Ghosts that Linger Chapter 1: A Stranger's Story, a maze runner trilogy fanfic

AN: Please read the following so that you're fully aware of what you're going into. If any of the warnings or notes upset or bother you, please do not force yourself to continue.

1. This is movie-verse, using the film's continuity, pacing and version of events. It mainly happens a few months after TST and before TDC begins (assuming, as Wes Ball has said, that a year passes between the two).
2. It is not a light story (though some moments may be). It is a short story primarily written to explore the harshness of Dashner's world. If you're familiar with my other TMR fanfic, you know I like realism and this world fascinates me. This story was an experiment in narration, tone and development and a study on the impact of death, grief and choices. Like Eden Switch, this is primarily about people. It looks at a number of themes and topics surrounding death and difficult decisions. If any of the tags are upsetting, don't force yourself to stay.
3. It is told in present tense, third person limited narration. It was a bit of an exploration in story writing tools (this is expanded in notes at the end). Thomas tells the story but it isn't really about him. I know OCs don't always go down well, but I hope that won't put you off giving it a try. The point of this is to expand the world by showing you strangers, and how the Scorch is affecting them, not just the people you already know.
4. Finally:

This story was written with two endings. Both of them were always going to be written and neither one is correct or official over the other. There will be 3 chapters total - the endings posted separately from the point they diverge.

The question I really want to ask (and would love anyone to answer) is - which ending do you prefer and why?

It takes weeks from when they first receive the fragmented radio transmission before they reach the landmark that identifies the camp.

There are no seasons in the Scorch, but it has been months since the fire fight with WCKD in the mountains. Months since Ava Paige, Jansen and Teresa took to the sky with Sonya, Minho and so many others. Living day to day is weary and hard earned, but purpose drives them forwards.

It's been nearly as long since they last knew of a thriving community in the burned out wasteland. So when they heard the transmission, the decision was easy. Just a few days to recuperate, re-supply and reassure themselves they were not the last ones left.

…

"We're so glad you're here," Lili says, giving them a watery smile. "It's been so long since Jorge sent the message…we weren't sure you were all going to make it."

Thomas glances to his right, shares a look with Newt. He can tell from the steady, shuttered look in his brown eyes that they're on the same page, as usual. This place may seem welcoming and friendly, but they have to be careful as always, at least for now. Trust is either fire-forged or hard won these days. And they don't know these people.

Thomas swallows and looks back up at the woman who introduced herself as Lili.

She looks wan and stressed; her dark hair greying prematurely at the temples and sun-bleached at the ends. She's wearing a motley assortment of what seems to be typical Scorch clothes, just like everyone else they've come across in this barren world. They consist of whatever threadbare, fraying and available apparel can be found that sort of fits; whatever covers enough to protect your skin from turning raw and blistering under the heat.

Thomas then silently takes stock of this new encampment.

They've taken over what remains of a lopsided factory that was destroyed by more than the desert pouring in. It may have even been bombed. One wall is almost entirely missing, the edges ragged and crumbling, exposing rebar and rusting pipe work. The area is littered with stone and rubble; the smallest the size of a football and the largest bigger than an average car, dust, steel pipes and eroded pieces of machinery cleared back only where people have to regularly walk. The open side leads straight into a high street that has been constructed from crudely made tents, lining a sandy strip. Dust billows between the flaps, the sun beating down, and people shuffle around between the forlorn structures, going about their chores.

Lili has come to greet them, but behind her a thriving community bustles about. The oldest member looks to be a pensioner and Thomas spots a small boy who can't be older than six go running from a mangled, metal fire escape and into the bright sunlight of the outdoor camp.

While he's taking it in, Lili has been observing right back.

"You're Thomas, aren't you?" she asks him.

There's that spark of hope in her eyes that Thomas has started to recognise in the people who meet him. He first saw it in Vince, when Mary announced he had been their source – but he hadn't recognised it then. And now he sort of wishes he didn't. It feels like a weight – an expectation – too heavy for him to bear.

But he nods, once.

"You're hurt," she says.

He'd forgotten.

