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kareofbears · 25 days

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a fragile line, chapter 2/3

Newt and Thomas always had something going on—even in the Maze, Gally knew right away. But never did he think it would turn into something like this; a devotion fermented. A reverence that made the chapel look blasphemous in comparison.

—

Or, as they infiltrate WICKED, Gally notices the shift between Newt and Thomas.

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Thomas and Newt had come up to Gally with a fresh idea and a fresher bruise to match.

The plan is changing, they told him, clutching that battered notebook in their hands like it were a manual for how to barge into WICKED’s impenetrable tower. They spoke quickly, efficiently, nearly cutting each other off with how they finish each other’s thoughts, neatly tacking more details as they recount their changes. It isn’t the first time that Gally’s listened to Thomas labor through a plan, but it’s the first time he’s seen Thomas share that stage with Newt—or rather, sees Newt share that stage with Thomas. Words are as part of Thomas’ arsenal as much as his speed is, but where Thomas is practiced in its art, Newt has long since perfected it.

When they finished, Gally only had one question: “Seems like you shanks already got it under control. Why’d you bother bringing it to me?”

They both frowned at him, as if the answer should already be apparent. “We want to know what you think.”

Once they’re in the city, they split off with Brenda without so much as a wave. Too many eyes on them for a proper goodbye. True to his word, Newt slows his gait until he shuffles into the crowd of fellow WICKED soldiers, intermingling with them until Gally can’t tell which one’s him, little more than someone in a crowd. Despite that, he watches Thomas linger on a specific figure for a long moment before tearing his focus away.

They enter the tower without issues, and a variety of scientists, soldiers, and administrative personnel swirl around them like sharks. A bead of sweat rolls down his nape.

Like this, none of them speak, letting the thrum of their heartbeats merge with the ceaseless noise of people working around them. He has his eyes glued in front of him, as if straying his sightline would be a dead giveaway that he doesn’t belong, that he’s an intruder, that he deserves to be killed and sucked dry like any Immune that enters this facility.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Teresa studying him, and he resists the urge to tell her to cut it out. Every once in a while, someone in a white coat brushes past her, grins easy and familiar, some even offering her a friendly wave. He grips his stun gun a little tighter. For once, they were all playing in her field, and she has the advantage here. Not for the first time, he imagines her screaming for help, exposing them all until Ava Paige herself sticks a needle in their arm to drain them for everything they have left.

“Nobody comes back until you find them.” The words are rumbled high above them and spoken almost playfully; it parts the white noise of the facility easily. “And if you don’t find them—well. Let’s not talk about that quite just yet.”

Janson.

Gally risks a glance upwards, sees how he’s leaning over the glass bridge above them, arms splayed wide against the railing and overlooking the entire lobby, that nasty smirk resting on his face. Carefully, Gally casts his eyes back down, sees how Thomas is staring right up at Janson, and can imagine all too well the ripple of maddening fury spasming behind the mask.

With no amount of care, Gally shoulders past Thomas, rough and insistent. “Focus.”

Thomas takes a deep breath, and takes a step forward, and another, each more stiff than the last; as if smoothing out his stride would cause him to snap in half.

The flurry of activity around them is ceaseless, everyone either gearing up to a long night of testing cure variants or on their way to hunt down the escaped Immunes who are less than a few meters from where Gally is standing. Newt, on the other hand, is taking the long way around Sub-Level 3.

The bigger the group, the more likely we'll get caught, Thomas had said. Newt would be our eyes, make sure no one suspects anything. There's the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Thomas rolled his eyes. Yes, Newt, I know it's the only time you and I are being separated. Reconvene at Sub-Level 3 and keep your radio on.

They get to the power box without issue and Gally gets to work. Without saying a word, he pulls out his hacksaw without saying a word, sparks flying incessantly while Thomas radios Newt.

"Status update?"

"Absolutely radiant. You boys see Janson on your way in?"

"Yeah. Where's he headed?"

"Going up, by the looks of it. Careful—from what I've seen, those elevators could go straight down to the Sub-Levels. When I meet up with you, I'll lose eyes on him."

