Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Thomas walked out from under the awning and into the storm.

He did so every single night. He never could sleep, not with Newt’s screams in his ear and the - god - nightmares. So he went out to a small cliff overlooking the bay, wild waves wearily frothing under the sky.

He sat on it, legs hanging over the edge. He didn’t even dare to take out Newt’s note - he couldn’t, it would get wet no matter how he shielded it, and he couldn’t risk ruining the letter, no matter that he had the entire thing memorized in his mind.

It was the last thing he had left of Newt, other than the memories that were clear as day but destined to fade.

So he comforted himself, fingers in his pocket feeling the old yellowing crumpled paper. He wondered how Newt had even gotten a hold of it - it wasn’t like it was just lying around anywhere.

Did he ask Gally for some of it? Did Gally just not guess what it was for, then?

He felt anger at Gally again, then the thin structure of rage he had felt just collapsed and he felt absolutely defeated. That anger was simply brief.

There was no point in being angry at Gally - no point at all, honestly. He was just as bad as him, even worse, perhaps. He had known Newt infinitely longer than Gally had Chuck.

Every time he had tried to build up an emotion that wasn’t sadness or regret (or something of the sort) it went like that. He supposed he was happy for the small flash of something he had felt, even if it was just for a single fleeting moment.

He could still feel it, his hands still grasping that rough knife Newt had impaled himself on…

And Brenda had been right there, standing there, cure in her hand, her lips opening and closing, but Thomas couldn’t hear her, stunned.

Even more so, the cure was in his own fucking blood! On him all the time! He had been the solution to Newt’s ailment!

But Teresa - Teresa knew that. Teresa knew it all.

It was all her fault.

If she had not betrayed them, they would be in the Safe haven, Newt alive and uninfected. If she hadn’t held them up with her stupid fucking speech, maybe Brenda would have run there faster. Why hadn’t he pushed her off that fucking cliff when she revealed her betrayal? And did she have her memories from the beginning or was she as clueless as they were?

The questions swarmed around his head, but he couldn’t blame her. She had her own best interests in mind, and he supposed it was natural. Teresa was extremely selfish, giving a shit about nobody but herself, but there was no point in hating her. She was dead. What could he even do about it?

The pouring rain stung the long, angular cuts on Thomas’s face. He didn’t draw his leather hood. He deserved the suffering.

What would he change if he were to go back?

Newt said he didn’t want to change anything, Thomas pondered.

But Thomas knew.

Now he knew.

He would change everything.

***

A angelic white flash of light surrounded Thomas.

He was tied down to a bed with silky snowy-white sheets.

That was the first thing he noticed.

He felt float-y, like a spirit. Like he wasn’t real. Like he was just somebody’s figment of imagination.

Weightless.

He strained on the silver rope binds, trying to feel himself – he felt strangely empty. He, in short, felt like he didn’t exist. Or that the world wasn’t real.

One of the two.

The room was painted a clear white. Completely white, and looking around, he could see that the walls were white too. A sweet scent hung in the air.

There was no door - at least, that he could see.

He felt a stabbing jolt of frightening panic. Was - was this WICKED? Had they somehow found him, despite him burning them to ashes? Was he in danger again?

And then, a figure appeared inside the room.

The shadow appeared and started pacing around the room, steps heavy and slow. Deliberate.

There were two somebodies - a figure dressed in white, face as hidden as the other one’s - stayed still and addressed him, voice clean and clear. A perfect lilting tone as the figure spoke.

“Hello, Thomas. We’ve been expecting you to come.”

Come??!! He had been kidnapped! He wasn’t willingly there! For God’s sake, he was even fucking tied down to a goddamn bed!

It was a female voice, clear, and lilting with some foreign accent.

Thomas didn’t answer her. She had kidnapped him; presumably brought him to WICKED - he didn’t owe her anything at all.

He could almost feel her smile – no. That was too…too humane for WICKED. He could feel her smirk. A grin forecasting wicked acts.

How were they even convinced WICKED was good? Talk about an oxymoron, eh? They were all fucking morons. Not as bad as Teresa, but still. Plain idiocy.

“My name is Fate.” She continued, quietly, tugging the black-cloaked figure beside her where he finally stood, hands clasped into each other. “And this is - they are - Death.”

Thomas resisted the almost overwhelming urge to snort. But no. he couldn’t find this funny – he wasn’t allowed to be happy anymore. He had killed Newt. Happiness was imaginary.

He heard Fate whisper something to Death – he was sure she meant for him to hear it, she seemed all-powerful enough to tell who could hear her when she spoke. “We have to right this wrong, Death. This boy has been severely wronged.”

This boy has been severely wronged.

When was the last time somebody acknowledged it? Thomas wondered.

He could hear Death’s reply, stoic and boring toned, but they listened to Fate all the same. “I would say so too, Fate. We will right this wrong. I do not bow to such failure.”

All in all, Thomas preferred Death. At least he was sure they were honest – and he wanted to be taken from Earth by Death. He should have died, not Newt. Not Newt, or Chuck, or any one of the Gladers.

He wondered when he was going to wake up from this dream. Or was it a hallucination? Or was this life after death? Being pestered by insane people who believed he was a fixable being?

He heard Fate gasp, outraged - no, shocked. Fate seemed too soft, too kind, too sweet to feel such an emotion as outrage, or at least express it. “Don’t think such a terrible thing, Thomas, my dear!”

How do you know what I’m thinking? Thomas wanted to ask. He didn’t, though. He wasn’t going to answer to them. Not them - they were probably just WICKED playing a fucked-up (screwed-up, Newt’s voice echoed gently in his head - he had always been wary around swearing) mind game on him. No. Absolutely not.

He wondered if they were going to kill him. At least he would see Newt again. And Chuck.

And God forbid Teresa. He didn’t know what he would do if he saw Teresa again.

He also wondered how Minho would feel if he died. He was surprisingly uncaring of whether he lived or died. The thought of Minho was probably the only thing that kept him going in the Safe Haven. There were only four Gladers left. If Thomas died, there would only be three left alive.

Leaving Minho alone was possibly the only reason he was still holding on and hadn’t already fallen into a dark abyss.

He also wondered how Minho couldn’t possibly hate him. In fact, the only one he was surprised that they were still amiable with was Gally. Gally had killed Chuck, whether he wanted to or not. He probably didn’t mind that Thomas was a murderer and deserved to die.

Thomas still didn’t hate Gally. He didn’t have enough energy to.