"There was an attack, leaving the city limit," Jorge says from behind them. His voice is rough, like the words have to scrape their way out. "We got free, but a few of them were beaten up by the rubble."

"Anyone infected?"

"No," Jorge answers, and it's a strong, absolute response. No one even makes a whisper of a movement behind Thomas, and he knows that no one even glanced Brenda's way to betray her condition. Technically she isn't infected at the moment anyway.

Lili just nods.

"Come this way. Our first stop is the infirmary – its no WCKD Medic bay, but we have supplies."

Thomas feels eyes turn to him, seeking guidance. He can feel Newt's and Frypan's like a familiar weight, trying to gauge his expression; Brenda's burn into his back. Jorge is patient but hopeful, Vince wary. The others all kind of blend together, expectant and uncertain.

But he's no leader. Not really. He doesn't want these people's lives on his shoulders just as much as he does need their help – so he steps towards Lili without acknowledging they're waiting on him.

They follow anyway.

Lili turns to walk with him, and they trudge, weary and aching away from the slanting light from the broken gap, further into the factory.

The old machinery is still intact in some places; great pipes and levers that take up space and line the stone sides. In other places, the piping is riddled with bullet holes, rusty equipment smeared with old, flaked blood and metal framework crushed underneath chunks of rock the size of cars.

The walk isn't a great distance. Finally they stop in a shadowy corridor where Lili points out another missing wall. This one has been covered by a huge, heavy tarpaulin that has a flap cut into it. There's a halo of golden, glowing light around the edges which tells them that this goes back outside, too. Dust motes are ignited in the dark hall from the sliver of the desert beyond.

Lili strides over and pulls back the flap, gesturing them onward. "Go ahead."

It's more weariness than trust, but Thomas ducks inside.

The infirmary is a huge tent made from a patchwork of fabrics that are secured against another part of the factory. The weight of the tarps cause a drape to the slanted roof and the burning sun glows through so that the air inside feels stuffy and golden.

There's an assortment of old camping cots, duct-taped air mattresses and palettes softened by scrap cloth for the patients to lay on. While it is definitely no WCKD medical centre - thankfully lacking that distinctly 'you're never leaving here alive' feel - they do seem to have accumulated a decent amount of usable equipment. Cabinets with dented sides, steel tables with broken wheels and floor standing lamps. They're all clustered in the middle, ready for emergencies.

A middle aged man two beds down is having his arm put into a sling and on the other side a mother soothes a lanky pre-teen girl as her ankle is wrapped in cloth.

There's only one other bed occupied, and Thomas' eyes are drawn to the stillness there.

His steps falter, and he finds himself moving over slower than before. He can't feel the pressing of the others at his back anymore as he moves between the beds, leaving them warily clustered near the entrance.

The girl has been laid down on her back, and her chest just barely rises and falls with each breath. There's no movement under her eyelids, her fingers don't twitch.

Despite the blank, serene expression, she looks like a broken bird. One arm rests along her body, upturned with a catheter providing fluids from a drip bag suspended next to her by what looks like a twisted banister rail. A thin plastic tube rests across her face, arranged just under her nose and feeds up from a dirt-smudged compression tank that says 'Oxygen'. The other arm is cast across her stomach, like someone dropped it in a hurry. She can't be any older than the Gladers – eighteen at best – with a slim build and long sunny hair that it looks like someone's been brushing for her.

"That's Claire."

Lili's voice is right behind him, and Thomas realises he's walked the length of the tent and is stood at the end of the small cot. Behind them, the group are taking seats on the empty beds, slowly remembering and taking notice of their cuts and grazes.

"What happened to her?" Thomas asks. His voice cracks as he speaks, scratches against the roof of his mouth; it's been a while since he used it for anything other than panicked screams and shouts.

Lili sinks onto the cramped cot by Claire's legs, taking the slack hand that rested across her waist. There's no response. Her fingers are delicate and pale, clean under the fingernails. But there are small, healing scratches and scars around the knuckles and a callus on the thumb; she's not a stranger to work. There's a patch of shiny, pink skin just curling around the edge of her hand by the little finger.