"Janson or not, you have to be here with me." A semblance of a smile ghosts his features. "Non-negotiable, right?"

"You're getting it now, Tommy."

The air is thick with sparks as he works, blinding him until his vision is nothing more than stars that are mere inches from his face. It’s tough work, cutting metal, and his wrist groans with the effort of digging, digging, digging, until, with a satisfying thunk of a heavy lock hitting the ground, he swings the box open and doesn't hesitate to rewire it until the harsh red pings into a pleasant green.

Gally signals—they're good to go. "We're done here," Thomas reports.

"Good that. Just saw Janson go up. Hopefully that ugly bastard locks up in his office for an hour or so. I'll make my way to you."

"Good that. See you soon."

"Over and out, fellow soldier."

They ditch the tools as they take the stairs down, Teresa leading them. Her face is still crestfallen and slightly glazed, but she's still moving in the right direction, at least.

The glowing signs on the wall indicate where they are. Sub-Level 1, Sub-Level 2, Sub-Level 3. Gripping the door handle, he peers in, feels his heart stutter in his chest, before letting it close again.

"What?" Thomas whispers, eyebrows already raised in accusation.

Gally ignores him, turning to Teresa. "You hide it from us on purpose?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Sub-Level 3 isn't just where they keep the hostages, and the serum," he hisses out. "It's where they keep everything valuable and fucking dangerous."

Thomas' eyes widen as he lets the implication settle in. Guns, drones, tasers, cuffs, grenades. Everything that could capture them. Before this, they were under the impression that it would be similar to a medical ward.

At least, that's what they were led to believe by the person who gave the building's schematics.

Teresa takes a step back, pupils shaking. "I swear, I didn't mean to," she stammers out. "I just forgot."

"Save it." Gally turns to Thomas, brows furrowed. "Warn Newt, but plans won't change."

Thomas' mouth twists in displeasure. "This could get ugly."

"This has been ugly," he shoots back. "We just need to lie lower than usual." He grips Thomas' forearm. "Do you understand, you temperamental shank?"

Thomas rips away from him, stare venomous as he pulls out the radio. "I get the idea," he spits before updating Newt.

Gally allows himself one, massive eye roll before straightening up, mustering calm, and entering Sub-Level 3.

—

Gally didn't just sit on his ass while the rest of them were traipsing in the Scorch.

He's a soldier now. It doesn't really matter that he's not happy about that development—he's alive, and he should just be grateful about it. But the past six months have been dedicated training, discipline, and giving himself up to the art of war. Or at least, the scrappy version of it. Lawrence's men don't have any funds, and most of the weapons they can get their hands on is from ripping it straight from the hands of WICKED themselves. Resources were scarce; knives were blunt, gas was limited, and bullets above all else were a rarity—Gally never even shot a loaded gun until three months after he was trained to pull the trigger.

So seeing Sub-Level 3 was both a nightmare and a fever dream for him.

Layers and layers of machine guns are stacked through bulletproof glass, grenade belts hung up like it was someone's closet. Daggers, knives, machetes, all plastered against the backs of soldiers with more hidden underneath the fabric of their jumpsuits. All of it sharpened to a tee.

Sweat coats his hands but he doesn't wipe it off. Someone could be watching and sniffing them out. Instead, he focuses on making his stride strong and confident, shadowing Teresa and keeping an eye on Thomas, the fall of their footsteps matching the thud of Gally's heart.

They turn a corner and stop in their tracks. A drone is airborne in the middle of the hallway, hovering as if it were a mini Berg. Beside it, someone in a lab coat was instructing everyone to move around it. "Just doing some repairs!" he yelled. "Apologies everyone, we just needed a space to do some testing. Please move around the drone."

Gally and Thomas share a look before advancing, warily keeping an eye on the drone. It helps that other soldiers looked equally as unwilling to go near the drone as they are. Machine guns with wings, Lawrence's men had called them. A buggy drone, exactly what they needed.

Not for the first time, a sick feeling of premonition coats his skin. He can't tell if it's paranoia, panic, or some kind of sixth sense he's developed when it comes to WICKED. But it's the feeling he got the first time he laid eyes on Thomas. It's the feeling he got the day he found them on the outskirts of the Last City.