He wished Gally had killed him, not Chuck. At least then, Newt and Chuck would still be alive.

He thought of Newt. He thought of Newt’s floppy blonde hair, falling over his eyes filled with – Thomas hoped – was adoration. He was beautiful, Thomas decided, and almost impossibly, even more beautiful on the inside. He was kind, caring, strong, a leader, beautiful – there was no positive word you could not put to Newt. Newt kept everyone going.

There were times when Minho refused to listen to anybody, back there, and Newt could calm him down. It had been so brutal, so savage for Newt to die just as Brenda had arrived with the one thing that could have saved him in that moment.

The moment died. Just like Newt.

It was a cruel twist of fate, one that sent Thomas’ heart shattering into a billion pieces.

Because Newt was what had kept Thomas going. The knowledge that at the end of the day, Newt was safe. That Newt was always there for Thomas to go back to. A constant, unchanging, unmoving thing.

Until he just…wasn’t.

Death flourished a silver and black staff and clasped it in their bony hands. “We have decided to send you back. What happened was atrocious, and will always be. But we have decided to right this wrong. You will go back to the maze. But this time, you will know what will happen. And you can save them. It is up to you. Their fates are in your hands. You choose. You will go in a week.”

And before Thomas faded out, he heard Fate say.

“You can save them all.”

***

Thomas forgot about that strange encounter.

No, he hadn’t. He may have liked to, but he hadn’t, not at all. He awoke again, on the cliff, and brushing it off as a hallucination – he must really be going loopy, where was a therapist when you needed one – he went back to bed, only to wake up, screaming. Again.

He shook his head at Minho who had climbed halfway out of his bed to help him, and refrained from going outside in the fear of another hallucination that would tempt him into doing something incredibly stupid.

So he sat at the edge, rocking a little, toes just touching the ground. He was shivering, but he shrugged off all offers of a jacket. He would suffer, because Newt had suffered. And Newt was infinitely better than him. His nails dug into his palm as he reflected back into the dream – Newt’s face, in agonizing pain, contorted in dreadful, vengeful hate. He didn’t blame Newt for hating him.

If he were Newt, he would too.

Forget ‘if he were Newt.’ He hated himself. Point blank. Period. The end. Finite.

Thomas was shaking – not because of the biting cold, as one might think – but because of that simple thought. Newt would hate him if he was alive. A fact he was not ready to face, but was most certainly true.

If he were alive. He was not. And that was all Thomas’ fault.

He saw Newt every night. And he never would stop. Newt was a bright, beautiful beacon of light, but Thomas had shattered his bulb. And it fizzled out, leaving him in darkness that threatened to devour his entire world.

His whole world was barren and desolate, anyways.

Désolé. The French word for sorry. (He vaguely remembered learning the language in the WICKED facility when he was still just a child).

It was true. The world should be sorry, crying its tears for the lives it destroyed.

And Thomas.

Thomas was sorry.

***

Thomas edged the tip of his crimson shoes (the color of blood) out of the canopy. Gradually, his shoes became soaked but all he could do was stare. He woke the next morning curled up by the edge, sleeping in an uncomfortable position.

But that didn’t matter, not at all. He didn’t deserve to sleep well, either.

Thomas awoke before everybody else. He had got four hours of sleep – lucky, he mused, he usually only got two – and he felt half dead. But it was a good day. Normally he felt about three quarters dead. And he usually looked it, too.

“You look happy today.” Minho noted, an accurate observation. Thomas turned to see him sat up on the bed with a tremendous case of bedhead, his black hair sticking up in atrocious clumps, all sticky. Minho had resting bitch face. He also looked like he had not slept, if the dark eye bags were anything to go by.

Thomas smiled, putting his hands in his pockets. “Well, I am happy.” And he realized that it was true. He was the happiest he had been since they had first arrived in the Safe Haven, that glorious paradise of a beach they had been fighting for all along.

However, the thought of the lives that had been stolen like leaves in the wind dampened the entire mood.

But even though he was one hundred percent sure that encounter with Fate and Death was entirely made-up in his head, it promised something that he desperately wanted, something he longed for, yearning.

A chance to go back.

To change things. Change it all.

The thought had a cloying sweetness to it. He knew it could never happen - it was impossible. But he still lusted after it.

It held a window of opportunity he wanted - he wanted it so much. He knew he wasn’t going to get the chance to go back – that kind of stuff didn’t exist in real life, only in daydreams and nightmares. Still, it was a possibility he was going to entertain until the week passed and nothing happened.

Minho smiled – it was a real, honest smile, nothing like the grimaces paired with sarcastic comments from before. “I’m glad, Thomas. You deserve to be happy.”

You deserve to be happy.

Thomas could remember the words, written on Newt’s note in careful cursive letters. How did Newt have that amazing handwriting? They hadn’t really needed to write in the Glade, just to scratch your name on the wall with a knife, but that was it.

He resisted the urge to squeeze his eyes shut in pain and instead said. “Right, enough sappiness for one day. Get up, Minho. Now.” Thomas flourished his hands with a grin. “The day is waiting for us to greet it.”

Minho groaned, swinging his legs out of bed. “I’m up, man. Didn’t know you were such a stickler for waking up early, Jesus Christ.”

“Time to start a fresh slate.” Thomas decided determinedly. Then, he added with a, dare I say, wicked smirk. “And it’s time to pay you back for waking me up in the maze at quite literally three am.”

“It was only six.” Minho retorted, quickly changing his shirt. “It’s not that bad, you big baby.”

“Uh, oh yeah it is.” Thomas said devilishly, changing too, brushing a hand through his ruffled brown hair. “It was the ultimate death. Literally the reason we didn’t defeat WICKED sooner. I had to get you back for that, Minho, you know. It was the dictionary definition of pain. And resentment. Loads of resentment. Especially hatred.”

Minho sighed, and said sarcastically. “And there’s Thomas, the funniest shank to ever be.”

Thomas smirked again, heading out. “And don’t I know it!”

“Don’t you dare leave me!” Minho screeched, brushing off Thomas’ comment and running after him.

They then engaged in an epic race where Thomas beat Minho by a second even though Minho swore he had been faster, never mind Harriet standing there as witness to testify for Thomas.

But Thomas kept the encounter with Fate and Death in his mind.

And the days went by, all of them tinged with a hint of melancholy.

The happiest part of sadness.

Day One.

Thomas hung out with Minho for the best part of the day before reading over Newt’s note, crying, and going to bed.

Day Two.