She was burned.

"Cranks attacked one of our raiding parties. Claire and Flynn had just found a group of people hiding out in one of the wrecks. They got them out, but they were being chased. Flynn won't talk about it much – he just comes in here to sit with her. I don't really know what happened, but he said she turned back to hold them off; set off a bomb and it took her down in the fallout.

"She never woke up."

Thomas' eyes turn from the still girl to Lili, hearing the tremor in her voice. Before he can ask, Lili forces a smile through the tears in her eyes and nods up at him.

"She saved three lives and she has no idea. Flynn carried her back."

"When did she…?"

"Nearly two weeks ago," Lili says. It comes out barely above a whisper, a touch fearful, like saying it aloud is admitting it.

And Thomas gets it.

With the limited supplies to hand, and even the newer technology ravaged by the Scorch, this camp just can't hope to support a comatose patient long term. If she doesn't wake up soon, she really never will. They just don't have any other options.

Lili's gaze is full of a heartbreaking gravity.

She knows this just as well as him – maybe more. "Connor won't let anyone pull the drip out," she says. And it's not an explanation, but at the same time, it is.

She sets down Claire's hand, resting it back at her side.

Thomas' eyes are drawn back down to the lick of black stained into the pale skin and he sinks onto the bed next to hers, reaching out for her wrist before he's processed it.

The sweater she's wearing has worn soft; a dense wool that looks oversized on her frame and is easily brushed up her arm, out of the way.

Lili just gives a sad smile as the tattoo comes into view.

It's a set of five musical bars that run up the inside of her forearm, littered not with notes, but with tiny bird silhouettes. The lines run alongside the tendons until they flare apart like the strings have been snapped, setting the birds free; some inked in flight, wing tips reaching towards the inside of her elbow.

"She's always had it," Lili says without being prompted, almost like she's wanted someone there to tell. "Said it meant something to her, but she never told me what. There's so much about her I don't know – I just know she's quick and she's smart and she was always effective."

"You don't think she'll wake up," Thomas says, speaking to the tattoo, eyes on the birds still perched on the bars.

Lili's breath catches. "I think the longer it takes, the worse it gets, but I don't know what else to do. Eventually, it'll be…kinder…to let her…"

Lili doesn't finish, but she doesn't have to.

Thomas nods stiffly.

"Who is Connor?"

There's a second of silence, and Thomas looks up, only to realise he's surprised the woman.

"You said Connor won't let anyone remove the drip," he prompts.

Lili opens her mouth, but before she says anything, there's a shout from behind them.

Ice bolts through Thomas' spine, tension rippling across his shoulders and he drops Claire's arm, twisting around, fingers reaching to his hip without conscious thought and skimming the warm metal of the .22 gun holstered there.

But they're not being attacked.

There's a young boy racing down the infirmary towards them; the same boy Thomas spotted when they arrived – he looks barely six; both too full of life and irreparably haunted by it. His skin is tanned and freckled by the Scorch, his hair dark and curling against his neck. He wields a blunted toy sword, made from slotted together pieces of plywood, probably designed for his tiny size, and he skids to a stop when he's put himself between Claire's still body and Thomas.

He's so small but his chest is puffed out and he scowls with none of the playfulness you'd expect in a child his age. His eyes are fierce with defiance and determination even as they shine with tears he won't cry and his hand shakes on his sword.

"No!" he says, loud enough for some of the Gladers to look over uncertainly. Vince looks nothing short of affronted. "No, you can't! Lili, you can't!"

"Hush, Sweetie," Lili soothes him, placing a hand on his shoulder that is both comforting and authoritative. "We're not doing anything." She looks over at Thomas. "This is Connor. Connor, this is Thomas; I was just telling him about Claire. We're not here to hurt her."

"You were touching her," Connor accuses.

Yeah, he was. He's not sure how to explain that – not sure what the accusation actually is.

Thank God for Lili. "Just like you and Flynn and me and the others," she says. "To say hello. You know the Doc said interacting will help her."