Everything in Gally's life has been ripped away from him one way or another—everything but himself. And he's learned to trust himself.

Going against his own advice to Thomas, Gally lifts his radio to his lips until he can speak into it with nothing more than a mutter. "Did you secure the bus?"

"Yeah," Brenda responds, equally hushed. "Pretty quiet down here. You?"

"If you left for a few minutes, do you think it'll still be secured?"

"Uh, probably?" Even through the static of the radio, her quizzical tone is audible. "There's enough buses that if someone takes this one, I can grab another." There's a pause, and then she groans. "You're going to ask me to do something."

"I need you to steal a lab coat and get to Sub-Level 3." Thomas whirls on him, and even the mask can't conceal his incredulity. "I have a bad feeling."

"What are you, five?"

Gally represses a retort. "I just—" he tries, racking his brain for logic like he always does, use the pragmatism that he knows they associate him with, but he comes up blank. "I need you on shift right now."

There's a longer pause. "Fine."

He lets out a sharp breath. "Thanks."

"Heading out."

Thomas continues to give him a look, and Gally can't muster anything more than a shrug. "Don't like taking chances."

"Sure you don’t."

They give it a wide berth as they skirt around it, but with every step that Thomas takes, the camera on the drone seems to follow him, shifting its barrel to be pointed directly at Thomas.

Step, shift. Step, shift.

Gally glances around, sees other soldiers staring at Thomas, bewildered and apprehensive, wondering the same thing as Gally. Why was the drone following him?

An idea slides into his brain and Gally swivels at Teresa, looking gaunt. He watched her remove Thomas' tracker like she did with everyone else, and saw it with his own eyes. But is it possible that she left something there on purpose?

"Just doing some repairs!" they repeat.

Coincidence or planned?

"Nothing to worry about folks!"

When they reach the halfway point of skirting the drone, it begins to glow a bright, sinister red.

Teresa turns to Gally. I don't know, she mouths, distressed, and Gally doesn't trust her, will never trust her, but he saw her remove it, helped Thomas clot the bleeding himself.

"Keep on walking!"

The drone, slow and steady, begins to clank. Gally pivots to Thomas, and even with the masks, he knows what they're both thinking. If that drone turns on, Thomas is as good as dead. But if they do something about it, it'll attract an insurmountable amount of attention.

Propellers stutter, erratically falling down just to fly up again, and the light only grows bright, then brighter still, and Gally knows what that means. He's been warned of it too many times, had seen it with his own eyes too many times, had seen people fall to it too many times.

"Run," he breathes to Thomas, as the rifle of the drone twitches.

But before anyone can move a muscle, before Thomas can even take another step, a loud gunshot sounds out. The drone falls to the ground, camera shot clean through.

Silence falls throughout the floor.

A single look at where it was shot tells Gally everything he needs to know. One bullet, clean through the core machinery of the drone. A steady hand, knowledge of the anatomy of rifle drones, and most of all, done to protect Thomas. This precision in aim was famous back in the Glade.

"Oh my," a voice speaks behind them, humor-infused and mocking at the same time. "What could have happened here?" It's like a bucket of ice water fell down his back, and Gally turns to see Janson standing there, eyebrows raised as he peers at the group of people huddled around the drone like it was an impromptu funeral. "An unfortunate malfunction, I presume, but I do believe WICKED enforces a strict rule of not firing on any Sub-Level, am I correct?" His eyes light up. "Hello, Teresa. I see you're getting in the middle of this mess, same as I am."

Nobody speaks. Teresa doesn't even look like she's breathing.

Janson claps his hands together. "Who is it, then? Who shot it?" It's quiet, only the scuttling of shoes against the squeaky clean floors. It looks like Janson is going to speak when someone takes a step forward. "You then? Come closer."

A million thoughts barge into Gally's brain in the moment, all fighting for a chance to be first.

There's a few dozen WICKED personnel surrounding them, with about half of those carrying firearms. If Newt speaks, his voice will give them away. If Newt takes another step forward, he risks showing his limp. If Newt doesn't give the right answer, it would reveal that he's not actually a WICKED soldier at all.