He worked with Gally up in trees. Thomas didn’t know Gally could climb. He read Newt’s note and cried some more before going to bed.

Day Three.

He went through some fighting moves with Harriet and Vince. Read Newt’s note. Cried. Bed.

Day Four.

Ran with Minho, exploring the island. Went swimming. Retrieved Newt’s note from the hiding spot. Read it. Cried.

Day Five.

He relaxed. He was allowed to sleep as he had not gotten a wink of sleep the night before and spent the day stuck in a nightmare – in a limbo between sleep and a nightmare – reading Newt’s note, crying and finally, sleeping.

Day Six.

He tried hunting. Didn’t like it. Reminded him of the Gladers and the Grievers. The mechanical monsters, blubber and machinery, a mess of legs and teeth, blinking red lights…he cried just thinking about that but he didn’t read Newt’s note. He just felt it, for reassurance. Sleep.

Day Seven.

Thomas woke early. His tired brown eyes, the life long since drained out of them were too serious. He had seen too much. He didn’t bother even trying to tame his hair – even with the lack of sleep, it still got messed up – and just left, quietly, sitting on the cliff right by where he had first met Fate and Death. He wondered if anything was going to happen. Then he felt stupid due to thinking something was going to happen. Still, he stayed. And when he was just about to get up and leave, something actually did happen.

For some reason, he felt he should stay.

And so he did.

Then, there was the bright flash of light and Thomas faded away…from everything.

***

Thomas came to in the Box. It was whirring, clanking, making a racket and he winced, drawing his hands over his ears as metal screeched and screamed, rubbing against other coils and screws. This was alright. This was only another nightmare…and then he would get up and kill Newt again, and he would cry again, and he would wish to die again. That familiar loop he hated so much but could never get out of. He saw Newt all the time. But the only times he even came close enough to touch Newt was when he killed Newt.

But it couldn’t be. It was too vivid, too clear. Even now, in the deep treacherous dark, it was too real. He didn’t remember all these little details of the Box, like each small metal groove in the bars or the indents of the bottom, plus each wooden container.

Was what Fate and Death said real?

Except this time, he wasn’t sick. Yes, he was sweaty, collar sticking to him uncomfortably. But he wasn’t sick through the bars of the box.

He gripped the side of the box with his fingers and looked out. It was the same. Completely black, the loud noises overwhelming him.

What was this, what was this, what-

Last time it had taken around half an hour to actually arrive in the Glade.

What was going on…

Good. More time to plan.

This had to be dream, right?

He had no idea who would remember. Probably only him.

You are kidding me…

But he could-

There’s no way this is real…

He could save them all. Newt, Chuck, Alby, Winston…and so many more. He could stop Teresa’s betrayal.

Was it just WICKED running more tests on him?

But he would have to do so in secret. Alby would never believe him-

He could stop Alby from being Stung!

But Ben…

He would have to keep Ben out of the maze.

It would do no good to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He would already have enough, Teresa coming right after him.

That just made him resent Teresa more.

If he couldn’t keep Ben out of the maze, he had to stop himself from being attacked. Then, keep Ben in the Pit until the Grief Serum came up.

Yes. He had some formation of a plan, no matter how weak it was.

If it wasn’t real…?

It had to be. He didn’t remember all the little details. But he did now, seeing it all. In all his dreams, the fear had not been so real, he hadn’t seen anything so clearly. It had all been a blur until he had seen Newt – god, Newt – and he would kill him, again.

Newt would be there. He knew it, Thomas could see him there, looking like a god.

Anyway, Thomas thought, it wasn’t exactly the time. He had to figure out how exactly not to piss anyone off, for he was way too good at it.

He made a quick list of people he had pissed off:

-Alby

-Gally

-Half the Gladers

Whoopsies, was all Thomas thought.

He would just have to lay low until he had to run out into the maze – or could be avoid that? No. Butterfly effect. Change the minimum amount of things. The only negative thing that happened was how traumatized he had been, but he already had those horrifying memories ingrained in his mind…and they weren’t going anywhere.

Anyways, they were nothing compared to just about anything else that had happened.

Thomas looked up in alarm.

The doors were sliding open.

And then he heard the talking.

But he saw…oh he saw the faces of all of the dead, Alby peering down at him, Gally glaring – but as soon as Gally had seen him something had flickered across the face. But it was quickly replaced by the same expression as before.

The same happened with Minho and Frypan.

And there – Newt. The same thing happened, but he didn’t care about that. He cared that Newt was standing there, alive.

Someone tossed a rope down. Thomas grabbed onto it, calloused hands gripping tight before the rope was tugged up, carrying Thomas as a passenger. And then he was thrown onto the ground and got a mouthful of dirt and he stared at everyone, and following a script, he stood up and ran.

Except this time he didn’t trip. He kept on running. It felt good, to work his legs, but it was overwhelmed by the nightmarish situation. Or dreamy; it was a good situation. To save them all.

He didn’t stop running. He remembered the advice he had gotten ‘Never stop running’. That much was true. To stop was to die, and he had too much – as Newt would say – to bloody live for.

But he had to trip.

He didn’t want to face the embarrassment of it, so as soon as he reached the Maze Doors – towering, stony, the ivy draped across the walls – he stopped, pretending to look in shock. Instead, he was actually looking for a Beetle Blade – there! There was the small clump of metal machinery and a blinking red light. Thomas stared at it, before it scuttled away. Then they caught up to him.

They forced his arms behind his back – like he would run, he wasn’t a moron – and tied them with a thick rope. All the time, he kept up a steady stream of questions and shouts before they finally got sick of it. He was looking at Newt who was looking at him with a queer expression – a mix of pride and, was that, affection, and something else he couldn’t identify – when they knocked him out.

***

He came to in the Pit.

Of course, he mentally groaned. Of course he would be there.

He blinked blearily, taking in the Pit. It was exactly the same – creaky chair in the corner, muddy walls, stony floor, covered in dirt and dust alike. Thomas felt the bars – wood. He could probably break through, but he was trying not to piss them off. And breaking out of their jail would probably fall into the classification of ‘piss them off’.

Alby’s face, half-shadowed, came into view and momentarily blotted out the sun. Out of instinct, Thomas threw himself back, fingers grasping for something.

“Hey, Greenbean.” Alby said, gently, dark skin even darker due to the lack of light. “You’re not going to run again, okay?”

Logically, anybody would run. This place was crazy.

