—Nikola told me earlier, and I still don't want to believe him. It isn't fair. Nothing has been fair for a long time, but it doesn't ease the pressure weighing my heart down. Because even after all I have done to protect them, even after all they has gone through, they haven't changed their opinion even a little. When they were taken here, they labelled them as subjects, as lab rats, and they will forever be just that for them.
Toys. Numbers. Something to play around with. But they are so much more. What are we doing to these kids? Every time I look at them, I talk to them, I can't help feeling guilty. Dr Paige insists that this must be done, that this is the only way, but I can't believe her anymore. Honest I would love to, just to shake away the remorse, but I can't. Lately, all I can think whenever she mentions how lucky they are for having been chosen to help us find a cure is, 'It could have been me'. Hadn't I turned out to be clever, it could have been me. Instead, it's been them.
And how can I tell him? How could I ever tell him? Every day I mean to, but when his warm brown eyes meet mine, hungry for answers, I find myself unable to give them away. How can I gather the gut it takes to explain—
—then they broke eye contact, and Thomas stumbled backwards, feeling weak and dizzy. Tiny dots of black light danced throughout his field of vision, so he winked until they faded away. As he did so, the Glade slowly reappeared around him. From the darkness above, which had turned the curvy branches into menacing, tangled shreds of shadow, he could deduce the vision had lasted longer than it had seemed. The only sounds were those of the rustling leaves and the wind leaping from one to the next. Newt was silent. So was he.
What had he meant to explain?
Without any kind of care, Thomas chewed on his lower lip as he squeezed his brains in search for the rest of the vision, but all he got was an aftertaste like metal. Blood dripped from the corner of his mutilated lips, and when he licked them, they burned like a wasp sting.
Somewhere inbetween their snapping out of the vision and Thomas' act of self lip destruction, Newt had stood up. Now he nervously wrinked a lock of pale hair between his fingers, skinny and fast like the legs of a spider. That was the only thing giving him away, for otherwise he was perfectly still. He wasn't scared. What he irradiated wasn't fear, but rather vulnerability. Defenselessness. For the first time since Thomas had arrived in the Glade, Newt looked completely lost.
Because they had both had a vision, whatever that meant.
"Listen, Newt, what did—"
"No."
"But if you have—"
"I said no." Newt lifted his chin and stared at Thomas in the penumbra. "Ain't gonna talk 'bout it, so spare yourself the cheap therapy."
"Excuse me? What the heck, Newt?"
"If you're witty as you wanna seem, ya shut your trap this moment."
Thomas' lips cracked open again, and a thin trail of blood trailed down his chin. "What's wrong with all of you?" he shouted. "Sorry to break the news, but having been here for longer doesn't entitle you to act like a jerk."
First Newt opened his mouth as though he might reply, but then he closed it again and, without any further comment, walked away towards what could only be the way out of Deadheads. Frustrated, Thomas grunted and sank a fist in the ground, earning a set of aching knuckles. Even after having been warned that he didn't have any entitlement allowing him to act like a jerk, Newt looked ready to keep on acting like a jerk.
But then Newt hissed and fell to the floor upon reaching the edge of the clearing. As he struggled to his feet, Thomas saw him pat his leg between curses. One struck Thomas as nonsensical funny, but it was surely some serious swearing among the British. Repeating it over and over, Newt got back to his feet and tried to walk away again, only this time dragging his leg along rather than walking on it. Limp—he had spoken about a limp, Thomas remembered. From Newt's low hisses, he hadn't exaggerated about it hurting like hell.
"C'mon, wait," he said after a few seconds of watching Newt hobble. "Just a sec—I'll help, but you have to stop."
Both ended up making their way to the Homestead together, Newt panting as if he were ninety and Thomas crouching under his weight as if he were, as well, about to blow three-digit candles. Hardly anyone was around, and the few who were outside nodded at them before getting back to tidying up for the night. None asked. From their gloomy looks and eerie silence, Thomas could only guess Alby had already informed that Ben wouldn't be joining them for dinner that night. Nor any night from then on.
Upon seeing Newt's sweaty face—most probably, upon hearing him curse—, the Med-Jacks assigned him a random empty bed on the upper floor, and handed Thomas a small jar of smelly ointment before leaving. One of them inspected Thomas' bruised side quickly, giving it a quick touch of his fingers, and gave him a different unguent. Its cloying smell almost knocked Thomas out.
