Disclaimer: I do not own the bloody Maze Runner series. Nor do I own the characters therein. I just own what I'm wearing and this laptop I'm typing on.

Contrary to popular opinion, the first sense that returned to his consciousness was not hearing but proprioception. He was floating, hanging like a planet in the vastness of space. A thick, mucousy fluid filled the space around him, except for a mask that covered his nose and mouth, delivering puffs of humid air that tasted vaguely medicinal. He moved his hands against the fluid, and it parted, slower than water but not immovable. What felt like tubes twisted around him, impeding his progress, but he only stopped when he came in contact with a hard, smooth surface. As his hands brushed over it, his breath hitched in his throat at a sudden realization. He was completely enclosed.

A methodical pounding slowly came to his attention and he realized that it was the sound of his own beating heart, loyally keeping him alive although he had almost forgotten it was there. Frowning as more whirrs and clicks appeared out of the darkness, he began to wonder why his vision remained so resolutely obscured. He tried to blink, but couldn't – something was holding his eyes shut.

A deafening ringing sounded around him as a sudden pain in his head brought back a burst of memory.

Thomas. My name is Thomas.

The muscles in his face contorted against the intensifying pain and he fought the urge to curl in on himself.

A flash of light singed his retinas as he remembered again.

Minho. Teresa. Brenda.

Newt.

He screamed, the pain streaking like lightning down his limbs, but the mental torture was worse. For one solitary moment, he had forgotten. His mind had been tranquil and free of the one thing that he had wanted to forget the most – and now it was brought again to the forefront of his mind while he was trapped in this living hell, his only option to remember.

The all-consuming pain burst just as he had thought he was finally going to be allowed to die. In his mind, a single fact appeared before his vision, the image so strong that he swore he saw the afterburn of it dancing across the inside of his eyelids.

WICKED IS GOOD.

Thomas' blood chilled and his heart skipped a beat as he remembered. They had been trying to escape, once and for all. To end the catastrophe. The last moment he remembered was running through the Flat-Trans with Minho, leaving Teresa behind... dead.

But they had caught him again. It was the only way to explain how he had woken up in this cage, being held against his will.

NO.

He wouldn't let them. He refused to let them win. Thomas pounded his fists against the metal walls that surrounded him, but quickly realized that it was useless. Something had changed, they had done something to his body. He felt weak and sluggish, the gel making it difficult to move and his muscles aching at the slightest exertion. He tried again and again, desperately forcing himself to ignore the stabbing pain biting into his arms and legs.

He gave up, limbs sagging in defeat. There was no point. If he was once again in WICKED's grasp, they would never let him go. They never had. Despite all his efforts, somehow, they always found him again.

In the back of his mind, he registered a frantic beeping noise and what sounded like shouting coming from outside his cell. But he was too exhausted to care. He knew that there was nothing he could do. They wouldn't even grant him the dignity of death.

"His heart rate is coming back down."

"Good. He should be here any minute. Just keep him stable until he gets here, then we can open him up."

Thomas floated in the darkness, listening to the conversation that seemed to come from nowhere, and decided that if he ever got out of this tomb, he would find a way to die. WICKED or no WICKED, he was determined, and he would make it happen. He had let the Trials go far enough – they had taken his life, but they would not take the freedom of death from him too.

His mouth quirked in a half-smile as a flash of memory filtered through his razor-filled, poison-coated thoughts like the last glimpse of the sun before a storm.

It was his mother. She was speaking softly... telling him about his father. His father, who wasn't immune, who was a Crank, who was going to be past the Gone soon. Her mouth was thinly drawn in the sort of smile that spoke of soul-deep exhaustion, but her eyes were determined. She had a purpose in mind. Her lips formed comforting words, telling Thomas that Death was nothing to fear... that Death was only a pathway to another life, where we would be reunited with the loved ones who had gone before us.

Thomas exhaled slowly. He was ready. After all, if he died, it only meant he could see his parents again. And his friends. Chuck. Teresa. Newt. He could apologize.

I am so sorry for failing you...

His eyes burned and prickled. He squeezed them shut to avoid letting the tears escape, but he felt the moisture slip from his eyes as if in rebellion against his last attempt at dignity.

