he didn’t even know why.

(Maybe as a second chance, Thomas.)

Thomas inhaled, sharp and shaky, feeling his lungs press hard against brittle bones. He grit his teeth and forced his elbows beneath him, trying to prop himself up like a newborn foal fumbling for its legs.

It was pathetic. Ugly. Desperate.

He made it halfway—just enough for his head to lift above the thin cot—before gravity took over.

The world tilted. 

Then he hit the ground.

Hard.

No time to scream. No strength to.

His body did it for him, jolting with pain so fierce and complete it felt like every nerve fired at once. Agony tore through his ribs, down his spine, crackling behind his eyes. He hit the floor on his left side with a choked grunt, and for a moment, he just stayed there—curled up like how the befallen Gladers probably did.

He didn’t cry. Didn’t make a sound. He just breathed. Slowly. Shallowly. 

Another breath in—

A fucking mistake.

It stabbed into his chest, needles sinking deep, radiating pain through his sternum and arms like his heart was trying to crawl out of his ribcage. He gasped. No air. Only ache.

Still. He moved .

Thomas reached up, shaking, his hand fumbling against the edge of the bedframe. Fingers scraped wood. Slid. Gripped. He hauled himself upright inch by inch, muscles screaming, sweat beading cold on his neck.

His arm throbbed with every tug. His ribs felt like shattered glass shifting inside him. But it was easier—barely—than lying flat and letting his lungs fold in on themselves again.

He got to his knees, forehead pressed against the side of the cot. He just breathed . 

One. (Newt)

Two. (Chuck) 

Three. (Alby) 

Four. (Winston) 

Five. (Jack)

Get up.

Get up.

(You don’t deserve to rest now.)

Thomas’s breath stuttered as he pressed his hands—thin, shaky, too light (Maybe you should work on that again, Thomas)—onto the bedding. He shoved, bones grinding against joints, until his knees locked and he rose to his feet.

The room spun.

His legs wobbled beneath him like twigs in the wind. The walls swayed. The floor tilted. His heart thumped out a panicked rhythm in his ears—and somewhere in the haze, he missed the sharp inhale behind him. A gasp, maybe. A startled voice . Didn’t matter.

What did matter was the pair of hands that caught him before he crumpled again.

Gentle. Steady. Familiar in a way that scraped something raw just beneath his ribs.

( You know those hands, stupid. )

Thomas blinked hard, tried to shake the fog from his skull, but it only pulsed harder, louder.

He felt the hands guide him—softly, insistently—back down onto the cot. The mattress creaked beneath his weight as he sank into it, every inch of his body shrieking in silent protest.

He expected words. Questions. Scolding.

He got none of it.

Only quiet. Not peaceful— mute . Like the world had gone still just to let him feel the pounding of his blood and the weight of ghosts pressing into his spine.

Someone spoke. Maybe. Maybe not.

He couldn’t hear it.

Couldn’t hear anything but the endless echo of five names in his skull, a roll call of the dead.

Thomas stared at his lap, unmoving, hands limp in his lap.

(You don’t deserve to rest now.)

“–y, hey? C’mon, Shank, don’t doze off now.”

A hand came into view—warm-toned, steady, alive.

Brown skin dappled with faint scars and the jagged little remnants of hard work. Short nails, slightly uneven. Grounded. Real.

Thomas blinked. 

Once. 

Twice.

His gaze trailed upward.

And stopped.

The breath caught in his throat so violently it nearly strangled him.

Jeff.

Jeff.

Alive.

Thomas stared, wide-eyed, frozen. Jeff’s brow was drawn, a furrow between his eyes as he studied him, concerned and focused. His mouth moved, saying something—probably repeating himself—but Thomas didn’t hear it. Couldn’t.

He was too busy trying not to be sick.

Jeff was breathing. Talking. Existing.

His chest rose and fell. His skin flushed with blood and warmth.

His eyes were clear. Bright.

Alive.

AliveAliveAliveAliveAliveAliveAliveAliveAliveAliveAlive–

Thomas’s hands began to shake again.

He pressed them against the cot like it could anchor him, like it could prove he wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming or trapped in some cruel trick of the Flare. He didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare blink too long, afraid Jeff might vanish, or rot in front of him, or explode into blood and fire like the last time—like all of them did.

But he didn’t. Jeff stayed this time.

Thomas couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

His lips moved, trying to form a word, a name, anything.

Nothing came out but a broken wheeze.

He was not ready for this.

Not ready for him. 

Not ready for the past to be alive and looking him right in the eyes. 

Not ready for any of it.

Thomas really wished he’d stayed dead.

Rotting on the beach, skin stiff with salt, the sting of sand grinding into the soft hole where his brain used to be.

Let the maggots feed. Let the crows pick apart his ribs. Let the sun bleach him clean and empty and gone .

It would’ve been better than this —

Better than looking into Jeff’s living, breathing face and feeling everything twist. Staring at his mistake he couldn’t fix.

His fingers twitched. His chest burned. His vision blurred—not from tears, but from the screaming ache behind his eyes, the one that said this isn't right, this shouldn't be happening, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead .

But Jeff wasn't.

He was here . Talking to him. Maybe touching him—Thomas didn’t know anymore. The world felt paper-thin, and every breath he took felt borrowed. Like he was trespassing in a moment that didn’t belong to him anymore.

He closed his eyes, but all he saw was the beach.

The barrel.

The gun in his hand.

Newt’s blood still on his hands.

A choked sound slipped out of his throat. Not a word, not even close. Just air and pain. He curled in on himself, spine arched like it might cave inward and collapse. Maybe it would. Maybe he’d finally break the right way.

He shouldn’t be here.

Not again. Not still .

Not when he failed all of them.

Not when the dead stayed dead and he somehow didn’t.

Thomas turned his head and promptly threw up, a dull ping in his brain told him it was nothing but stomach acid.

Things are going great, aren’t they? (Maybe.)