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kareofbears · 1 month

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a fragile line, chapter 3/3

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.

read the final chapter below or the entire work on ao3

Gally had never seen Thomas fight, not really. But he's just as ruthless as he'd imagined.

His lungs are on fire, the soles of his feet beginning to burn as they sprint from one end of the WICKED tower to the other, Thomas leading them with a single-minded focus. The only time he slows is to make sure that Newt is still close to him before advancing.

Masks on, boys, Gally told them as they exited the stairwell. They know we're here, but they don't know how to figure out it's us. Let's take this nice and easy and we'll get to the med wing before we know it. That was out the window as soon as Thomas took a step out the door.

The sprinting, Gally doesn't have a problem with. He did have a problem with it, in the beginning, but it was nothing compared to what came after.

The first target was a WICKED soldier who took a step in front of Thomas to stop them. He responded by shooting him in the gut with a stun gun.

Things got out of hand from there.

People started screaming. Some, astutely, turned tail and ran. But soldiers took out their own firearms, cocky and stupid and unaware that Thomas was on a warpath.

Thomas doesn't fight with any particular style or strategy but Gally still recognizes the influence from all over the place—sees Minho in his throws, sees WICKED soldiers in the brutality of his strikes, and surprisingly, sees himself whenever Thomas knocks someone down on their ass. But for the most part, he sees Newt in Thomas' movements, recognizes the false sense of calm and steady movements that coats his every move like the beginnings of a storm.

Thomas tears through their advancing ranks, shattering ranks and letting electric bullets fly from the barrel like it was limitless. Not a moment of hesitation as he mows through soldier after soldier, barely taking a glance before taking a shot. Gally is reminded that he's actually clever when he isn't being a lovestruck idiot. The ways Thomas can conceive of ways to rapidly move people out of the way was terrifying and spectacular; tossing stunners in well-positioned spots, shooting lights out so there's a temporary black out, pushing people over railings and staircases without hesitation.

The soldiers aren't used to fighting someone so fast who fights with such grit and utter lack of consideration—by the time they realize what they're up against, they're already on the ground. The wake of bodies he leaves behind him as they stalk past is a sick gingerbread trail to anyone who dares to follow them. Gally doesn't even bother telling him off. The plan's gone to shit and he can't exactly disagree with Thomas' methods considering how much ground they're covering in a short amount of time. Besides, he doesn't have the urge to see himself caught in the crossfire.

To his credit, none of his hits are lethal. When Thomas eventually runs out of ammo and pulls out a real pistol, he goes for flesh wounds. Organs missed by a mile. But Gally has a sneaking suspicion that is from efficiency than anything else—aiming for something vital might take an extra second. A second that Thomas doesn't seem keen on wasting.

He wasn't concerned with maiming or causing pain. Thomas doesn't want prisoners, no. What he wants is time.

Newt hasn't made a noise except for his constant cacophony of coughs, breaths coming out through tight wheezes. When there's a moment to spare, Gally glances at him. Newt's expression is filled with nothing but curiosity, a devastated kind of awe, and certainty.

He'll never understand these shanks.

They get on the elevator, a jingle playing above them as blood and sweat drip down their bodies.

When they get to the 21st floor, Thomas takes a deep breath, cupping his hands over his mouth as he continues his sprint. "Teresa!"

His voice echoes along WICKED's walls, climbing higher and higher until it peters out to nothing.

"Teresa!" he screams. It sounds like his throat is tearing itself apart. "Get out here!"

A handful of soldiers step out, drawn by the noise, and by the time Gally gets one of them, Thomas is already stepping over three bodies.

"Teresa!"

Newt falls in step with Gally, breathing heavy from running and skin drenched in sweat, he coughs hard enough that he almost loses his balance. "He really wants to find this Teresa girl,” he pants, complexion pale and wan. “Is Tommy alright?”

Gally tries to laugh, but he can’t even muster a smile.

Thomas nearly smashes the med wing's button into pieces, door opening obediently. Emergency lights flash red and yellow, dousing everything in tones that makes it hard to see what's blood and what's not. Even more soldiers greet them, but it seems like they've heard what happened, because they fight with hesitation and unease. They look at Thomas like he's a meteor, an inevitable force of destruction that they have no choice but to meet. At one point, an idiot made an attempt to grab Newt.