"Jacked Greenbean—shoulda' minded own business." Newt's voice was ice.
And Thomas was sick enough of him that his words were lava. "Shuck you, Newt." He shook Newt's arm off his shoulders. "One second you're Jesus Christ, saving my guts and preaching like you own the place, the next you go sociopath." Among the wooden walls of the narrow hallway, his voice echoed louder than he expected. "You got some issues, fine, but you don't throw your klunk at me because then I'll drop your sorry ass back were I found it and you can crawl for dear life to this goddamned place on your own, like the macho you are."
For a moment Newt didn't say a thing. Short, but enough time for Thomas to give the whole pep talk a second thought. Then he let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair, and cleared his throat. "Help me up the bloody stairs. Clearly I can't alone."
"Right." Thomas held him as they did the most pathetic stair-climbing ever to the second floor, then let go of him again to stare at him right in the eye. "Waiting."
"What for? Friggin' Christmas?" Hobbling slightly less, Newt propped himself against the wall as he limped towards the end of the corridor. "Happy New Year."
When he fell, Thomas was there to grab him. "For my apologies."
Warp, the floor creaked as they moved on. Some of the floorboards were a little protruding, and Thomas tripped on one, nearly bringing both of them down. He thanked the Heavens for balance. "Leave me alone, Greenbean," barked Newt as soon as they were stable on their feet again.
"Mid-Deadheads, remember."
"Bloody hell," cursed Newt, "whatever. Why ya even 'ere, Thomas? Why ya 'ere 'gain?" Accent so thick, Thomas nearly couldn't make out what he said.
"Why I'm here? Let me think. Woke up inside a Box, then got unwelcomed by a bunch of guys living in the middle of friggin' nowhere. Can only remember my name, which I had to figure out, have already been threatened with death twice, and have to put up with shuck-faces like you. Sounds like I'm here out of Christian charity to you, Newt?"
They reached an empty room, with only a bed, a nightstand, and a chair. "No one wants you around either, Greenbean, so you can shove that self pity up your—"
Busy as he was replying, he didn't move fast enough and hit his bad leg against the doorframe, then clenched his teeth together as he muffled a scream that came up from the depths of his throat like a geyser. Eyes closed, lips tightened to white, his face was the living reflection of suffering and pain. Setting the argument aside for later on, Thomas dragged his dead weight to the bed, where he forced Newt's legs onto the matress. The guy sure knew how to put an end to a dispute. As he clenched the blueish sheets, Thomas sank both hands inside his pockets, then opened the first ointment he had been given and tried not to throw up as he sank two fingers inside the jar. At least, he thought, it's not me putting it on.
Newt's pain was difficult to watch. He drove his fingers into his thigh, clawing at the flesh with such strength that Thomas had to take his hand to prevent him from hurting himself further. He immediately squeezed so tight, Thomas' bones menaced to crack like twigs. But he made no sound, and he didn't reply. Even if he deserved a little guilt, Newt wasn't well enough to have it yet. Somehow, Thomas sensed that the earlier bravado was just a way of dealing with the pain, one he wouldn't want anyone to witness. Thomas couldn't bring himself to push it.
After what felt like ages—it being actually no more than a couple of minutes, truth be told—, Newt finally let go. In the dead quiet of the night, only Newt's troubled breath filled the air, together with the occasional creaks of the floor as Thomas moved on the chair. Crouched forwards to hold Newt's hand, his back was beginning to demand some respect. Actually, it hurt like several hells put together under the blazing sun of August, but Thomas didn't complain. He stayed where he was, doing what he was doing.
At one point, he sneezed. Probably he was allergic to the Glade.
"Bloody shank," Newt said in the end, voice jagged. "Coulda' go to bed, but stayed 'ere. Jacked. Ya jacked, I'm warnin'."
"Write it down on the list of things I don't give a klunk about." Thomas had some extra witty retorts coming, but he didn't feel like spitting them anymore. "Hopefully you're feelin' better."
Newt drew a shaky, crooked smile, like a crumbling castle of cards. "Got better times. Will survive, though. Always do." Then he saddened beyond understandable.
"That doesn't answer my question, you know that."