Connor keeps dark eyes fixed on Thomas for a moment, apparently trying to find some proof that Lili is telling the truth. But then his grip loosens on the sword and he deflates.

"Oh," he says, quietly. "Okay."

Now totally uncaring of Thomas' presence, Connor hops onto the cot and pats Claire's hand himself.

"Hi, Claire," he whispers to her. "I helped mom get all the canteens down to the camp before dark, so she said I could come and see you again. I was with Flynn earlier – he's going to teach me how to fight Cranks like you when I'm older. He says you'd teach me to be sneaky better than he could, so you have to wake up before I'm ten. That's when he's going to start."

Connor's whisper glows with pride and anticipation, totally oblivious to the fact that Claire has a few days in which to wake up, not years.

His monologue continues – telling her about his day, his chores, other people at the camp and then about the new arrivals. Lili gently guides Thomas away. He goes willingly.

"Have you told him?" Thomas asks in an undertone, suddenly feeling bone weary and broken hearted for the boy. The scene of the child speaking so eagerly to the comatose girl churns his stomach with second-hand dread.

Lili sighs and nods. "Yes," she says. "I've said it, his mother has, and Flynn's tried, too. But he's just a kid. He's clinging to hope. It'll crush him, but while we have a bit of time, I don't want to take that away, too."

"Is he her brother?" Thomas asks, glancing back at the pair.

They don't look alike. Connor has an olive complexion, dark hair and a broad little nose and chin that will probably mature into a strong face, if he's given that chance. Claire is the opposite with her cream skin, sunshine blonde hair and soft features. But that doesn't say much; they could each take after the opposite parent.

"No," Lili says. "He's one of the lives she saved. Flynn and Claire found Connor, his mother and four others hiding out. From what Flynn said, Claire pulled Connor literally out of the hands of a Crank, passed him to his mom and pushed them through a door before she blew the bomb. I'd say it's a small case of hero worship."

Lili looks back at them, too. "It's sad," she continues. "He never really knew her. He just has a lightning memory of a guardian angel that saved his life and gave hers for it."

"Well," Thomas says, both gentle but wan; optimism he can't quite believe. "She hasn't given it yet."

Lili gives him a smile that is sad and sympathetic. It tells him not to fall prey to the same hope that dug its claws into Connor.

He's not at the same emotional place where the boy is. Claire is just a face to him – a name and a story – but it's the first time he's encountered anything like it.

It's easy to block it all out when they're living how he is. It's just long journeys, raiding abandoned buildings for supplies, keeping watch and moving on. Running and defending themselves whenever they hit a Crank nest. The same group of them have stuck together over the last months – everyone who was left behind in the mountains after WCKD took Minho.

It's only when they find other pockets of resistance across the Scorch that they remember what it's like to live in a community. It's a different way of life, if you could call it that, and in some ways, it's far more devastating.

At least if they're attacked, everyone is together.

This camp send out raiding parties for supplies, which means if something goes wrong, the others may not get closure. They may never see their friends again. Or they may see them again, but still never get a goodbye.

Thomas isn't sure which is worse.

"Come on," Lili prompts. "Let's get you checked over."

Thomas let's himself be moved to a palette back near the others.

By some miracle, he's barely scratched up; just a couple of grazes on his hands and a cut over his brow that's long stopped bleeding. Newt has a cut and yellowing bruise on his cheekbone, Frypan has to have rubble washed out of his knee and Vince has a broken finger splinted. Doc is a guy named Spence, who checks them efficiently and without fuss.

Instead of taking up beds in the infirmary for such small things, they follow Lili back through the factory to a wide room that's been set up as a mess hall. There's bent, lopsided tables, stone slabs and picnic mats laid out with people even using the large bits of rubble for more tables or seating. Bits of iron, wood and concrete have been reworked into a serving counter that runs down one wall.

Lili announces them.

Whispers and cheers break out around the hall. A tall black man in probably his thirties approaches first. He's wearing combat trousers with a patched jacket and two days of stubble, a semi automatic rifle thrown over his back and the strap lined with new bullets. He walks up to them to hand out a stack of trays.

