Memories {Teen Wolf/Maze Runner crossover fanfiction}

"We're All Bloody Inspired."

"I don't know." Thomas responded. It was instinctive, and it was entirely true. He didn't know if it was a name, if it was a place, a brand, he didn't know anything about it - it just seemed to be a thing he sought reassurance in.

Minho raised his eyebrows, a challenge clearly there, while Newts eyes just flickered between the two - clearly confused.

"I don't. Seriously. It's just something I keep saying." Thomas tried to explain, but it was kind of hard considering he didn't entirely understand what he was explaining. He tried to look as confused as possible, maybe Minho would give him a break.

After a silent eye-conversation between Newt and Minho - which involved a lot of head shaking and nodding -Minho sighed, resigned, and gestured towards the door. Thomas felt slightly guilty, even though he knew it was irrational. He just wished he could remember something, anything. It angered him on levels he didn't even know existed that he'd lost everything. Everything. All because of WICKED.

Thomas shuffled along to the kitchens, Newt and Minho either side of him. Probably because they were half-terrified he was going to pass out again, but he felt fine, a little woozy perhaps, but nothing to be massively concerned about. He remembered that much at least.

"You said you asked for help, from who?" Newt suddenly asked, it startled Thomas out of his daze and brought a sudden painful jolt through his heart as he remembered Chuck, his first official friend in the glade, and his odd tendency to burst out with questions at the most unorthodox of times. Thomas stopped for a second, brushing off Newts concerned frown, and regained his composure. He couldn't let the gladers see him so broken, they'd come to see him as a kind of icon of hope. Thomas couldn't let WICKED tarnish that memory too.

"I don't know them," the words felt volatile leaving his lips. Thomas was growing sick of having to say them, it made him feel so useless, surely he should know something. Anything. He was Thomas, and Thomas always had a plan. But for some reason, he couldn't think logically anymore, the idea of WICKED taking his life from him had affected him more than he'd like to admit, "I said something about the McCalls? And Beacon Hills, apparently WICKED was terrified of them."

"If WICKED is scared of them, what makes you think we shouldn't be?" Minho asked skeptically, and Thomas realised just how true that was. He hadn't really looked at it that way, he'd just seen an opportunity to escape WICKED and seized it, not really thinking about why it was an opportunity in the first place. But he had to of had a good reason right? Thomas knew that he wouldn't ask for help off strangers, WICKED had ruined any hope of that, he had too many trust issues, so it must have been someone he knew before the swipe. It was the only rational explanation.

"I think I knew them before, well, just before I guess." Thomas shrugged, he was well aware of how meagre his response was, but it would have to do. He didn't have the answers, so a half-hearted assumption was the best he could conjure up.

"You think?" Minho was incredulous, and Thomas didn't blame him, if the situations were reversed, he'd be exactly the same.

"It's the best I got." Thomas shrugged, he wasn't going to lie, there was no point. Trust was all he had with these guys. He might skirt around the truth, but he would never lie outright. Not unless it was absolutely necessary anyway.

He wasn't sure why he was so convinced that the McCalls - whoever they were - weren't any danger, but the idea of the strangers invading the glade didn't frighten him nearly as much as he was comfortable with. In fact, it didn't even put him on edge.

"Brilliant." Newt ran a hand through his hair, picking himself up in posture, "We're all bloody inspired."