Into The Storm
Thomas walked out from under the awning and into the storm.
He did every 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.
He sat on it, legs hanging over. He didn’t dare take out Newt’s note - he couldn’t, it would get wet no matter how he shielded it, and he couldn’t risk that. 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 crumpled paper. He wondered how Newt had gotten a hold of it - it wasn’t like it was just lying around.
Did he ask Gally for some? Did Gally not guess what it was for, then? He felt anger at Gally again then the thin structure of rage he had felt collapsed and he felt defeated. There was no point in being angry at Gally. He was just as bad as him, even worse, perhaps. Had had known Newt infinetely longer than Gally had Chuck.
Every time he had tried to build up an emotion that wasn’t sadness and regret 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 the knife Newt had impaled himself on…
And Brenda was right there, standing there, cure in hand.
Even more so, the cure was in his blood!
But Teresa - Teresa knew that.
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 pouring rain stung the 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 we didn’t want to change anything, Thomas pondered.
But Thomas knew.
Now he knew.
He would change everything.
***
A white flash of light surrounded him.
He was tied down to a bed with silky white sheets.
That was the first thing he noticed.
He felt floaty, 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.
The room was white. Completely white, and looking around, he could see that the walls were too.
There was no door.
He felt a stabbing jolt of panic. Was it WICKED? And then, somebody appeared.
The shadow appeared and started pacing around the room, steps heavy and slow. There were too somebodies - a figure dressed in white, face as hidden as the other one’s stayed still and addressed him.
“Hello, Thomas. We’ve been expecting you.”
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.
“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 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, 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 he 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 he was 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 to feel outrage. “Don’t think such a thing, Thomas!”
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, probably WICKED playing a mind game on him. No. He wondered if they were going to kill him. At least he would see Newt again. And Chuck. And god forbid Teresa.
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.
He also wondered about how Minho didn’t absolutely 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.
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 cruel for Newt to die just as Brenda arrived. It was a crude twist of fate, one that sent Thomas’ heart shattering into a billion pieces. Because Newt was what kept Thomas going. The knowledge that at the end of the day, Newt was safe.
Until he wasn’t.
Death flourished a silver and black staff and clasped it in his 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. You will go in a week.”
And before he faded out, he heard Fate say.
“You can save them all.”