"Make yourselves at home," he says. His voice is both deep and scratchy, and he seems slightly shy and reserved, but his smile is tentatively friendly. "Kids eat first, then the sick, pregnant and elderly. After that it's free for all. We're doing well, though – not had a shortage of chow for months. It's late, so go right ahead. Get some food down you and I can show you to some bunks. Oh, and I'm Jobe."

Vince seems to have taken back his leadership position, something Thomas is more than happy about, so he shakes hands and introduces them.

Jobe heads back to his group – five more guys ranging from a kid in late teens to someone who has to be around Vince's age – and joins them on a checked and dirt-smudged picnic mat. The group of them all have that hardened, weary look and wear combat trousers, an assortment of rifles sit close to their sides.

Thomas is going to guess they're one of the raiding parties. And he'd also bet that they're still carrying guns off duty because they've learned to be wary of strangers in camp. Just as they weren't asked to let go of their weapons, Thomas can't begrudge them the same reservations.

Vince looks around at their group. Thomas only looks for Newt and Frypan. He cares about the others – months defending each other, how could he not? – but those two are all he has left of the Maze, and with Minho stuck in WCKD, he wants to hold onto that.

Thankfully he doesn't seem to be alone. They slide up next to him. Newt pats his shoulder and then they make their way for the food counter. Brenda and Harriet fall into step behind them.

…

Having a full night's sleep feels like a foreign experience.

Thomas wakes up feeling so well rested he's almost exhausted. Someone's set a huge duffel of fresh clothes in the tent with them, so once they're all up, they pick out what they think will fit each of them best and trek for the showers.

They're nothing special. Kind of like the ones in the glade; it's clean water, but tepid at best and with only gravity to power it. But there's crudely made soap that almost burns through dirt and the experience gets rid of days of grime.

Frypan was told to return to the infirmary to have his knee checked over again, and possibly consider stitches, so Thomas and Newt find Jobe in the mess hall to get a guide back to the medic's tent.

They duck inside, and Thomas finds his eyes drawn to the bed in the corner again.

Claire's still there. She's still unmoving, but there's a new person at her side.

"I'll just be a second," Thomas says quietly, patting Fry's shoulder.

"Here we go," he thinks Newt mutters as he heads away from them.

Thomas doesn't reply.

The person, clearly male, perched on the cot next to Claire's is curled forwards, elbows resting on his legs and he's murmuring quietly to her. The hand that everyone seems to pick up is pressed reverently between both of his larger ones. He doesn't even notice Thomas until he's standing just three feet away.

Then his head snaps up, hazel eyes flickering with surprise and reproach.

He has light brown hair cut short, stubble on his jaw and an old scar across the bridge of his nose. He looks like someone who probably smiled a lot. His skin is dark from the sun, though it looks like it used to be pale, and there are calluses around his fingers.

Thomas recognises them. They're from holding a gun. He's just starting to get his own.

"Can I help you?"

The boy's voice comes out a little hoarse. Thomas guesses he can't be much older than himself or Claire, and for no reason, he thinks he knows who this is.

"You're Flynn, right?"

He looks up, taken aback, then nods resolutely. "Yes. And you are?"

"Thomas. We arrived yesterday."

"From the Mountain Attack," Flynn says, apparently connecting the dots. He's been told about them. Flynn sits straighter but he doesn't let Claire's hand go. "Jobe told us about the message, but no one heard anything for so long…glad you made it."

Thomas shrugs. What can he say to that? But he nods towards Claire instead.

"You were with her?"

Flynn's breath rushes out heavily. "Yeah. Did Lili tell you?"

Thomas sinks carefully onto the far end of Flynn's cot. "Yeah. Said you were raiding together; found people. She set off a bomb so you could escape."

Flynn nods. His hands squeeze around the girl's. "Jobe, Claire, Kimmi, Dale and I; we've been a team for a long while now. She's always been the reckless one. Well, no. Claire's…she thinks risks are worth it."

"She saved a kid – Connor," Thomas says. "Maybe she's onto something."