Thomas didn’t say anything. He didn’t remember saying anything, although his – out-of-breath-ness – probably fit in with his profile. Really, he was just out of breath at seeing apparently dead people alive.

“Good.” Alby said. “My name is Alby.”

Thomas nodded – he already knew that, and anyways he had a good memory. A good grasp on things like names.

“Can you tell me anything about yourself?” Alby continued. “Who you are? Where you came from? Anything at all.”

Thomas knew there was only one answer he could give and he said it quietly, subdued. It came out softly, like a whisper. The one word.

“No.”

“Can you tell me your name?” Alby said, carrying on with the gentle reproach.

Thomas made sure to hesitate a lot. “I, uh, I can’t remember anything.” He said, not quite faking the panic. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

Alby held out a hand to try and soothe him. “It’s okay. Hey, relax. Relax. It’s normal. You’ll get your name back in a day or two. It’s the one thing they let us keep.”

Thomas asked the question.

“What is this place?”

And Alby said, with something akin to pride.

“Let me show you.”

“We eat here.” Alby said, gesturing to the mill of Gladers, Homestead, and the Deadheads. “We sleep here.” He pointed to the spot outside of Homestead filled with hammocks. “We grow our own food.” Alby waved a hand in the direction of the Gardens. The whole time, Thomas was craning his neck, trying to spot Newt, with failure.

“We build our own shelter. Whatever we need, the Box provides. The rest is up to us.”

“The Box?” Thomas questioned, looking over to the elevator dug into the ground.

“Yeah.” Alby said. “It’s sent up once a month with fresh supplies and a new Greenie. This month, that’s you.” Alby clapped him on the back.

“Congratulations.”

It was so bizarre. Everything was recited word for word, just as he remembered, like a badly written play.

So Thomas said his line.

“Sent up? By who though? Who put us here?”

Alby said grimly.

“That, we don’t know.”

“Hey, are you all right, Alby?”

God, Newt.

If it was possible, he looked even better today. His blonde hair tossed over his soft eyes and he looked happier – happier than Thomas had ever seen him, expecting the times they were the two of them, alone.

Thomas internally shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He was not going to think of his best friend that way – who, mind you, wasn’t even his best friend yet. If he would be at all – although, if it all went to plan, he would be.

“Greenbean, meet Newt.” Alby introduced, beckoning Newt. “When I’m not around, he’s in charge.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re always around then.” Thomas could sigh in relief at the sound of his voice. The accent, awkward limp…all of it.

“That was some dash you made earlier.” Newt said. They shook hands, and Thomas relished at the feeling of holding Newt’s hand after so long…it had been so long. “For a second, I thought you had the chops to be a runner…until you stopped.”

Newt let go and Thomas almost sighed in sadness at it. Being in contact with Newt was the best thing he had ever experienced…and he had not experienced it in so long.

“Wait, a ‘runner?” Thomas had to ask. Still, the name was pretty self-explanatory.

Alby leaned over and said to Newt. “Newt, do me a favour. Go find Chuck.”

“All right.” Newt said, before smiling and Thomas, turning and leaving.

“Thanks.” Alby said, before turning Thomas away from Newt, but he couldn’t help a final glance at Newt’s retreating figure. “Look, I’m sorry to rush this. You came up a little late, and there’s a lot to do. We got something special planned tonight.” Alby smiled. “Yeah. You’ll see.”

Alby led him away and to the tall laddered structure they had climbed the last time – and they would do it again.

“I hope you’re not afraid of heights!” (Definitely not). Alby called from the top, and Thomas hastened to follow him. “Let’s go. Come on.”

Then Alby launched into his lengthy, dramatic speech.

“This is all we got. We’ve worked hard for it. If you respect this place…you and I will get along just fine.”

Thomas leaned against the firm wooden railing and asked, “What’s out there?”

Alby ignored his question, continuing. “We only have three rules. First, do your part. No time for any freeloaders. Second, never harm another Glader. None of this works unless we have trust. Most importantly…never go beyond those walls.” Alby looked at him. “Do you understand me, Greenie?”

I break all of those rules, Thomas thought. But he still nodded. Better to keep up the pretense.

Then he saw Chuck.

Chuck. The chubby boy. The chubby boy he loved like he were a brother.

Thomas let nothing show - not one single emotion. It wouldn’t do if they figured him out on the First Day. But he still felt the pain he felt when Gally shot Chuck, the bloody bullet hole appearing in Chuck’s chest. And barely being able to let go of his grip and Newt had to physically pull him off Chuck to get him to leave.

He was ready to die for Chuck, and he would be so again.

He’d find Chuck’s parents.

This time.

This time, he’d change everything.

“Hey, Alby!”

“Hey, Chuck.”

“Where you been, man?” Chuck yelled up.

***

“It’s basically the same story for all of us. We wake up in the Box, Alby gives us the tour…then here we are. Don’t worry.” Chuck said, tightening the hammock rope, a slight shudder in his voice. “You’re already doing better than I did. I klunked my pants three times before they got me out of the Pit.”

Thomas was still staring at the Maze Doors, curiously. Then, making sure no one was looking at him except for Chuck, he started walking towards them. He could hear Chuck’s pants as he hurried after him probably going as fast as he could on his plump legs.

“No, come on. Dude, where are you going?”

“I just wanna see.” Thomas said, feeling bad about brushing Chuck off but had steeled himself to do so anyways. He needed to. Something was telling him that he did. An itch to see what he had not seen for years.

“You can look around all you want but you better not go out there.” Chuck warned, half his body in front of Thomas’ body, trying to stop him, in fear of anybody else noticing them.

Thomas steeled himself. “Why not? What’s through there?”

“I don’t know.” Chuck said pleadingly, patting down his sweaty and dirty clothes. “I just know what I’m told.”

Thomas saw Minho and Ben jog out of the Maze. Had Ben been stung yet? No. Probably not. He’d get Stung tomorrow, that was for sure.

“Hey, Chuck-Boy.” Minho said, running. “New Greenie, huh?”

“How does it feel to be promoted?” Ben asked, patting him on the back as he jogged.

“Feels great, Ben.” Chuck grinned, waving two lazy fingers in the blonde boy’s direction.

Chuck-Boy. Wasn’t it just Chuck last time?

Thomas rounded on Chuck, accusingly. “I thought no one was allowed to leave.”

Chuck shook his head, exasperated. “I said; we’re not allowed to leave. They’re different, they’re runners. They know more about the Maze than anyone else here.”

Thomas did his best to seem surprised by the incoming flow of information that he was hearing “Wait, what?”