The three of them are surging forward before the body hits the ground.

Throughout the bloodshed, Thomas is screaming, again and again, as if he can personally summon Teresa through volume alone. "Teresa—" he calls, but it's nothing but a rasp at this point. Gally sees how his hands clutch at his gun like an anchor, like he'd float away if it was taken from him.

They turn the corner and stop.

His usually spiky hair is flat, his skin is gaunt, his eyes filled with a deep and unmistakable horror that Gally can see from here, but there's denying the bastard who just threw a WICKED soldier straight through glass paneling.

"Minho?" Thomas whispers, taking an unsteady step forward before rushing forward to pull him into a tight hug. "Fuck, man."

Minho turned slowly, shaking so hard it looked like he was vibrating. "Thomas?" he asks, voice brittle and hoarse, as if it hasn't been used in days. "Is this real?"

Gally's chest is threatening to spill over with pure emotion and he can't help but move to grab Minho's shoulder, not quite having the courage to go in for a hug but unable to keep himself distant. "Hey, you dumb shank."

Eyes widening comically, he has to hold Minho steady so he doesn't topple over. "Fucking Gally?"

"Just can't get rid of me, can't you?" Gally grins, and he knows they should get moving, but it just feels so good to have these three within arms reach of him again.

Three?

Gally turns and sees that Newt hasn't moved an inch. He looks pleased, but he looks pleased for them. "You're Minho, yeah?" he asks, the smile he’s attempting falling flat as his face is flushed scarlet, fever truly settling in. "Glad to see you're alive, mate. These two were worried about you."

Gally turns back in time to see the grin slip off Minho's face. "Newt?" he mutters before recognition clicks behind his eyes. Minho pushes Thomas off him with a fury. "You useless shank, you let him get the fucking Flare?

Thomas' eyes harden. "You think I wanted this?" he asks, voice low, the relief melting away for swift anger to take its place.

"What I wanted was for you—" he prods at Thomas' chest, hard. "To take care of that self-sacrificing bastard, and now—"

Newt shoves Minho’s finger away, weak but unwavering. “You don’t get to talk to him like that,” he snaps, ire dripping in every word.

Minho’s flinches and is about to retaliate when Gally cuts in. "Not the fucking time," he hisses. "We gotta go. Thomas here called enough attention for—"

He interrupts himself at the sound of the entrance door sliding open, a plethora of footsteps falling in time with each other. "Shit."

"Spread out." The voice is unmistakably Janson's. "These rats aren't going anywhere. Put this place under lockdown."

The four of them look at each other, tempers momentarily forgotten. "Run?" Newt asks.

Minho takes the lead this time, turning left and right with a confidence that Gally can almost imagine came from running the Maze for years. But despite that, he's not running with the same gait that he had before—there's no injury but he's sluggish and shaky, none of the easy confidence that Gally had associated him with.

He skids to a stop as soldiers approach him, and when they attempt to backpedal, more soldiers flank them from behind.

"Oh, shit."

Thomas grabs the handle to the door behind them and forces it open. "In here!"

They scramble in and with Minho's help, close the door off with a built-in locking pole. With the way they're banging and slamming on the metal, it wasn't going to last long.

Gally swivels around to take in the room. It looks nothing more than an average storage unit, file cabinets and medical supplies littering the shelves that go up into the ceiling. The wall opposite to them is sheer glass, overlooking the beautiful landscape of the Last City.

"Now, I may be under the impression that I'm losing my marbles," Newt starts, and relief washes through him. Newt may be losing huge swathes of his memories, but at least he's not hostile. "But I think we have a few violent bastards on our tail and we're bloody stuck in what looks like a shitty doctor's clinic."

"You used to be the optimistic one, Newt," Minho grits out.

"Can't be the judge of what I used to be, mate."

"Minho," Thomas and Gally offer in unison.

"That's what you're focusing on?"

Gally turns to glare at him. Can you quit joking around? sitting just behind his teeth. But what he sees is Newt leaning against the wall next to the door, sucking in deep breaths like he can't get enough. Black lines trail from his pulse points and crawl up to his cranium, temples lined with black as if they were sweat trails, and he barely looks like he can stay on his feet. His retort dies in his throat. Even now, always jokes, always humor.