Flynn barks a bitter laugh. It sounds warped and wrong; like he's not usually a bitter person but he's losing himself. "Connor, his mom and me. Slammed that door so the blow out wouldn't fry us."

He hasn't got any real context for this, but his mind pictures a steel door like something he might have seen in WCKD. His imagination can supply the fireball expanding outwards and sending tremors deep into the foundations of a nameless building.

"How come she wasn't burned up?"

The question falls out without sanction. He didn't mean to ask. But now he's burning with the curiosity of it. How is she in one piece?

Flynn tenses. His shoulders curl forwards again. "Because we haven't been punished enough, apparently."

And that…that's not an answer.

He remembers abruptly that Flynn never actually talked about it. He shouldn't have asked. But maybe he's a bit reckless, too.

"What do you mean?"

Flynn sighs with aggravation. "Because if she'd burned up back there, at least she'd be gone. She'd be free. But she didn't, and she's not. She's stuck here – maybe aware, maybe not, and there's nothing we can do but wait and wait and eventually choose to let her die without knowing if she wants to go or if she wants us to hang on just one more goddamn day."

Flynn's eyes snap to him, fiery with a desperately sad fury.

Apparently he found the floodgates.

"She slammed a door – an old fire door. There was a bar lock so I couldn't even open it to go back for her. I screamed at her to open it. And she stared at me through the glass…shook her head, held up that fucking detonator and ran back the way we came. The Cranks forgot about us, went after her. She ran in an elevator shaft and blew the centre pillar out.

"The explosion made the door smoke. The smell of burning bodies was everywhere. The floor dropped; the ceiling caved in and a whole wall crushed dozens of cranks. I watched her get hit in the head with a huge piece of shrapnel and go down. The building fell on her before the fire could take her.

"Connor was screaming. His mom was in shock. Hell, we were all in shock. But it blew the door off its hinges, so I went back for her."

And Thomas knows the rest; which is fortunate, because that's where Flynn's voice fails him, and otherwise the suspense would be killing him. He doesn't know how one man – not much older than him, if at all, was able to dig someone from a collapsed, burning building, but that doesn't seem important.

Flynn is quiet for a moment, muscle shifting in his forearms as he squeezes Claire's hand, and then he continues, more subdued. "She was treated for some awful bruising, lots of cuts and scrapes, a dislocated knee, and the head injury bled a lot, but now…as far as we can tell…she's perfectly healthy. She's just not awake."

It's with that, that Thomas thinks he truly understands Flynn's pain. Other than the coma, Claire is fully recovered. It might have been easier to make the call to remove the catheter and mouth pipe if she were truly broken beyond repair.

"I'm sorry, Man," Thomas offers quietly.

"Not your fault," Flynn says. "Not anyone's faul- well. I guess it's someone's. I just…this is as close as I'll get to a goodbye, you know?"

He knows it's different, but his mind can't help jumping to Minho and how that was so fast, so devastating, and he never got his goodbye, either. He didn't get to keep his promise. Instead all he could do was watch and scream as his friend was carried away. He nods in empathy.

Flynn's eyes dim with compassion and neither of them has to say anything. They both understand loss and grief, even if the circumstances are uniquely their own.

"I'm worried about Connor," Flynn says. "Lili, too."

He's right to be, Thomas thinks.

"Jobe just says that he's strong. This'll make him stronger; he'll grow from it, maybe it'll inspire him." There's that bitter tone again. Like Claire's death inspiring someone is a nasty thought, purely because she had to be gone for it to happen. "I think he's lucky he didn't really know her."

Something suddenly occurs to Thomas.

"Are you two…?"

Flynn shakes his head before he can finish. "No. Not…neither of us ever felt that way. Kimmi and I – I guess I'm into brunettes." There's the ghost of something fond in his tone before his eyes cloud again, gazing into Claire's still features. "Claire's my best friend."

Thomas is starting to feel glad he didn't know her, either.

He really had forgotten – what it felt like to be a part of something big, where you thrived together and mourned together.

He looks over his shoulder to deal with the silence. Frypan's knee is being wrapped in gauze. Newt catches his eye and shoots him a questioning look.