Above all else, if Janson even breathes in Newt's direction, Thomas might actually just blow this place up.

Without thinking about it too hard, Gally moves in front of Newt. "Director Janson," he greets, gesturing to his black uniform. "I'm his superior. Unfortunately, there's been a tech issue and he's fairly new to the Sub-Levels. Isn't aware of the regulations here. We'll be sure to reteach them accordingly." For emphasis, he grabs Newt by the arm and shakes him, ignoring the heat from Thomas' glare behind him.

He's seen this enough times to replicate it. Gally had spent the better part of the past six months trying to get into the facility, had memorized and engrained the way WICKED personnel work—how they greet each other, the rankings, the military positions, shift work, weapons, anything he can get his hands on. To beat these assholes, he has to become one of them. It's not something he thinks about too often.

It also helps that Gally is presumed dead.

Janson clicks his tongue. "Then I suggest you begin supervising a little bit better, then." Pointing at Newt, his tone is deceivingly light-hearted. "Not again."

Newt stays deathly still.

Then Janson leans back, grinning wide. "What's everyone standing around for? We have Immunes to hunt, don't we?"

Immediately, everyone disperses, eager to get away from Janson's prying eyes. They take it as an opportunity to slink away, wanting to merge into the shuffle. Everyone except Thomas, who decides to bump into Janson on purpose, before continuing his gait.

Never again. Gally is never, ever working with Thomas again after this.

As the door to the Immunes gets closer, Gally leans close to Thomas, but gets cut off.

“He’s going to be looking a lot fucking closer now."

Thomas slams the button open with the butt of his taser. "Then let him look."

—

With the guards miserably unprepared for their assault, it takes a shockingly short time to take control of the Immunes room.

The air is still thick with static and floor littered with bodies as Gally rushes to the vault, tossing the extra hacksaw to Newt so he can start freeing the Immunes. “You know how to use one of those?”

“I’ve had my fair share of lock breaking, thanks,” Newt replies, kneeling as he starts working the metal with sure, steady hands, melting through it twice as fast as Gally can. For a moment, he wonders when he learned to do that, before chalking it up as yet another thing Gally missed out on in the past six months. He'll ask when this shit show is done.

"Done, Newt?" Thomas interrupts, ripping his mask off, expression antsy. "Give me the saw, I'm breaking into the serum vault."

Newt doesn't even look up. "You're too slow with it," he says, curt. "Leave me alone. Help Gally when he's done."

Despite everything, Gally cracks a grin. "You tell him, Newt."

Grumbling, Thomas squats next to Gally. For a long moment, neither of them speak. When he hits the halfway point, Thomas mutters, voice quiet. "Thanks. For earlier."

He eyes Thomas before focusing back on his work again. "Don't sweat it."

"You saved Newt." His voice cracks near the end, before becoming almost too soft to hear. "That's everything."

Newt's door opens and he peers in, unintelligible muttering as he approaches the kids, tone soothing but firmly urging them to get up.

Gally's own metal door breaks free, and swings open, revealing a dozen terrified kids. Thomas straightens up, and although it's brittle and fading and accidentally comes off as bellicose in a certain light, his smile is genuine. "Come on," he coaxes. "We're going to get you out of here." Turning, "Newt, now that you're done—"

Newt whirls on Thomas, and gone is the calm that he was directing towards the Immunes. "I'm on it," he snarls, militant and venomous all at once. "Fucking hell. Give me some room, mate."

Gally stills.

Thomas looks like the floor fell underneath him. Then his expression hardens, focused. "Who am I?"

There's a beat, where Newt and Thomas are studying each other before Newt’s eyes flutter close, mouth twisting in concentration. “I know you, I know I do. You’re someone I trust, someone I’m safe around. I just don’t—“ he falters. “I just can’t quite remember exactly who you are.”

“It’s okay,” Thomas’ tone is delicate, as if his syllables danced on eggshells. “It’s okay.”

"And I'm supposed to get that," he nods at the serum vault. "Open, because I know whatever's in there is important to you."

