Alright, I'm so sorry, this one is long and awful and mostly written either late, late at night or in smidgens while I was supposed to be doing schoolwork. Try to enjoy. This will probably be easier if you are sleep-deprived or drunk.

"Shuck run!" Minho yelled, and immediately followed his own advice. Alby grabbed Newt's wrist and followed. But Thomas stared, transfixed in horror and wonder. How did those eyebrows stay connected?

"Thomas!" someone yelled.

"Leave him!" came the reply. "Distract it!"

"Alby!"

"What?"

But the voices were enough; Thomas was jolted out of his reverie. Maybe the Griever stabbing his foot helped as well. Either way, Thomas turned and ran.

The four boys ran. And ran. And ran. They ran until they were gasping and bleeding and dying and crawling along the ground, but still the Griever gave chase. Somewhere. It didn't move very fast, but that was probably just a trick to lull them into a false sense of security.

At last, the door! But at that very moment, the sun set, and the door closed just as Thomas reached it!

"Damn it!" Thomas howled. "Fuck! Shit! We're gonna fucking die out here alone with no one to love us or remember us! I WANT MY MOMMY!" he wailed.

"Shuck slim it, Greenie!" Minho shouted. "They'll hear us!" He too was staring at the closed doors in despair. "Where're Newt and Alby?"

"We lost them?" Thomas asked. Despite himself, he thought, Good. Now no one will boss me around and make me do fucking work.

"Yes, you shuck shank."

"Hey, that rhymes! Shuck-shank! Shuck-shank!" Thomas singsonged. Minho hit him.

"Stay here, okay, Greenie? If you come with me you're probably gonna die. I'm going to go find them," Minho said bravely. "Oh, shuck, Newt…"

"What?" Thomas asked eagerly.

"He couldn't keep up, he's probably shuck dead, and Alby shuck stayed with him and it's all my shuck fault…" Minho trailed off, looking awkward. "Whatever. Stay here." He ran off before Thomas could protest.

Thomas sighed and sat down. He was hungry, and tired, and his foot hurt from where the Griever almost ripped it off, and his shoulders hurt from when Minho dislocated . . . no, from when Minho stepped on him. Stepped on him! The guy needed to lose weight.

Nonetheless, Thomas refused to let such human weaknesses control him. He stripped off his sweaty shirt, tied it around his head, and began to dance the tango. He even sang along to accompany himself. Dancing alone soon grew boring, though, so Thomas ran off to find a dance partner.

He was brought up short when he fell in a hole. It was dark, just like everywhere else at night, and it was scary, just like everything at all times of day. Thomas bravely hummed his tango tune and continued. Maybe someone had dug a way out of here.

"What comes sneaksing in our holeses, preciousss?" said a hissing voice. Thomas froze.

"It is I," he announced, "Aladin." Better pretend to be someone else. And the voice sounded familiar . . .

"Aladinses, preciouss?"

"Yes," Thomas said. "I am Aladin."

"No… dinnerses, we thinks, yes we does."

"I don't want your nasty dinner," Thomas snapped. "I just want my friends."

"Doesn't have friendses, no it doesn't, no precious," the voice said, smirking. "Protagonistses doesn't have friendses. Gary Stuses…"

"Enough!" Thomas said, tiring of the abuse. To the Les Mis tune, he demanded, "Go away, Ben! Do you think I don't know who you are!"

"It's not fooled, precious! Tolds you so! Shows the thing what we comes here to shows, tells it whats we knows…" the creature's - Ben's - singing voice was atrocious, nothing like Thomas' handsome baritone. "A riddle, yes, precious."

"I want none of your trickery!"

"What, precious, is two plus two? Tells us, and we won't eats it."

"I am not your precious!"

"Precious to no one, it is," Ben said smugly. "Two plus two?"

"Four!"

"Two times three?"

"Six!" Thomas gasped. This was getting very hard, very fast.

"Seven times seven?"

"Forty-nine!"

"What, precious, is the square rootses of nine?"

"Th-three!" He couldn't keep this up for long.

"What is the quadratic formulases, precious?"

That was too much. Thomas turned tail and ran. Only through sheer desperation did he manage to scramble out of the hole. He ran and ran until he was slightly short of breath. Minho was just ahead; the motherfucker wasn't even running fast.