“What?” Chuck said, not quite comprehending what Thomas had noticed amiss in his brief dialogue.

“You just said ‘Maze,’ Chuck.”

“I did?” Chuck said, attempting to bluff his way out of it. Too bad, Chuck, Thomas thought. I know you too well, just like how I did then.

He was too nervous for it to be pulled off as a truth, anyways.

“Yeah, yeah you did.”

Thomas began to head off towards the Maze again.

Chuck ran after him. “Where are you going? What are you doing? Dude, just stay here. It’s dangerous out there.

“I’m just gonna take a look.” Thomas said, shying away from Chuck.

“I told you, you can’t.” Chuck said, facepalming. That was new. He was already changing things, even as small and insignificant as that.

Butterfly effect. It could all change something big, something that Thomas didn’t want to happen.

“No one leaves, especially not now. It’s not safe at all.”

“Okay, all right.” Thomas reluctantly (or not so reluctantly) agreed.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his chest and he was thrown unceremoniously onto the ground. Mhm. He didn’t see Gally coming this time either.

Thomas resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Fucking Gally.

“Hey!”

Thomas did a double-take – was that – regret? – in Gally’s eyes? Shit, that stuff didn’t happen every day.

Gally stood over him, a looming figure. “We gotta stop meeting like this, Greenie, eh, OK?”

“Get off of me!’ Thomas yelled, wriggling up and standing.

“Calm, calm, calm.” Gally said, trying to grasp ahold of the situation.

Thomas fired his anger at WICKED into the words.

“Don’t touch me!’

“Woah, take it easy!”

“Just relax.”

“What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Thomas hissed both in anger and fear, half of it true, half fake/acting.

“Just calm down, all right?” Alby mysteriously appeared like he always did, ready to try and subdue the situation at hand.

“No, OK?” Thomas said, faking desperateness. “Why won’t you tell me what’s out there?”

He was quick to say. “We’re just trying to protect you. It’s for your own good.”

“You guys just can’t keep me here!’ Thomas yelled, wrenching himself free of the tight grip Alby had on him.

“I can’t let you leave.” Alby said, his faux calm showing cracks.

“Why not?” Thomas said defiantly, rounding on them as they surrounded him like a pack of wild dogs.

Or boars. Or anything, really, that wanted to eat its prey in that manner, that bone-chilling fashion. Hyenas. They were creepy too. And Cranks.

Then it happened.

The Doors started moving. They growled and shifted, roaring and rumbling as they finally eased themselves shut, slamming together with a loud bang.

“What the hell?” Thomas barely whispered the words, mouth tracing them. He could only stare in shock and wonder. It had been so long since he had

seen the Doors and he was quite amazed by the genius of it all. He’d only seen them close about seven times – in fact, he hadn’t even been there for most of them. Running the Maze at night…

“Next time, I’m gonna let you leave.” Gally spat venomously. But was it just him, or did he hear the hint of an apology in the words? The hint of a ‘sorry’

that went unspoken?

Alby moved closer to him and said the words he would forever remember. The words he would never forget, no matter what WICKED could try to do.

“Welcome to the Glade.”

***

Thomas was sitting beside Newt. Their knees were touching – he hoped it was dark enough that Newt wouldn’t see the pink flush that must have been on his face at the feeling of Newt’s warm skin on his.

There were crowds of rowdy boys cheering and gulping down alcohol. Boys were playing drums and there were dancing rounds, strange dancing, a style of dance Thomas hadn’t had the chance to fully appreciate the first time around.

Newt turned his face to him, the flames flickering across it, illuminating his soulful brown eyes.

“Hell of a first day, Greenie, yeah?” He grabbed the amber liquid he knew was Gally’s recipe. “Here. Drink this.”

Thomas grabbed it, waiting for the next line – put some hair on your chest - but it never came.

Huh. So he wasn’t the only one changing stuff today. Others were, too. Newt was.

He sipped it. It was as revolting as before and he gagged but swallowed it. It burnt at his throat like a fire trying to break free of the confines and tears came to his eyes. Apparently, the stuff was made stronger in the Glade because in the Safe Haven, he could drink it without feeling like he was going to die. Or, feeling like he was dying. He waited until the burning sensation faded away.

Newt chuckled at the look of disgust on his face, taking the jar of golden liquid.

“What is that?” Thomas asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s fucking disgusting, man. What the shit.”

“Trade secret.” They both turned in sync to go look over to Gally, who, at the moment, was laughing heartily. Thomas already knew where he would be – with his little gang of boys that liked to mess around an awful lot.

Teresa would come soon. He needed to prepare for that. It wouldn’t do to be completely unprepared. He would have to interrogate her, and try to persuade her WICKED was bad. An organization that needs to say ‘I Am Good’ is probably not good. He didn’t care if she agreed – only if she wouldn’t betray them.

Then Newt, in all his godly beauty said.

“Gally’s recipe.”

Newt turned back. “It’s a trade secret.”

Thomas nodded, keeping his eyes on the floor, nails digging into his thighs hoping Newt wouldn’t notice. “Yeah, well, he’s still an asshole.”

That was one of the few time he had sworn.

Of course, he only ever really felt comfortable enough to swear with Newt.

It was during the six months before their attempt to rescue Minho they had gotten drunk and sworn at everything, bar each other. Soon enough, swearing only with - never at - each other became their thing. He had only heard Newt swear once, barring when it was just the two of them. Shit, by the way.

That was when Minho had kneed a WICKED soldier in the groin and he couldn’t deny the feelings of jealousy when Newt had looked at Minho with so much awe in his face and voice.

Minho was attractive though. Couldn’t exactly blame Newt, Thomas had checked him out a few times when he had first met him.

Newt nodded, an understanding across his face but Thomas knew - still knew, after all that time - what the line would be.

“He saved your life today.” Thomas almost sighed. The irony of it. Thomas would have survived anyways - he knew it - so all that had happened was Gally had a fun time shoving Thomas on the ground. That was probably what Gally dreamed about at night. Other than Brenda, of course. He wasn’t really sure how that had happened.

It really started after the, “This is the same girl who betrayed us, correct? The same dick?”

“I like her.”

And it evolved into something. But there was also something else there too.

Thomas knew that Gally had a romantic history with someone who had died…but just who it was, Thomas didn’t know. He didn’t care that much, but if Thomas saved that person, Gally might be on his side. And Thomas was good with a death count of two (Ava and Jansen) so if everything went to plan, Gally wouldn’t lose the mystery lover.