"Newt," Thomas grabs his shoulders, peering closely at his face. "Talk to me."

“I’m fine,” he tries, but can’t even make it through his own words before he turns sideways, spitting more black liquid onto the floor. “Fine. Just fine.”

“Come on,” Thomas shakes him, insistent. “Try again.”

"Not sure what I can say, Tommy," he breathes, smile still plastered on. "Other than I'm feeling—not my best—"

"I know," he drops his forehead to Newt's for a moment. "I know. Almost, okay?"

Newt nods and Thomas pulls back, expression drenched in vitriol. Without saying a word, Thomas grabs what looks like a helium tank, and spins, using the momentum to lift it off the ground.

Gally and Minho, fully aware of Thomas' nonsensical plans at this point, just barely moves out of the way as he throws the tank straight through the window. The three of them watch as it falls, and falls, and falls, before landing clean into a deep, decorative pool, twenty-one stories below them.

Thomas looks at them expectantly. "You'll survive."

Minho gapes at him. "You're fucking kidding me."

"It's either this—" he gestures through the broken window. "Or that." The banging on the door ceases for a moment, before something that sounds horribly like a chain being started up rings out.

Thomas marches over and grabs Newt. "You two go first," he tells them. "Then we'll jump."

"Why do you get Newt?" Gally demands.

"Because if someone gets Newt, then one of you gets stuck with me."

He can't argue with that.

Minho gives Gally an odd look. "You take care of these bastards while I was gone?"

"Not like I had much of a choice."

Despite everything, he barks out a laugh. "You're alright, man."

Kicking the remaining glass out of the way, Gally and Minho nod at each other before taking a step forward, knees bent, ready to run, to jump.

He hears it before he sees it.

It's a particular sound. Newt, had he been in the right state, probably would have recognized it right away. Gally knows the sound, has broken through enough door to know the satisfying, final crunch of a lock giving up and a door sliding open.

Janson enters, eyes ablaze and stun gun cocked, eyes scanning the four of them before landing on Thomas.

Unexpectedly, Newt lets out a deep, guttural sound that almost has Gally covering his ears. It's unnervingly animalistic, violent, predatory. Inhumane. "No."

With a speed that's faster than Thomas and a strength that outstrips Minho on a good day, he launches himself directly at Janson.

Time slows down.

Minho, carried forward by his own momentum, is out of the window and can only look back at the scene in pure horror as he dives.

Newt and Janson brawl it out, Janson clearly unprepared for Newt but holding his own well enough to pull out a dagger from his back pocket.

Thomas is immediately surrounded by soldiers, screaming for Newt, arms outstretched as he gets pinned down, sections of his body aglow as he gets tased repeatedly. Just before he loses consciousness, Thomas cranes his neck at Gally, gaze loaded.

It's like he was back in the Maze again, watching as Grievers stormed into the Glade, sees his Gladers get picked off one by one and he can only fit so many of them in the Box.

Thomas would be dead weight, surrounded by three soldiers. Newt might be truly Cranking out, but he can still be convinced, and he's only against Janson. It's obvious. The choice is obvious. Not only that, but Thomas is basically handing the answer to him on a silver platter.

Still mid-jump, Gally grabs the window paneling and, using all the strength he has, redirects his momentum to swivel back into the room and sends a punch directly into a WICKED soldier's jaw.

Fuck Thomas.

With a hardened fury in his core, he kicks Janson in the abdomen, sending him sprawling out onto the floor.

Fuck Newt.

A gun cocks behind him and Gally doesn't think twice before ramming the guy straight into the wall, fumbling for the gun and throwing it out the window, hoping it doesn't hit Minho on the way down.

He's done choosing who lives or dies. He's tired of being full of grief for people who are still alive.

Someone gets a good blow in his ribs, and he hisses before he pulls out a pocket knife, sinking it deep into the guy's lungs before kicking him down.

Dammit, he misses his friends.

There's someone who's still tasing Thomas, and his vision blurs red as he grabs the taser and forcibly twists it until the man is tasing himself, over and over, until he finally collapses.

And now that he has them back, they're expecting him to choose between them? To become the executioner, when that's the only thing he refused to be back in the Glade?