Minho whirled around just as Thomas was catching up. "I thought I told you to stay shuck put!" he whispered. His hands were curled into fists. Thomas shied away.

"I did!" he protested.

"No you shuck well did not!" Minho snapped. "What happened to your shirt? Whatever. Shut up and . . . just stay close to me."

Together they went through the maze like fucking ninjas. Thomas wasn't really sure what was going on, and Minho wasn't very forthcoming, but he snapped into an exquisite tree pose whenever he heard a noise.

At last they heard voices. Thomas snapped one leg up and his arms above his head. Minho froze.

"No, we went right, I fell right."

"We went shuck left, the shuck Griever was coming from the right."

"The Griever was behind us!"

"It's mimicking their voices again!" Thomas whispered, switching from On Guarde Tree Pose to Aggressive Tree Pose. Minho sent him a disparaging look.

"Alby! Newt!" he called, stepping out so they could see him. "It's me! I've found the slinthead too."

"Slinthead?" Thomas asked, following. He might need to come to Minho's aid if the Griever attacked. "Where? D'you mean the Griever?"

It then dawned on Thomas that everyone looked pale, wan, gaunt, starved, terrified and traumatized for life. And some other synonyms. They were afraid, he realized, of being in the Maze after dark, with Grievers aprowl and no way to get out. They were all going to die here, or at least, no one else had ever come out of the Maze alive.

"Minho!" Newt said, his face splitting into a grin. Too wide. His eyes were manic and tight with pain.

"Where's the way out?" Alby demanded.

"This way," Minho said. "But the Maze may have changed already. C'mon."

They had barely gone one hundred feet, however, when a terrifying sight emerged. Thomas immediately grabbed Newt and held him in front like a shield. Or a human sacrifice. Maybe the sick bastards who had made this place approved of that, and this was a rite of passage, and now they would come and take Thomas away.

But it wasn't a Griever. It was Ben.

"Precious, precious," he singsonged. "Precious' flying!"

Precious was indeed. Ben held the string a majestic dragon kite which soared high in the sky. A golden ring was tied halfway up the string.

"Electricity!" Ben said, laughing gleefully at the obvious reference.

"Run?" Minho whispered. Thomas scoffed. The coward. Ben couldn't possibly eat more than one of them, and couldn't the motherfucker see Newt was ready to be sacrificed?

"Is that Ben?" Alby said.

"Has to be, doesn't it?" Newt said. "That's his kite. Greenie, let go!" He stumbled away from Thomas' grasp.

"Didn't I warn you, Tommy -" Alby began.

Newt cut him off. "Not now. Let's get the bloody hell away before he notices."

They all silently ran in the other direction, but not for long. No sooner had they escaped Ben's insanity than another horror approached - a Griever. Like before, it was a giant, terrifying slug, six feet long by four feet wide, and therefore roughly 12.56 feet in diameter, with a cylindrical volume of 75.4 feet and a surface area of about 100.53 feet, Thomas thought. It oozed forward. Perhaps it was the time for a sacrifice?

"Climb the vines!" someone shouted.

"The vines won't shuck hold you!" Newt yelled. "I would know!" Of course, Thomas thought. Newt had broken his ankle climbing those vines. He must have awful vine-PTSD.

No one else was listening. Minho and Alby dashed to the wall and began climbing the vines, which as Newt pointed out didn't support much human weight. Thomas began dancing the tango in noble hopes of distracting the Griever so the others could run.

The Griever oozed forward, tantalizingly slow. Thomas danced faster, twirling his hips round and round. Newt began backing away, calling for the others to follow. Alby and Minho continued to pull the vines, but those which were stuck to the wall still broke under the boys' weight. You see, strong as plants are, individual vines are very thin.

Thomas was also very light. He grabbed a vine and it held solid, so he swung around like Tarzan, bellowing as he slammed both feet into the Griever's squishy backside. It twitched and jumped around to face him . . . and Alby and Minho, still on the ground. Thomas bellowed victoriously, but the Griever sprung forward with superslug speed. It grabbed onto Alby and began squishing up him, moving seductively back and forth, like the two were entwined in a dance. Alby screamed. Minho screamed too. Newt threw himself on Alby, trying to drag him away from the Griever, but Thomas and Minho pulled him back. There was simply nothing to be done.