"It should be important to you, too," Thomas reprimands gently. He reaches into his breast pocket and offers a folded piece of paper to Newt. "Here. You wrote this for yourself."

Newt's brows scrunch as he reads it, expression blurring into a handful of emotions, recognition shining through before settling into shame. "Tommy," he breathes out.

"Don't apologize," Thomas mutters. "We knew this would probably happen." Taking a step forward, Gally almost averts his gaze when Thomas presses his lips to Newt's temple, tender and devout, and pulls away. "Now, open the damn vault."

Newt gets to work as Gally glances around, belatedly realizing that something is very wrong. "Minho."

"Shit," Thomas closes his eyes, thinking hard, before stalking forward. Action oriented, always. "Teresa, where the hell is he?"

Gally lets them figure it out, opting to approach Newt. His shoulders are tense, and even if his hands are still steady, he knows Newt's tell often manifests through what he says—or what he doesn't.

"Want to swap?" he offers.

Newt shakes his head and doesn't say anything. Gally lets him have his brief moment of quiet, orchestrated by the quick, harsh tone that Thomas and Teresa are throwing at each other like knives behind them.

Tries not to think about the implications of Newt's health. Fails.

The Flare is inevitable. He's seen it happen to anyone who isn't an Immune. It rips everything away from the person like paint stripper, seeping the saturation out of someone until all that's left is a thin layer of what it used to be. Reduces someone into something animalistic, uncontrollable, monstrous, vile, unthinking. How long does Newt have? Enough for the mission? Enough to find Minho? Enough for the next half hour? Gally's never fucked around when it comes to the Flare, but seeing Newt forget Thomas is somehow the most harrowing thing he's seen the virus do.

It doesn't matter, really. The current cure may not be perfect, but there's a serum on the other side of this door that'll give Newt time, no matter how short.

"—soon as Newt gets the serum, you're taking us there," Thomas is saying, words quick and sharp.

"Okay," Teresa says, still searching the monitor in front of her. "What about the Immunes?"

"Gally's—"

Suddenly, the door slides open slightly, and immediately all of them have their tasers out. Pointed, still, silent.

"I didn't come all the way out here to be threatened," a familiar voice grumbles. "Put that shit away."

"Brenda," Thomas breathes. "Almost shot you."

"Yeah, yeah. I think everyone in this room has been threatened by you one way or another." She walks in, wearing a lab coat and—is that glasses? She must have really been trying to sell the role of a scientist. "Except for your Newt, of course."

"Of course," Thomas agrees.

Brenda glances around, taking in the Immunes huddled along the walls. "Hey," she greets. Most of them are still cowering from fear, but a few braver ones give her a wave. "What do you need from me, Gally? Still need me to clean up after your mess?" she teases, but her eyes are serious.

Gally rises to his feet. "Minho's not here," he cuts to the chase. "We have to get him. Can you get the Immunes down to the bus?" After a moment, he tacks on: "Please. And thanks."

"A little manners go a long way," Brenda says. "When can I expect you boys?"

"Give us as long as you can," Gally replies, vision straying to the Immunes. For a split-second, he sees Chuck's face in one of theirs. "But if things go south, just take them and go."

Brenda frowns, but doesn't disagree. Facing the kids: "Alright. Not great with kids, but you guys seem promising. You three—" she points at a few Immunes. "Grab the guns from these unconscious bastards and arm yourselves. Don't fall behind, and don't do anything stupid." Brenda stops herself, suddenly unsure. "And don't be scared. It'll be okay."

They do as she says, one girl looking particularly excited at the chance to be holding a pistol. A boy nervously puts his hand up. "This guy doesn't have a gun," he squeaks out. “Or any weapons, actually.”

Brenda scowls at him. "Then don't pick that guy then, kid."

"Thanks," Gally repeats, letting sincerity bleed through this time. "Seriously."

She smiles before gesturing for the kids to go. "See you soon," she says, giving him a fist bump. "Bye Gally, Newt. Thomas—don't blow the place up." He simply waves in response, and Brenda leads them out the back exit, the door closing with a sense of finality.