Gally doubles over as someone gets another hit on him, this time in the back of his head, and the knife slips out of his hands. That's fine; The knife was getting blunt anyway. He straightens up, feels blood trickling down his nape, and squares with the soldier in front of him, fist raised. They all have their specialty—Gally's just happens to be hand-to-hand.

In ten seconds flat, the guy's on his ass, sporting two black eyes and a missing tooth.

Janson groans somewhere on the ground and Gally's about to shoot him straight through the skull when he hears the footfalls of more soldiers on the way. This irritating bastard has all the luck.

Gally spots Thomas, knocked out clean, hunched over on the floor. Newt's bent over on his knees, barely conscious, holding onto the corner of the desk like it's the only thing keeping him up. His cheekbones are bruised badly and purple fingerprints around his neck that have Gally gritting his teeth. "Newt, buddy?"

No response. Only erratic breathing sounds in the room, with the footfalls getting closer and closer.

Brute force it is. This is gonna suck.

He starts with Thomas. Sinking into a squat, he picks up Thomas with a grunt and tries tossing him onto his back, accidentally dropping him. This shank is a lot heavier than he looks. Clenching his jaw, he tries again, successfully catching his weight by holding him up by the waist. "You owe me, Greenie," he mutters, with a wry smile.

Newt's a lot easier. "I'm going to carry you," he warns him, because Newt's really the only one who's earned his kindness. "Don't Crank out on me, man."

With one arm, he pulls Newt up, relieved for his slender form, and starts dragging the three of them out the window, sweat pouring from every inch of his skin from the effort. For a second, he wonders if they would have done the same with him when they left the Maze, if they weren't taken by WICKED so soon. Would they have left him then? Would they leave him now?

It doesn't really matter. He'd do it for them, anyway.

He looks down. Twenty-one stories. Okay.

Squinting, he can just make out Minho, wading out of the water and going towards—

Gally's eyes widen as he spots a bus. A bus. The bus. Relief is so strong it almost chokes him. There’s people down there, waiting for them. Rooting for them.

He can’t fail now.

The footsteps are practically on top of them, and there's no time to waste. Nerves threaten to fray but he ignores it, steeling his hold on both of them until he's certain he can't slip from his grasp. Thomas on one side, Newt on the other. Gally bends his knees and—

A gun cocks behind them.

Not a stunner. A live pistol.

Janson, that fucker.

“As a gift, I’ll let you leave,” Janson tells him. His breathing is labored, and it sounds like every word is a struggle. “I’ll let you jump out of that window. I’ll even give you a head start before I send my men after you. In return, you leave Thomas on the ground.”

Gally doesn’t turn around. He can’t jump faster than Janson can shoot. Despite the ache in his arms, he doesn’t move to adjust the boys in his arms. Can’t reach for a weapon. “Thomas getting the special treatment, as always,” he responds eventually.

“Drop him.”

“Can’t do that, man.”

Janson fires at the ceiling, and Gally can’t hide the full-body flinch that courses through him. In his arms, Newt lets out a rasp, a slur of incomprehensible words, focus flickering back into his eyes.

“I was being kind, you know. But now,” he hears Janson take another step, glass crunching underneath his boots. “I’m just sick of you kids.”

“Let me go,” Newt grates out, almost inaudible. “Gally. Let me go.”

“Shut up,” he says sharply. He can’t deal with this right now. “No altruism for five fucking minutes.”

“I don’t know you, but you know me.” Newt twists his neck, imploring and urgent. “Trust me.”

“I do know you, and I know you’ll probably do something stupid.”

“I won’t, I can’t,” he insists, eyes darting to Thomas’ unconscious face. “Take him and jump. I’ll be there.”

“And if you’re not, then what?”

Newt only gives him a helpless look. “I’ll be there,” he repeats.

Gally grits his teeth, frustrated and bitter and so, so exhausted of having his choices dwindle again and again no matter what he does. Stop, he wants to implore him. Stop trying to leave us.

Instead of answering, he subtly nods, nothing more than a twitching of his head, before letting go of his hold on Newt.

It’s strange how the Flare affects its victims. Death, the obvious one. Darkened veins and memory loss, heightened strength and rage. But what’s strangest of all is its speed.

Newt moves almost faster than Gally can follow, hurling towards Janson like a comet. Dodges the first shot, dodges the second.

