Memories {Teen Wolf/Maze Runner crossover fanfiction}

"Dude, they're-"

Hard-soled trainers pounded against the concrete of the maze. It had been the usual drill - sprint down the corridors, slow when they reached a corner so they could peer around and asses for threats, and then sprint again when they saw nothing but the bleary cold-stone walls.

Thomas decided, it must have been three or four hallways ago now, that this whole process was pointless. The Grievers had been programmed to avoid gladers at all costs. They'd hidden and killed so many more gladers than Thomas cared to admit, and yet here him and Minho were - chasing shadows. Mere whispers of the forbidden promise of danger.

Every time he voiced as much, Minho would shoot him a look. Not one filled with anger, or annoyance, or anything Thomas expected, but one filled with disappointment. Disappointment that Thomas had given up so quickly. So he'd soon learnt the best thing to do was shut his mouth and keep his feet slapping along the pavement.

His legs ached, his lungs burnt, his feet were blistered and rubbed raw. But he stayed silent, using the pain as energy, to fuel his hatred against WICKED. This was all their fault. Every cut, every scar, every bruise, every loss, everything. The fact Thomas had to check, and then double-check, and then check again just for good measure. The fact Thomas constantly felt the pressing need to run, like if he didn't he was betraying somebody. Or something. It was all down to WICKED.

It was like a curse, with everything he did, as bad as everyone else ended up for it, the gladers ended up ten times worse. This earthquake of fear that WICKED had created would soon pass, and everyone would forget about them, but Thomas, Newt, Minho, Frypan, they'd have to deal with the aftershocks. The paranoia, the constant, pressing feeling of danger, the constant worry of loss.

But that was assuming they escaped, and somehow miraculously found a safe haven. For now, they were just prisoners in another riddle. Fearing for their lives daily, with no memory of any other lifestyle.

Thomas hadn't even registered his change in pace, he didn't even realise he'd overtaken Minho and rounded the next corner until he slapped into something. Dizzied, he fell to the ground, a blur of fragile skin and tattered clothing, he managed to look up in time to take heed of Minho - a whirlwind of leather-gear, mud and fierce spirt - charging at something. The thing, Thomas realised with a jolt, being what he'd banged into in the first place. He saw Minho raise a knife, a battle cry in hand, and felt a sort of dread form a pit in his stomach.

Thomas blinked forwards, turning his back on Minho as he stared down whatever had caused him to fall.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

He was no stranger to gore, none of the gladers were - yet another perk of being WICKEDs 'property.' But even this caused Thomas' stomach to reel, he stumbled backwards - blindly, not daring to let his eyes stray from the ungodly sight before him.

It should have clicked really, it was WICKED after all. And mind games were their specialty. He felt the bile rise in his throat, and fought to repress it, instead pushing himself into a standing position. Eyes seemed to follow him, but that couldn't be right, since dead eyes didn't move.

There was fifty - at least - cranks forming a line along the path. Noiseless, nose-less, lifeless cranks. Blocking the path to whatever lay beyond. Strung up with thick green vines, hallow eye-sockets following every step he took. Their skin seemed papery - so dull, so thin and fragile. So.. so dead. He couldn't really get it, there was no blood, no obvious injuries, just a line of unharmed, obviously dead cranks.

Thomas turned to Minho, to see him pulling much the same face - disgust. But underlying that, curiosity. Why were there cranks in the maze? It wasn't how WICKED rolled, as far as Thomas could remember anyway.

"Dude, they're-"

"Dead." Thomas interrupted, pulling Minho's gaze away from the morbid display, "I can see."

"But why are they here?" Minho still hadn't dropped his knife, and Thomas saw a momentary flash of it, and with it came some clarity - at least enough for Thomas' brain to function, "Cranks in the maze... What's next? You actually smiling for once?"

Thomas pulled the biggest, most exaggerated smile he could at his friend, to which Minho rolled his eyes.

"They're here as a distraction." Thomas stated, already hating himself for what he had to do next, "We have to go past them."

"You crazy shan-"

"Minho. No smell, they look real, probably feel real too, but they don't smell. The chips in our brains, they let WICKED control what we see, remember?" Thomas exhaled loudly, trying to compensate for the sudden lack of noise. Minho looked caught between calling him a genius, and slapping him round the face.

"You crazy shank." Minho finally sighed, holding out his knife, "If this idea kills us ain't no way I'm going first."

Thomas snorted, rolling his eyes. He nabbed the knife, gingerly stepping forwards - towards the corpses.

He really hoped he was right, and at the same time he prayed he was wrong. Because if this was WICKEDs defence, he hated to see what their offence was.

So ignoring the soulless eyes silently judging him, and the sickening feel of paper-thin flesh as he sliced the first vine, Thomas grimaced, sliding is knife through the vines, pretending that the sickening crunch of bones and rotten flesh was all just in his head when the first body hit the floor.