"Here we go," Newt mummers, the lock finally falling away with a clatter that sounds almost like victory.

Thomas immediately surges forward, a newfound energy almost making his eyes glow. "It's open?" he exclaims. "That's great. Come on, let's get this serum in you."

Newt flashes a wide grin, and Gally can't help but notice how much younger it makes him look. Can’t help but notice how much life he has in him whenever he looks at Thomas. “Wow, Tommy, I was just thinking we chuckled the vials out on the Scorch, how about it?”

“So funny,” Thomas deadpans, mood undamped as he hauls Newt on his feet and sets him aside with ease. “Serum, then Minho.” He pulls the vault door open and his mouth splits into a smile that matches Newt.

“It’s not perfect yet,” Teresa says quietly, and they all ignore her. “Thomas, I think it’s your blood—“

Thomas darts into the vault with the duffel. “Newt,” he calls over the sound of clinking glass. “Roll your sleeve up. I’m not wasting a single second.”

Newt rolls his eyes but obliges. “You talk like the vials are suddenly going to fly away into thin air.”

“Who the hell knows, nowadays.” Thomas walks out, bag significantly more full and pure joy coating his features, practically skipping as he approaches Newt. “We didn’t even know about the Flare until—“

The door slides open again, and Gally turns, ready to retort. “You forgot something, Brenda—?”

His voice dies in his throat, replaced by his heart beating in overtime.

“I knew there was something a little odd in the works,” Janson says, voice lilted as a dozen WICKED soldiers march in, surrounding them. “Thank you for the heads up, Teresa.”

Slowly, they all turn their heads. Teresa gazes at the ground like she wants nothing more than to sink into it.

“Thomas,” Janson takes a step towards him, gun pointing at Thomas, who immediately takes a step closer to Newt, partially blocking him. “You know you need to give me that bag.”

He doesn’t speak. His eyes are darting everywhere, in all directions: up into the ceiling, down at the floor, left to the soldiers, right to their weapons. It’s as if he’s trying to look for a way out by looking hard enough. Gally concedes that it worked well enough in the maze. Slyly, he sees Thomas’ hand cover his holster.

“You don’t want to do that,” Janson chides. Thomas stills for a second before rushing to pull out his pistol. “I said,'' Janson stretches other the vowels lackadaisically, shifting his aim so that it’s directly on Newt. “You don’t want to do that.”

That gets Thomas to stop moving. Gally notes with the idle, dazed part of his mind that Janson knows exactly how to get to Thomas. Or maybe Thomas is just really obvious about Newt.

“Good.” Janson takes a lap around the room, surveying the damage. “You take a good portion of my men and move the Immunes. Now, you're going to—"

But Janson doesn't know the new Thomas quite as well.

With a speed that Gally's long-since associated with him, Thomas yanks a stun grenade from his belt, unclips it and throws it directly at Janson. Duck."

Newt grabs Thomas and Gally and pulls them into the serum vault just as it goes off, the sound of bodies hitting the ground almost satisfying. They stay still for a few seconds before Gally peeks out. "Nice one, Greenie. Who knew your crazy methods would actually—"

Something catches his eye, and Gally frowns as something rolls into the vault with them, before his eyes widen. "Fuck."

There's no time to move, no time to run. The only thing Gally can do is use his body to shield Newt and Thomas from another stun grenade that goes off only a few feet in front of him.

The last thing he sees is Teresa's hand still outstretched, expression unreadable.

—

He feels like a Griever just sucker punched him to the gut.

Every inch of his body is sore, with random points of his body twitching at unexpected moments. Vaguely, something smells like it's burning, and Gally thinks it might just be from being fried by a stun grenade.

His eyes flutter open as confusion hits him. That stun grenade should've killed him. Unless—

There's the sound of someone shuffling near him, and it takes all of his remaining energy to twist his neck sideways. It takes a second for him to realize that they're not in the same room anymore. Floor to ceiling of cold concrete, his best guess is they're in some stairwell somewhere.