A speed that’s monstrous, inhumane, yet is identical to that of Thomas. As if he can’t look at Newt at his worst and see Thomas, over and over; a body and its shadow, inseparable in every way.

Gally doesn’t hesitate. He jumps, Thomas in his arms, and hears a third shot, imploring the universe that Newt dodged that one, too.

“Jump, Newt!” Gally screams, begs, as they fall, wind whooshing in his ears until he can barely hear himself. Grief, once again, threatens to eat him alive. “Please.”

—

He doesn't even feel the impact when they hit the water. His body was cold longer before the landing.

It's only his body's instinct that has him kicking his feet, tightening his hold on Thomas as he all but seeps the very last bit of his energy to take them to the surface.

Are they alive?

It’s that question that gets him moving again, to go past his limits and drag Thomas’ body up, up, up, until someone dives in and grabs Gally and Thomas by their harness and drags them up to the surface. When they break free, Gally gasps, sucking in the air that his lungs are begging for.

Brenda’s dragging him to the edge of the pool. "Missing one,” she gasps, hair flat and breathing hard to the point where she can only let out a few words at a time. “Where?”

"Janson came in—" Gally had to stop, air too scarce in his lungs to speak. “Self-sacrificing idiot. Said he’ll jump—”

Still holding onto the two of them, she wades to the edge of the pool where Minho was pacing, droplets falling with every move he makes. "Newt?" he demands.

Gally pulls himself out and points up, trying to calm the shake to his voice. “Any minute now.”

They haul Thomas onto the concrete first, Gally pulling himself up. They crane their necks, seeing only blackness through the broken window. From this distance, they can’t hear anything even if they strain. “Should we go up there?” Brenda asks anxiously.

Minho shakes his head. “It would be too late.”

“Don’t say that,” Gally interjects, unblinking as he refuses to tear his gaze away from the dark square above them. “It’s Newt. He said he’ll jump.”

“He said he’ll try,” she rebukes. “Right? There’s a difference.”

Minho's eyes flash with pain. "Does—" he glances at Thomas. "Does he know?"

Gally shakes his head.

They all fall silent.

"Shit," Brenda says, summing up their thoughts.

It was at that moment that Thomas' eyes fluttered open. "Newt?" he rasps before he can even take a full breath.

In a moment of hope, or stupidity, or a sliver of childishness that he just can’t get rid of, Gally expects Newt to come flying out of the window.

Instead, silence reigns.

"Newt." Sitting up, he grips Gally's neck, voice low and sinister. "Where is he?"

Gally swallows, and opens his mouth to answer, when the speakers blare out a tune. An announcement.

It was at that moment that he knew Newt wasn't jumping down. A dull ache, the sharp blade of truth. Wave after wave of grief, and in this moment, he drowns.

"Thomas," Janson's voice rings out, brooding yet tinged with amusement. "I hope you enjoyed the lovely swim just now. You kids are just so clever, now aren't you?"

Thomas' grip on Gally slackens as utter horror eclipses his face. "No," he whispers. "Please, no."

"But you can’t leave. Not without him." Janson goes on, and he actually lets out a laugh this time. "Newt? The Crank? You do know how to pick them, don't you?"

Unsteadily, Thomas gets on his feet, staring at the sky, like Newt would be written in the skies, somewhere.

"It's simple. I want you to come back here, alone, and I'll consider giving him back to you. How does that sound?"

"Thomas," Brenda mutters. “Don’t.”

"If I find out that you brought anyone along—any of your little rats for pals, vermin for allies. Well, I suppose your Newt here won't have much time left, either way." A pause, as if he was savoring the moment. "You have half an hour."

The tune plays again before the world falls back into quiet.

Gally closes his eyes, mind spinning as adrenaline shoots through every inch of his body, like it was preparing to fight. But there’s no fight—that would be too easy, a mercy, to use his fists or knives or guns for this. Words are not his weapon to wield. That’s always been Newt’s, Thomas’. The way they can embroider syllables into tapestries of new meanings, can twist and embellish a conversation until it’s in an entirely new direction. He can’t do that.

But fuck, he said he’s going to care. And this is care.

Squaring his shoulders, he faces Thomas. “I’m going with you.”

