Memories {Teen Wolf/Maze Runner crossover fanfiction}

"Stiles!"

It was nice, running again. Therapeutic somehow, the constant pounding of his feet against the mazes floor - it reminded him that he was still in control of something at least.

They'd split up, awhile ago, Minho and Scott had gone to check on the cavern - it was an odd pairing, but it worked. Minho wasn't as emotionally attached as Thomas was, and he was after all, the more experienced runner. Thomas had been sent to the Grievers Hole, to see if anything new had opened up.

It should take him a few hours, with little breaks or stops, and with the pack Newt had made him take he was set for the journey - he had one hand clasping the blade Minho had thrown him tightly, though he was praying it wouldn't be needed.

He reached behind him, pulling out the flask of water Newt had packed, and made to open it. Only, he stumbled, and the water went falling to the floor - droplets splattering over the bottom of his trousers, and dancing along the floor. He sighed, picking up the now half empty flask, and tightened it, shoving it roughly back in his pack - he'd have to ration the water carefully now.

When he withdrew, his hand was sparkling with water drops, so he placed his pack back on and shook them clean, watching mesmerised as the water plummeted to the ground. Like raindrops.

"Well, he's got a point. Seriously, dude, human sacrifices?"

"Scott, your eyes turn into yellow glow sticks, okay? Hair literally grows from your cheeks, and then will immediately disappear, and if I were to stab you right now, it would just magically heal, but you're telling me that you're having trouble grasping human sacrifices?"

It was because he was too distracted by the voices, and only because he was too distracted, that Thomas missed it. And that almost cost him his life.

A blundering, spider-like thing came pouncing at him, and he only just managed to roll under its legs before it pounced. The Griever was slow at turning - but after that, Thomas knew he was done for. So he turned, in the direction he was headed anyway, and ran - he could hear the Griever pounding and whirring along behind him, but he didn't stop to look - just ran as fast as he could. He came to a corner, and without looking - threw himself at the wall, he managed to get his legs tangled, which cost him valuable seconds. Using the vines he hurled himself up, ignoring the clicking of the Griever at his feet - if he slipped now, or slowed down, it would get him.

He pushed, ignoring the tearing of his stitches, and the pain in his hands - and shuffled up the wall until he reached the top.

The Griever caught his leg, and just as he was about to stand, yanked - it sent him falling backwards, his face smashing painfully against the top of the wall. He reached out blindly, uncaring of the pain - he couldn't let the Griever take him. Not now.

He kicked out wildly with his leg, suddenly becoming aware of yells - it took a minute to place them to his own. His heartbeat rang through his ears, his hands throbbed painfully, and his leg screamed in agony. The Griever was strong - way too strong.

Thomas yelled, loud, wild and angry, and kicked back with all his might - he ignored how his foot smashed into the Grievers blubber and met something crunchy, instead, he drew himself up - and ran.

He'd lost his pack and knife somewhere along the way, and his movements were slow, too slow, the Griever would catch him. Unless he outsmarted it.

His brain was racing, his stomach was writhing, and his chest felt like it was burning - but he couldn't stop. He could almost feel the Grievers stinger on his back, he had to keep moving.

He ran, and ran, and ran. Jumping abruptly onto the tops of different walls whenever he thought the Griever was getting too close - it felt like hours he was running, but it could only have been minutes. He knew soon his body would give out, and that was it, he'd loose - he'd die.

That thought made him let out a yell, something that powered his running until he reached where he wanted to go. He paused, turning to face the Griever, and grinned - a vicious thing, that was more like a snarl than anything.

He was terrified, but he wouldn't let himself die here.

The Grievers Hole lay behind him, and the Griever chasing him realised only too late - it ran at him, stringers whirring, and didn't manage to stop in time as Thomas jumped off the wall. If he jumped at the right angle, he could land on the ground - it would hurt, yes, but it was better than being crushed by a Griever.

A final shout and he dived.

"Stiles!" That voice, he knew that voice - Thomas looked up just in time to see Scott skirting around the corner, Minho some few feet behind. Air sailed past his head, and he felt his brain screaming in alarm - he'd jumped too far, too far. The Griever let out a shrill sound, and fell - tumbling into the depths of the hole. And Thomas was still falling - the ground coming close, too close too fast. He couldn't catch it - it was too far, more than an arms stretch away. He was falling, down, darkness, air sailing around his head. Almost sounding like a laugh.

At least it can't hurt his friends, Thomas decided, reaching out blindly - hoping that somehow he'd be able to catch himself. At least his friends were safe.

And that was the last thing he thought before he closed his eyes and awaited the cold, hard impact of the ground.