Teresa is kneeling next to Thomas—still knocked out—careful hands holding a syringe as she extracts blood from his arm, brows creased in concentration. It's as if his vocal chords are tangled up, and it takes him a few tries before he croaks out: "You use a non-lethal stunner?"

Her eyes flicker to him briefly before focusing on Thomas once more. There's already one, full vial of blood tucked into her coat. "The medical wing," she starts, voice quiet but sure. "Take the door on your right. At the end of the hall there'll be an elevator. Go up to the 21st floor. Turn left, there'll be a portion of glass walls. You can't miss it."

He stares at her. "Shouldn't you kill us?"

She lets out a sharp breath. "I never wanted you guys dead, you know. I just wanted to find a cure."

"You're on WICKED's side—"

"I'm on the side that would help me find a cure." She finishes up with Thomas, gently bandaging his arm almost affectionately. "WICKED had the funds and the access to Immunes. It was a no-brainer." She glances around Thomas, then Newt, then Gally. "You recovered quickly," she tells him. "You get hit with stun grenades often?"

If he had any liking towards her, he would've offered that it was part of his training. Non-lethal stunners were something they were expected to endure on a daily basis while patrolling the outer wall. As it was, Gally stayed silent.

Teresa nods to herself, as if expecting the cold shoulder. "Janson's still out there. Had to choose between killing him or getting you three out of there."

"You'd kill Janson?" he rasps out. "Would killing him help you get the cure?"

"No." Her index finger gently traces Thomas' bandage, but she carefully avoids touching his skin. "But it would keep Tom safe."

A pang of pity strikes deep in his chest. "Thomas is Newt’s," he says bluntly. It's the closest thing to mercy that he can offer her. "That's not changing anytime soon. Or ever, really."

Teresa lets out a huff. "Thanks. I think I picked up on that." She gets on her feet, pocketing the second vial into her coat, the two bottles clinking against each other almost rhythmically. "The other two should be up in the next minute, and you'll be able to move again in the next ten. You'll probably get your strength back quicker than them."

She moves to the door, and as she's about to leave, she hesitates. "Tell Thomas I'm sorry. I think it got caught in the crossfire, during the chaos."

Gally scrunches his brows. "What?"

"Just tell him to find me. I'll be in the labs, somewhere, but I need to hide from WICKED, too. Tell him I think I might have the cure. The real one." She swallows, and pain flashes on her features before smoothing it out. "His need to protect Newt should be enough to outweigh his distrust of me, at least."

With that, she walks out the door, leaving Gally to stare up at the ceiling to wait out the stunner.

—

It doesn't take long for Thomas to rouse.

He scrambles on his feet, only for him to immediately throw up on the staircase. Gally can sympathize. "Where—"

"Chill out Greenie," he mollifies. He eventually found the strength to sit up, letting the wall support him. The soreness in his body is subdued and he can shift around without groaning out loud. "Newt's behind you."

Thomas turns and sinks to his knees, where Newt's eyes are still closed and relaxed. He watches, feeling almost voyeuristic as he touches the black veins on Newt's jaw. "Why isn't he up yet?"

"Not sure. Teresa said he'll be up soon."

At that, Thomas' hand stills. "Teresa," he mutters, like he's just remembering where they are right now. "Teresa. The cure. The serum."

Thomas pivots to Gally. "Where's the duffel?"

Gally hesitates. "Greenie..."

He stands, eyes lighting up as he spots the duffel bag sitting on the bottom stair. "Did you already inject—"

"Thomas."

Thomas opens the bag before his entire frame stills, motionless.

Gally's mouth flattens into a thin line. He knows exactly what Thomas is looking at—broken glass swimming in bright, blue liquid, sloshing within the bag. Not a single vial left untouched.

All the serums broke.

For a long, long moment, it doesn't even look like Thomas is breathing. Slowly, he reaches into the bag and cups a handful of wet, shards of glass, thoughtless of the pain. "Do you..." His voice is a terrible thing, crackling with grief. "If I separate the glass, then maybe..."

Gally is shaking his head before Thomas can finish. "I don't think so."

"Okay." Bit by bit, one hand clutching the fragmented pieces and the other still clenching tightly onto the dripping duffel bag, he settles next to Newt. "Okay."