Forgive me–

A sharp alarm blared in his ears, louder than anything he could remember hearing in his entire life. A soft woosh sounded from beneath him, and the gel around him begin to swirl down into a vent that had opened underneath his feet. He struggled to pull his arms out of the slippery liquid and gasped as he realized just how weak he was without the gel there to support him. A sliver of frighteningly cool air hit his skin and color – color! – he had begun to think he'd gone blind. Swirling golden-yellow spots scorched his eyes through his eyelids, but they were more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen. Thomas felt his heart race at the sudden exposure, knowing that he was quickly approaching another encounter with the people who put him through this hell. This was his only chance to end it all. But what if they didn't let him? What if they killed him before he could make the choice himself?

"Calm down there, A2." A voice right in front of him startled him into a panic. He raised his arms to pull at the strange device covering his mouth, wanting to ask questions, wanting to know what the hell they thought they were doing to him –

"You need to calm down. We're not going to hurt you, just breath slowly, okay?"

But Thomas couldn't seem to pull in air fast enough. His lungs ached for oxygen and he sucked it in as fast as the machine over his nose and mouth could supply it.

No, no, no, no, I won't let you have me again, I'm done, I'm done, I'm done...

Darkness on the edges of his vision encroached on the new found light, and he hoped it meant death was coming. Death was what he wanted.

"I need some help in here!"

Panicked voices shouted around him, rapidly spouting technical jargon back and forth along with obvious profanities.

"Where is A5?!"

Thomas' head lolled forward and his body sagged against the restraints. His vision flickered uncertainly.

Please, let this be the end...

Then he heard it, and he knew he must be dead.

"Tommy?"

The frantic beeping began to slow. Gentle hands grasped Thomas' arms.

"It's okay, Tommy. It's gonna be okay. Slim yourself, shank."

His vision began to return and he saw shadows shift around him as the hands pulled his mask off, and then moved to his arms. Tiny pinpricks of pain stung his inner elbows, but he was too tired to flinch or even wonder what had been done to him. The hands moved to release him from the restraints and Thomas braced his legs to stand, but they were so weak that as soon as he was released they buckled under him helplessly.

A pair of strong arms caught him before he could hit the floor.

"Easy now. You're gonna be pretty weak at first. Hang on to me for now, alright?"

Thomas did so, grasping onto the warm and sturdy shoulder that he knew couldn't be as real as it felt. He shuffled forward a few feet, and then to the side and backwards, guided by the ghost. Soon the back of his knees hit something soft, and he sat down reflexively onto what felt like a bed.

The hands holding him steady suddenly disappeared and his heart leaped into his throat. White-knuckled, he gripped the starchy sheets underneath him.

"D-don't le-eave." The words tore out of his throat, and he bent over as a bout of coughing exploded in his chest like firecrackers.

"I'm not leaving you, Tommy."

A glass was pressed into his hand. He sniffed it, and took a sip – water – then downed the contents all at once, belatedly realizing how thirsty he was. Someone took the empty glass from his hands as he sat there, breathing in and out and trying to keep from having another coughing fit.

"Alright, stay still now. I'm gonna take the tape off your eyelids."

Careful fingers picked at the edges of the tape until it came free, peeling it slowly off of Thomas' face. He didn't wince even as the adhesive pulled at the thin skin around his eyes, but once the light fully hit them, he couldn't help but cover them with his hands.

"Sorry, they're going to be a bit sensitive for a while."

Thomas sat there, mind whirling and eyes aching. A numbness had filled his head, and he had no idea what to think or what to do. The hands were back, taking his arms one by one and applying a cold, wet solution to the pinprick areas. It stung momentarily, but then faded until Thomas couldn't even feel it. He began to shiver, suddenly realizing that he only had on a thin pair of shorts, still wet from the chamber he'd been in. Only moments later, a blanket was draped across his shoulders, and he pulled it around himself silently, not able to bring himself to speak again yet. But after several moments of silence, he finally pulled together the courage to ask the question that had consumed his thoughts since he first heard the voice.

"Newt?" The word that he had avoided for so long felt like agony on his tongue and came out as the barest of whispers. He didn't know if he wanted to hear the reply. Either way, he knew the truth.

"Yeah, Tommy. It's me."

He could hear the smile in the voice as a hand encircled his own, squeezing comfortingly, and his heart broke all over again.

"You're dead." He felt the tears coming on and he fought against them, pulling his hand away, trying to distance himself from the pain that was burning his mind alive. He couldn't bring himself to look up. No matter who's face he saw, it wouldn't be him. It wasn't real. It could never be real. It was just another way for WICKED to hurt him, to give him hope and then crush him with it. And he wouldn't give them that satisfaction again.

"I'm not." The voice became quieter and streaked with guilt. "Tommy, I'm not, I'm right here."

Thomas' face became a mask of steel.

"My name is Thomas. And my friend Newt is dead."