This time the boy snorted. It didn't sound despective anymore. "Greenie, I'm bloody perfect now. Alright, mother hen?" Another snort, then he turned his head to watch the darkness outside. Maybe he was thinking about Ben, and what he had been forced to do to him. Maybe he was thinking about the vision they had just shared. Maybe he was sad, simply. Most probably.
Neither said a thing for a while. Then Thomas asked, "What did you see?"Terrible enough to make you turn away from the world again, he thought. Terrible enough that you couldn't bear it. He didn't add anything. It was a shame, indeed, that there was no moon in the Glade's night sky.
Newt's breathing eventually evened out. Aware of Thomas' tension, he considered the pros and cons of telling him. While on it, he reached out for Thomas' hands and held his fingers like a bouquet of flowers, making them roll inside his hand.
"You don't wanna know, Tommy."
"I'm tired of arguing with you, Newt." Thomas pulled away from Newt's touch, feeling cold inside. "And I'm tired of no-one giving up any answer, and of no-one giving a klunk. You wanna tell me, fine. We solve it together. You don't wanna tell me, fine too. Let it eat you alone. But I'm not gonna push you no more. Get someone to do it for me."
He got up from the chair, sick of sitting and seeing whole constellations when he stretched his back. Fantastic. Now he got bad blood with the second-in-command, amnesia, and an incoming hernia. Nothing to worry much about, just the usual.
"Bloody king of drama." Thomas paid no attention to Newt, and started stretching his neck. Terrible idea—it cracked so bad when he tilted his head to the right, he couldn't move for a while. If the Gladers could provide a physiotherapist, he would be forever grateful. "Turn at least if ya wanna answers. Ain't talkin' to your shuckin' back."
Exhaustion hit Thomas like a summer storm—sudden, unexpected, unwelcomed. He lacked the energy to make a scene out of facing Newt, so he simply obeyed. He didn't want to be angry anymore. Just to curl up and sleep off the whole Glade nightmare.
"Nice." Newt cleared his throat. "Girl ain't dead, but sorta comatose. She's been sleepin' the whole time, won't wake even if we shake her. And no, Tommy, no one really thinks you have anything to do. Jesus Christ. Everyone's nervous, she said your name, but still no proof that you two are in cahoots. Might as well trust ya 'till you prove yourself guilty, huh?"
Thomas shrugged. "Thanks, I guess."
"Now. Ben. Got stung a while ago, but chose today to lose his nerve. Lost his mind as well, as you've seen. If we're to blame someone, that's them Creators and their shuckin' pet Grievers, so don't let it get to ya."
"Thanks, I guess," Thomas repeated. When he shifted on the chair, the latter let out a faint creak. He stopped moving.
"Then. My turn to say thanks, though you don't need to come save me every time my leg hurts."
"If I hadn't been there," Thomas pointed out, "you'd still be trying to crawl here."
Newt arched an eyebrow. "If you hadn't been there," he replied, "I wouldn't have gone in there in the first place. Whatever you were lookin' for, anyway?"
Time for a little ointment, Thomas decided. As he rose to take the jar, he weighed the pros and cons of telling Newt. Even if he threw impressive tantrums, he was still one of the few people who treated him like an actual human being. Still, he was second-in-command of Alby's. After a few seconds of watching Newt apply the unguent on his bad leg, he spoke. "A beetle blade."
Without looking away from his sticky fingers, Newt snorted. "Shoulda' figured. What's with them beetle blades?"
"They're around to spy on us, right? Maybe we can learn something if we get one."
"Right. And maybe they can sting like a Griever, and you'll mean more trouble than usual. Put that thing away, the smell's knockin' me off." He sneezed, and rubbed his wrist against his nose. "You know, Tommy, I've been around for longer than any of them shanks, and I've watch many break down. But ya won't. Why?"
There were stupid questions, and there was Newt's question. "Well, I don't know about you guys, but I want to get out. I won't spend the rest of my days caged in the Maze." His back hurt less now, so he bent forwards and backwards.
"And what makes ya think you'll be different?" No venom, only sheer curiosity. "What moves you?"
Thomas thought about it for a while. Right when Newt was about to fall asleep, he said, "Freedom. Or rather, the need for it. If I let them get me down, if I stop looking for a way out, then I'll never have it again."
Silence again. Then a quiet, "Thomas."
"Yes?"
Suddenly Newt grabbed his wrist. "I saw you." His eyes burned against Thomas'. "And I saw you send us here."