“The maze is a dangerous place.” Newt said and Thomas almost couldn’t stop the smirk that threatened to creep onto his face. He would know, of all people. He’d created it.

Thomas felt like changing something up..something so insignificant no one would know. Not even he would know, if it weren’t that he memorised every single conversation he had with Newt.

“We’re stuck here, aren’t we?” Stuck, not trapped. Thomas momentarily felt elated then ashamed of himself and how he felt happy at the changing of a word.

Newt paused. “For the moment, at least.”

“But…”

“You see those guys? There, by the fire? Those are the runners. That guy in the middle there, that’s Minho. He’s the Keeper of the Runners. Every morning, when those doors open, they run the maze… mapping it, memorising it, trying to find a way out.” Thomas looked over to them. There was Minho, sleeves rolled up - typical, Thomas thought fondly - and the runners crowding around him. Minho’s black hair seems slightly singed in the fire light and it looked really good…where had that thought come from? He had better stop thinking…forever.

“How long have they been looking?” Thomas asked, looking back at Newt and Newt’s soft - beautiful - brown eyes traced his face.

“Three years.” There it was. The shatter in Thomas’ heart whenever Newt looked upset.

This time, Thomas didn’t say anything.

The familiar rumbling of the maze started. The grumbling, the stones grinding by each other, whirring and clicking.

“It’s the maze, changing.” Newt explained. “It changes every night.”

“How is that even possible?” Thomas asked, still in disbelief after all that time.

“You can ask the people that put us here, if you ever meet the bastards.” Newt said, resentment dripping from his voice.

(Know ‘em all too well).

“Listen.” Newt said. “The truth is…the Runners are the only ones who really know what’s out there. They are the strongest and the fastest of us all, And it’s a good thing, too…because if they don’t make it back before those doors close…then they are stuck out there for the night. And no one has ever survived a night in the maze.”

‘What happens to them?” Thomas asked, fiddling with his pants nervously.

Newt swallowed. “Well, we call them Grievers.”

When he said that, a low haunting moan rose from the maze. He supposed they just already knew the name or called them Grievers due to the sounds of grief – those haunting moans – they emitted.

Newt continued speaking, rubbing a hand over his leg – the good one, Thomas didn’t think he could deal with the onslaught of memories that would come if he thought of it. When Newt had told him, on that wall…

“Of course, no one’s ever seen one and lived to tell about it.” Newt swallowed again. “But they’re out there.”

Thomas looked back down.

“Right, that’s enough questions for one night. Come on, T-Greenie.”

This time, Thomas didn’t turn him down – try to turn him down – but instead he nodded along, eager to spend some more time with Newt.

Newt looked surprised. Did the Greenies usually refuse immediately? Or was it something else?

Newt attempted to cover up the moment of puzzlement Thomas had seen Newt suffer with the comment. “You’re our guest of honour. I’ll show you around.”

Newt’s face was illuminated by the fire, hair golden in the light and Newt looked even more godly in the fire than how he already did. Thomas snapped himself out of his ogling after Newt said. “And there we got the builders. They’re very good with their hands…but not a lot going on upstairs.” Newt said with a mischevious grin and tapped his forehead knowingly. “And then we got Winston…”

A quick look at the boy’s face was all Thomas needed to remember. The screaming cranks, the scratch wound, his suicide…

“-he’s the Keeper of the Slicers.” Winston greeted them before leaving.

“And we got two med-jacks, Clint and Jeff.”

“Hey what’s up?”

“Yo, Newt.”

“They spend most of their time bandaging up the Slicers.” Newt said, running a hand through his hair again. Thomas, in four words, wanted to kiss him. Then he felt ashamed of himself for wanting to kiss him. It wasn’t his fault Newt was incredibly hot…and funny…and smart…and beautiful…and kind…and brave…and loyal…

Why was he thinking like that about his not yet best friend?

And he asked the legendary question ingrained in his mind since it was asked.

“What if I want to be a Runner?”

Newt stared at him with deep disbelief. “Have you listened to a word I’ve just said? No one wants to be a runner.”

The look on Newt’s face sent a deep pang clanging through Thomas, because Newt seemed to look at him like he was crazy…yet there was a flicker of something in Newt’s soft eyes…and it was concern. Not an accusation of lunacy.

“And besides.” Newt said, shifting against him as he walked forward, Thomas striding beside him. Thomas shivered and Newt moved against him. “You gotta get chosen. And it ain’t exactly easy - or fun, I’ll add, for the hell of it. I would know, too. Not the most enjoyable of jobs you could have in the Glade.”

This time, Thomas stayed silent. He knew how to get chosen. He could feel Newt’s soft gaze on him, like a golden warmth of light, honey rays from the sun, but he also felt the look examining him, looking him up and down. Undressing his secrets. What was he hiding?

Thomas scuffed the ground. He hadn’t been knocked to the side yet. He was supposed to have been - after he said ‘chosen by who’. Was that a trigger?

As he was thinking this, he could feel someone’s presence, the presence of the same boy that had knocked him aside earlier last time looming up behind him. Thomas knew what would happen, and moved out of the way. It would be wise to avoid making an enemy out of Gally again.

When Thomas moved out of the way, Newt’s arm brushed against him, and it seemed less platonic than it had been the first time around. And he could feel his breath catch as Newt breathed on him, as he saw the curves of his lips, his glowing blonde hair and the fire reflecting off of Newt’s light brown eyes, glittering in the swimming depths of his dark eyes…

Bam! It was as if it was that night again, that dreaded night where Thomas’ heart completely shattered. When his heart had been broken. The city was coming down around them, breaking and destroying, being torn apart. It was going up in flames, and rubble surrounded them. The area they were in was hot, the humid air from the fires swarming them. And Newt was there. But that wasn’t Newt. There were the black veins crawling up his arms, up his neck, and the fire glittered in his eyes like it just had…

“Greenie?”

Thomas jolted awake, having been lost in that nightmare of a memory.

“Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine.” Thomas surprisingly found that this was quite true. With Newt, he was always fine. “I’m…I’m sorry. I just zoned out for a second…” Thomas shook his head, dazed and distracted. “I’m sorry…I’m just overwhelmed.”

“It’s alright.” Newt said, grasping Thomas’ shoulder gently, and Thomas nearly gasped, because Newt was there, Newt was touching him, and…

“It happens to all of us.” Newt licked his lips, and was looking into Thomas’ eyes but Thomas noticed his eyes were flickering downwards each fraction of a second, to his…his…his lips?