"HEEELLP!" Alby shouted. "It's - it's shucking me!"

"Let go!" Newt screamed, still struggling like a madman.

"Oh look!" Thomas exclaimed. "Griever porn!" He held up his camera, but the buttons were slick with sweat from his bare chest, and he couldn't see much in the dark.

Eventually Alby's screams subsided. Eventually he passed out. Eventually Newt broke free and attacked the Griever, but it simply rolled on top of him and continued doing . . . just what it was doing. Eventually dawn came and the Griever left to put on sunscreen.

Newt groaned, rolled over, and retched. Alby was still unconscious. The lot of them were battered and bloody from all that running and watching Alby get shucked by a Griever.

"He's shuck dead, isn't he?" Newt said weakly, stumbling toward Alby. He checked the boy's pulse.

"Feel anything?" Minho said. He was sitting with his back against the wall, hands over his ears. "Is the thing gone?"

Newt didn't reply.

"Um," Thomas said, hesitant to voice his opinions in such a negative crowd. "I hate to say it, but he was sorta asking for that, wasn't he? I mean, he could've climbed the vines, right?"

Newt looked at him slowly, rage filling every crevice of his face. When he spoke, his voice was strained and furious. "I have shuck had it with you -"

"What?" Thomas demanded. This was unfair. "You're allowed to say he's probably dead, and I'm not allowed -"

Unfortunately for Thomas, Newt had meant what he said. With a strange onomatopoeia he ran towards Thomas, tackling him to the ground. Thomas screamed. Newt couldn't do much more before Minho pulled him away.

"Not now!" Minho yelled. "We've gotta take Alby back to the Glade!" Newt stopped fighting; something seemed to deflate within him. Maybe a balloon.

"You're right," he muttered. He turned toward Alby, but his gaze skittered away. Thomas wisely reflected that Newt did not want to look at his friend. He was so good at reading people.

Minho and Newt lifted Alby between them and began the slow walk to the Glade. Thomas laid on the ground for a few moments, happy to get a bit of rest without sounds like the Griever's squishing or Newt not wanting to be sat on. But once their footsteps faded away, he realized he was alone, with no friends, no love, and no one to sacrifice if Ben came back. So he pushed his exhausted body to its feet and began to follow.

It was midday by the time they made it back to the Glade. Everything was much the same, except no one was working. Some, like Chuck, were huddled by the entrance, keeping a silent vigil until their leaders returned. Other motherfuckers like Gally were playing tetherball.

"They're back!" Chuck said, leaping to his feet. Other Gladers rushed forward to take Alby, their voices rushing over Thomas.

"What happened?"

"Is there any Griever porn?"

"That shank's got a camera."

"Are you shanks okay?"

"I thought Ben broke the camera."

"Nah, that was the TV."

"I think Newt and Minho are about to die. Could someone get them water?"

"Did you get stung?"

"Hey! You aren't supposed to spend a night out in the Maze!"

"Everyone shut up!" Newt yelled hoarsely. "Listen: Alby got… attacked… by the Griever. Someone take him to the med-jacks, now." A few nameless Gladers hastened to comply. Newt opened his mouth to continue, but Gally stomped up before he could.

"You," Gally snapped, "Were not supposed to go out there."

"I don't -"

"You have just ruined all of Minho's development. Thomas was supposed to feel shuck brave and Minho was supposed to be shuck there. But no. No, you've gotta come along to see your darling little plot device and have your shuck limp and be shuck emotional or whatever so no one else can do anything."

"Why would you shuck -"

"And this was supposed to be your time to show other traits. More development. Not doing the same shuck thing everyone else does -"

"I don't bloody care!" Newt yelled.

"Yeah!" Thomas echoed. Gally was pathetic. "Just shut your fucking face, Gally, I'm tired and I want to sleep."

Some more words were exchanged, but in Thomas' view, that was the end of that.

Oh, but on the bright side, I recently remembered that they're all named after scientists... oh the bad jokes I will make. Please give me reviews?