Either Thomas doesn’t hear him or chooses not to. He goes to a nearby WICKED soldier, unconscious and half-sunk into the pool, and rummages through his pockets, shoving various items into his own. His movements are efficient, clinical.

"You can't go alone," he insists. "It’s a trap.You’ll die, he’ll die. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Thomas’ response is picking up a stun gun and checking its voltage, nodding to himself.

Gally clenches his jaw. "I know you don’t want to test Janson’s threat. I know what Newt means to you. But Thomas, if you go, you're dead. You get that?"

No response.

“Newt would die. For nothing.”

Thomas turns to him, face contorted and eyes bright with tears, unspeaking

“And it would be your fault.”

It was like all the air around them was sucked away, with how Thomas gasps and begins clawing at his own throat. He collapses onto his knees, hard, holding so tightly to the gun that it seemed almost an extension of him.

Gally sits next to him, his joints screaming in relief at the momentary respite. “You’ll let us come?”

Instead of answering, Thomas reaches into his breast pocket and hands Gally the note.

Gingerly, he plucks it from his fingers. It’s wet, on the verge of ripping, but still intact against all odds. With a delicate tug, it reveals Newt’s careful calligraphy staining the page:

To Newt,

Don’t be a twat to this one—Tommy is the love of your life.

Your Crank self, Newt

“A note,” Thomas finally says, the rhythm of his words are cut with unsteady pauses like the first few droplets before a raging typhoon. “If a note is the only thing I have to remember Newt by...”

The implication enters Gally as if through a vein, the reality settling into his bones.

Thomas isn’t going to change his mind.

Minho marches forward, pulls the note from his hands, crumples it up, and throws it into the pool. Somewhere behind them, Brenda lets out a slew of shocked expletives. Thomas only stares at where it steadily sinks underneath the water.

Grabbing Thomas by the forearm, he pulls him up, getting right in his face. "Listen to me, you dumb idiot,” Minho spits, harsh and violent, like it would be enough to erase his own despair. “I've been gone awhile, I know, but I'm going with you to help Newt. I'm saving him. A note? To remember him by? There’s no fucking way I heard that right, because that sounds like you’re giving up.." He shakes him roughly. "Are you giving up?"

Thomas slowly looks up at Minho. "Never.”

“Good—”

“If a note is the only thing I have to remember Newt by,” his expression is almost calm. “Then you can stop worrying about me. You never have to worry about me again.”

Minho pauses, suddenly unsure.

“If I go alone," Thomas says in that same strange tone. "You'll stop me?"

"Yes, obviously—"

Quicker than he can process, Thomas pulls up his stunner and tugs on the trigger on Minho. He collapses on the ground, seizing, before he stills.

Gally stares down at Minho’s unconscious face and can’t muster surprise. Cold dread coats his nape.

“Thomas—” Brenda starts. Scared, Gally notes idly. She’s scared.

He turns to her, expressionless. "Put him on the bus. Take him to Fry, with the kids."

She's about to speak, but he shakes his head. "You can't leave him here." And, with a stillness and poise that he isn't used to seeing on Thomas, he points to stunner on Gally. "You chose me?" he whispers, words edged with a silent fury. "When you promised you'd choose him?"

Gally clenches his jaw. "I chose both of you," he admits. "But Newt—he saw an opportunity and he—"

Thomas' mouth twists and his features form into something oddly, gut-wrenchingly familiar. It's the exact same look that Newt has whenever he loses his memory, just before he loses himself to something that’s definitely unhuman. “Thanks. For everything until now” Thomas takes a deep breath. “But you can’t come, Gally. I can’t risk losing him. You know I can’t.”

It’s a concession, almost. It comes as a sudden truth that Thomas isn't doing this because he hates Gally. He's doing this to save Newt. And for that, Gally finds that he can't really fault him in doing this.

The pull of a trigger, and every inch of Gally's body is encompassed by wave after wave of electric current, until his vision falls into a blissful dark.

#the maze runner #fic tag #newt #maze runner #TMR #thomas/newt #newtmas #a fragile line #:) man! another fic done!#this has been a really good writing year so far #nothing like a good light hair/dark hair pairing to get me to up the word count eh #uhhh maybe check the authors note on this one from ao3 #💀💀💀

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