Why would Newt be looking at my lips? Thomas wondered. But he couldn’t help but blush under Newt’s stare and lifted his gaze from the ground to look at Newt. He suddenly became hyper aware of everything they were doing: Newt’s hands had moved further downwards, to his waist, and they were so close, pressed together, their lips mere inches apart. Thomas’ breath hitched as they both slightly leaned forward, before they both pulled away on instinct and sky breaths were released. Newt’s hand dropped and it left a burning feeling, like Thomas had been relighted. The moment had passed, and it had broken.

Thomas suddenly remembered that the fight with Gally had never happened, and that meant that his name had never been remembered…discovered.

He was scared that Newt would think he had tried to kiss him…which he had, he wasn’t going to lie. But he would neverdo that if Newt hadn’t eaten him to, and he couldn’t help but cringe if Newt remembered him as the boy who had tried to kiss him on his first day in the Glade. He could play this off as something else…maybe…pretend to remember his name!

“Thomas. My name…” Thomas stared into Newt’s eyes. “My name is Thomas.”

Newt looked at him for a second. And then, slapped his back, caressed…it had been a stroke, and said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tommy. Welcome to the Glade.”

“Oh, and Tommy?” Newt said, and Thomas quickly met Newt’s eyes. “I’ll show you to your hammock. Alby’ll wake you up early tomorrow. Try not to wake anyone up.”

Thomas nodded. Newt led him through the crowd of Gladers celebrating yet another month alive. He wondered when it had become so surprising to survive another month. He was no stranger to death; if you were lucky, you’d survive being in the same vicinity of Thomas for a week. The majority of the Gladers hadn’t made it past that.

Newt stopped in front of a hammock. It wasn’t the same one as last time; this one was closer to the Homestead, and if Thomas was correct in remembering (the intricate details were fuzzy, and only the feelings of real fear were sharp and clear) closer to Newt’s sleeping spot.

“This is where you’ll sleep.” Newt said, and gently tugged on Thomas’ arm. When had they started holding hands? “It’ll be your sleeping area for months, maybe even years. Get used to it. And get some sleep.”

Newt looked at him.

“You’ll need it.”

***

Alby woke him at dawn.

Thomas blinked blearily, emerging from the dark depths of nightmares he had found himself swimming in the whole night. Light filtered in from the crimson sun. This time, Alby hadn’t woken him the same way.

He was glad. If Alby had, then Thomas would have most likely already attacked Alby out of fear. His reflexes were too quick, and this was WCKD’s fault.

Still. Nothing would be changed. The memories would never be gone. He had lost them once, and hated it, but now it was almost a dream. Forgetting everything would be bliss.

But that would mean forgetting everybody: all the dead, all the alive, and…Newt.

But there would be no dead this time around. He was sure of it. He had to save everyone.

However, if Teresa were to be hanging off of a cliff, near death, he wouldn’t save her.

He would push any WICKED being off of this metaphorical cliff, though. A thousand times over.

Alby looked at him warily, keeping a fair, decent distance.

“Follow me.”

They walked for nearly ten minutes, Alby keeping a steady pace up and Thomas lagging slightly behind him.

“It’s peaceful, isn’t it?” Alby asked, looking at him, curious. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it wasn’t always this way. We had…dark days.” Alby paused. “We lost a lot of boys to fear. To panic.” He glanced at Thomas, jaw clenched tight. “We’ve come far since then. Established order…made peace.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Thomas asked. He was sure his face unnerved Alby. It was too steady, too cold, too accustomed to this. It was the face of a man haunted by millions of ghosts.

“Because you’re not like the others.” Alby said. “You’re curious.”

You mean to tell me no one has ever been curious about this place before me? Everybody’s already used to it? Fuck, that can’t be true. Thomas thought.

“-but you’re one of us now.” Alby continued, bringing Thomas back into reality, a sharp jolt. “You need to know what that means.” Alby handed Thomas the sharp silver knife. Thomas remembered the first time Alby had handed him that and how his thought had been that he would have to cut his skin as some sort of cult initiation ceremony. It had been ridiculous, but so was the whole situation in the first place. Fucking insane.

Like how Ben would be. (Shit, could he quit all these deep, dark, depressing thoughts? He was pissing himself off).

Alby pointed to the wall where dozens names were etched on, scattered, the larger ones belonging to the more important members of the Glade, like the Keeper of the Runners (Minho) and the leader of the Gladers (Alby).

Thomas approached the wall, careful and cautious. “What happened to them?” He said, running his hand over names he didn’t recognize - of which there were too, too many.

Alby inhaled, full of grief. “Like I said…dark days, Thomas.”

***

“Has anyone every tried climbing to the top?”

“Tried it. The ivy doesn’t go all the way to the top. And besides, where are you gonna go from there?”

“And what about the Box? You know, next time it comes up…”

“No, we tried that. The Box won’t go back down with somebody in it.”

“Okay, what if we…”

“No, we tried it, all right? Twice. All right? Trust me. Anything you think of, we’ve already tried. The only way out of here is through the maze.”

“He should get the fertilizer.”

“Huh?” Newt turned his head to look at Zart. Zart wiped his dirty hands on the thin blue trousers he wore.

“He should - he should get the fertilizer.”

“Um, all right.” Newt said, voice and actions reluctant, yet still giving way to Zart’s suggestion.. He picked up the bucket and tossed it to Thomas, who caught it with ease, no stagger involved (unlike last time). “South side of the woods, I think.” Newt trailed off. “Yeah…”

“Which way is south?” Thomas asked; there was no way he could know that.

“Just - around the-“

Zart lowered his voice, warily looked at Thomas and whispered to Newt, quiet - yet loud enough so that Thomas could still overhear him. “What are you doing? You’ve been acting strange all day, Newt. Is it that Greenie?”

Newts eyes flicked over to Thomas and he rubbed his creasing forehead. Thomas just stood there, awkwardly, wondering what was going on with Newt.

“Yeah, no, it’s something else I - I have a…a bad feeling. Forget it, OK?”

“I’ll just go then…I guess…” Thomas mumbled, and he stumbled a little. Ben had been stung - when? He had never been quite sure of when Ben had actually been stung, he only knew that this was when he would be attacked. But it was too late now. He had to prepare for the worst.

***

The forest was eerily dead.

No birds chirped, no foxes prowled. You could only hear the trickling of the streams and the yells of some of the Gladers in the far-off distance.