He watches as Thomas looks at the ceiling, then to his hands, blue serum mingling with the red of his blood, before staring at Newt. The concrete walls provide a blissful quiet from what Gally's sure is a hectic facility mere meters from where they're sitting. Like this, he can hear Newt's steady breathing and Thomas' erratic exhales, with the faintest sound of glass clinking against one another as Thomas' hands shake and falter.

Like a bad surgeon, he sees how Thomas, impossibly, pulls himself together stitch by stich until he becomes something that functions again; tangled, knotted, limbs jumbled, but forced to function. He takes a deep breath before turning to Gally once more.

"What did Teresa say?" he asked, voice steady and monotone. His expressionless face giving nothing away, but his eyes swirls with something like darkness, thick and heavy.

"She told me where the medical wing is." Gally sees Newt's fingers twitch. "She also said she thinks she has a cure. Took some of your blood."

Thomas' expression doesn't shift. "A cure."

"That's what she said."

"A cure," he reiterates, like he was tasting the syllables on his tongue, like it was an effort to speak. Almost thoughtlessly, Thomas lets go of the duffel and sinks his fingers into Newt's thick hair. "A cure."

Gally leans forward. "Thomas." He keeps his words neutral, steady. This is how he speaks, in the rare moments where he's involved in hostage situations. Who the hostage is, he's not sure. "We can't trust Teresa, remember?"

Thomas' eyes lift. They're bloodshot and vicious. "The cure needs to exist."

For a moment, Gally wants to argue. Weren't you the one who blew up at her? Weren't you the one who was itching to kill her not long ago? Weren't you the one she hurt the most? Instead, he watches as Thomas continues to comb through Newt's hair, mummering to him softly, like softness is enough to remove the Flare from his veins.

"It needs to exist," Gally echoes.

Eventually, Newt's eyes flutter open before immediately lurching sideways, retching. Even from this angle, Gally can see the black liquid splatter on the floor.

"It's okay," There's none of the violence present when he looks at Newt; only worry and warmth in the cold stairwell they're all hiding in. "Don't get up too fast, but we need to go soon."

Slumping back into the floor, his voice has a shake to it that he isn't used to hearing. "Tommy."

"Yeah?" he replies, still combing through Newt's hair.

"Your name is Tommy."

The hand stills, before continuing. "Yeah, it's Tommy."

Newt sits up, Thomas helping him as he does so, and looks at Gally with that peculiar expression. "It's Gally," he says, beating him to it. "How much do you remember this time?"

"Where are we?"

"The WICKED facility. We're getting your serum and Minho, then we're getting the fuck out of here." At the tilt of Newt's head, Gally tries again, a twinge in his chest as he has to explain, "Minho's our friend. We need to save him."

"We must really like this guy then." Newt raises a hand and Thomas helps him stand. "What do I need a serum for?"

There's silence for a moment. "We should hurry," Gally says instead. "Newt, are you good?"

"I kind of feel like I got beat up," he rolls his shoulder, wincing. "But otherwise, I can walk."

"I got you," Thomas says gently. "Just stay close to us."

Gally cracks the door open, peering out, and feels someone behind him. "Don't you think it would be better if we had him meet up with Brenda?" he asks without turning around. "We can bring the serum to him afterwards."

"With the way he's going now, I can't risk delaying the serum. And besides," he paused. I promised him we'd stay together. No matter what."

A rush of irritation brushes down his spine. "And that promise is more important than keeping him alive?"

"You know that's not true," Thomas snaps. "But Newt and I talked about this beforehand. He wants to stay, so he's staying."

"Thomas—"

"Gally," his tone is final. "I have to trust Newt."

"Even now?"

"Especially now." Thomas yanks the door open, looks both ways, before leaving. Newt, confused and slightly feverish, follows him without question.

#the maze runner #fic tag #newt #maze runner #TMR #thomas/newt #newtmas #a fragile line #yall got khio to thank for this going out TWO DAYS EARLY LOL #this is the second chapter yall #best to read the first before this #like jesus christ #i have risen

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