And the human-like padding.

“Shit-” Thomas cursed under his breath. This was Ben, wasn’t it?

“Tommy!”

Thomas swiftly turned around to see Newt standing there, light reflecting off of his hair like he was wearing a halo of sheer golden light, shovel at his side. “I haven’t collected anything yet, I’m sorry-”

Newt said, firm and strict, authority reeking off of him. “Never mind that. Leave the bucket. I’ve thought of something else for you to do. It’s important you get away from here right now.” He grasped Thomas’ shoulder firmly. “Right by the river…”

Thomas, relieved (very much so, for encountering Ben was no enjoyable experience) and elated, followed Newt, the skip in his step closer than ever before. Newt was still talking of some water bottle filling job that surely he had not been told to do, but he had, and thank the fucking heavens he had. Thank Fate.

(But if he wasn’t attacked, who would be then?)

Caught up in giddiness, because reliving the experience was not on his to-do list, he almost missed the sight of a blonde, tall, strong and muscled boy at the edge of the clearing. Somebody he knew. And somebody he feared to see, and knew he was going to see that day.

Ben.

“What the fuck-“ Thomas yanked on Newt’s shirt, desperately trying to gain his attention. “-am I seeing-“

There was a wild look in Ben’s eyes, something that occasionally haunted his dreams among the midst of Grievers, Cranks, WICKED and Newt. The utterly crazy, mad, pure anger that resided in the once shining blue was only something of nightmares - something that was a total part of their lives. That stuff was fucking scary. And shit, traumatic too.

“I saw you!” Ben screamed, scrambling towards them in a desperate attempt to do some sort of harm to Thomas - any harm, at all. “I saw you!!!”

Newt swore (he barely did that, Thomas thought) and pulled Thomas to the side, and he tripped over a branch, and shit, he wanted to do something. He wanted to save Newt, he didn’t want Newt to be the one saving himself again, because it was always Newt who picked Thomas back up again. It was always Newt who had cared for him, and cared for him emotionally, too, because after Thomas said he was fine physically, the worrying group of people would leave.

Newt was there for him.

And now, he was there for him yet again and again and again.

Thomas was useless.

And while Thomas was lying on the ground, helpless, Newt did what he had done countless times before.

He saved him.

Just as Thomas never did for Newt.

***

Newt was shaking.

Ben lay on the dirty forest floor, sticky blood seeping out of a jagged cut in his head. Newt clutched at Thomas’ muddy blue shirt, clasping him tightly for security. Despite the bitter cold that had cloaked the woods, Thomas could feel warmth spreading from where Newt touched him softly.

He could hear the footsteps of the other Gladers, running through the woods, presumably having heard Thomas’ words and Newt’s yells for them. Alby was at the front, face full of concern for Newt. Alby yanked Newt up and hugged him roughly behind him, glaring at Thomas angrily.

“What happened?” Alby asked Newt, a few of the Gladers crowding behind him.

Newt shook his head, completely bewildered, but something flickered in his eyes.. “Ben - h-he - he just went crazy! I don’t know!”

His voice was unusually steady.

“Come here.” Alby ordered Thomas. “Come here. Now.”

Thomas walked over to him, wiping the dirt off of his trousers.

Alby’s teeth were clenched together. “What happened?”

“I - like Newt said - he was just insane! He totally freaked! This is so fucking crazy!”

Alby turned back to the Gladers behind him. “Check over Ben. Let’s see.”

The four boys nodded and turned Ben over, the blood-matted hair making Thomas flinch, memories flashing by in his head. He saw blood on a regular basis, and that was why he was so awfully triggered by it. Blood had every negative connotation in the book.

“Lift his shirt.”

The blonde one (Thomas didn’t know his name) lifted Ben’s shirt.

It was in that moment that he realized that he didn’t know any of them. None of the names of the people who had died, who had died and enabled his escape weren’t names he knew. They were never honored. And Thomas, one of the only survivors, would never remember then either.

And there, as Thomas knew, was the mark for all of them to see.

There were a few gasps, but Alby’s face was stoic. “Take him to the Pit.”

“All right.” The blonde boy said, ragged breathing as they each took one of Ben’s motionless limbs.

And when they turned so they could return to the main field, Thomas could see that Alby’s eyes were glassy.

***

The first thing Thomas did was steal all those sticks they had used the first time around to Banish Ben.

And everything else just fell into place, all too conveniently.

Minho, Gally, Frypan and Newt had argued with Alby to keep Ben in the Glade (in the Slammer) just one more night. It wasn’t enough time for Teresa, but they would have to make do.

Alby was furious at first but he saw sense for they were not able to Banish Ben properly without the weird prodding sticks.

He condoned the idea.

“One more night. One more night and he’s gone. You’ll have time to say your goodbyes, but remember, he’s nothing more than a creature now.”

His words were still cruel, but they let Thomas breathe easier.

***

Thomas lay in his hammock that night feeling awfully sick.

Ben’s eyes were seared into his mind, like stabbing arrows piercing his fragile skin. His words were cruel and inhumane, but ever so true. He had forgotten how much fucking shit he had gone through in the Glade, all of it overtaken by stuff that had happened in the Scorch, or in The Last City. What happened next?

Oh, yeah. He’d run into the terrifying maze filled with man-eating spiders (Grievers) to save Alby and Minho, and then they’d get trapped overnight and be fucking terrified and also almost die.

So that was great.

But they would all survive, and then Teresa would come up in the Box with two cures for the Sting in her pocket, saving Alby and Thomas.

Only Thomas, really. Alby had still died. How was anybody saved if they couldn’t see sunlight anymore?

Thomas had used one of them, but he didn’t need to get Stung anymore. He already had all the information he had discovered during his nightmarish Stinging haze.

All he had to do was make sure that the Gladers didn’t sacrifice Ben. He’d let Alby get Stung, and once Teresa came, they could inject Alby and Ben with the syringes.

Besides, there was no way he could persuade Alby to stay in the Glade. And he also had to make the Gladers believe in him. Surviving a night in the maze would help - not like there were other choices. What else could he possible do? Revealing his past with WICKED (the Creators, as the Gladers knew them) without the proof that he was truly on the Gladers’ side would be suicide.

Plus, maybe if Ben (Gally’s best friend) survived, then Gally wouldn’t go fucking insane and murder Chuck. Just maybe.

And if he got Ben onto his side, then Gally would follow.

It was all wishful thinking, but the resemblance of a plan began to form in his head.