Thomas shakes his head.

"Lili says you never told anyone," Thomas mutters, slowly bringing his attention off his friends. "Why me?"

"You're one of the first who didn't act like I owed you the explanation, even if you wanted to hear it," Flynn shrugs. "And I guess it's easier to tell someone you don't really know – someone who didn't know her. Everyone else…they ask about it but they're already looking at me like they're waiting for me to break – become a ghost right along with her."

…

Their first full day at the camp winds to a close. It's late before the sun falls behind the mountains, and the last of the long golden light and purple shadows fade into a peacefully cool night.

The mess hall empties out, and families group instead down the street of tents. Smaller children run between the adults as they play games of tag. The teenagers cluster in groups at the edges, talking quietly, wiring a stick of dynamite to an old, beat up toaster and sitting around a fire while one of them strums on a guitar.

Jobe strides over to the group with the toaster before they can light the fuse and snatches the stick from them, sending them off without explosives or appliances.

He jams the stick in his jeans pocket, swigs at his beer and heads back to his friends like disarming teenagers is just part of the daily experience.

It probably is.

This is a different world to Thomas'.

He remembers fragments of a world before WCKD – not much and nothing connected with his own life – but he remembers the advanced technology, the world falling back into the desert. He was born into a world touched by the Sun Flares but the only one he knows is a wooded glade inside a maze and more than his share of suffering.

Even in a world of blistering heat, advancement at a standstill - if not a decline - and with Cranks at every turn, these people were never taken by WCKD.

They've grown up with their families.

They have a room for schooling, extra lessons to suit this damaged world, as well as things like Math and Science that had a place in the one that was. Parents hang out, kids have sleepovers, more kids are being born and the elderly cared for.

It all hits Thomas at once, sitting in the sand by a quiet tent with Frypan and watching Newt, Jorge and Brenda gather up drinks.

It makes him ache.

He'd never give up his fight. Not while they still had Minho. He has to finish this. But after that…what then? He's flying by his pants day to day and made no plans for his future beyond putting a bullet in Ava Paige's head.

But now he's thinking he'd like to come back here.

Bring Minho. He should see it. And he will, because the alternatives are too terrible to consider.

He's still taking in the night when a tiny boy races from around the nearby tent and skids to a stop in front of Thomas and Frypan.

Connor. Even with the sky quickly turning black over their heads and the camp lit by flaming torches, Connor's freckles stand out on his cheeks. His little fingers grip tightly to a dark tablet that he holds against his chest.

"You're Thomas, aren't you?" he asks plainly.

Frypan glances at him with thinly veiled expectancy and confusion.

"Yeah," Thomas manages to say, though his voice is more of a croak. "Connor, right?"

He nods. He holds out the tablet in his hands and Thomas realises it's a screen, somehow intact and undamaged. Its also fairly recent technology with the reflective panel not unlike those he's seen in the WCKD compounds.

"Flynn gave me this," Connor says. "Because I didn't know Claire before. It helps."

Thomas doesn't have the heart to tell him that he's not mourning for the unconscious blonde in the same way this little boy is.

Instead, he takes the tablet, working up a sympathetic smile, and brushes his thumb over the mirror-like surface.

It glows with a blue light before the image forms; somewhat grainy and with the colour leached, like it's been recorded in sepia. Claire stands on a flat salt bed not far from a tan, sand coated Jeep with shredded camouflage fabric twisted around the roll bar. It seems like a candid shot – the ground tilted at an angle on the screen and the blonde is giving the camera a slightly exasperated smile as she hoists a rifle over a shoulder.

Thomas just takes her in for a second, trying to make Connor feel he's being respectful, but then the little boy leans closer.

"It won't start until you press play," he says sagely.

Frypan chuckles. Thomas shoots him the briefest of withering looks before levelling a puzzled gaze on the boy.

This is a video?

Connor jams one of his little fingers on a symbol in a corner.

The grainy image shudders, like someone losing their grip on the camera, and then the stretch of sandy ground levels on the screen.

"Flynn, I swear to God, if you waste that battery before we get it back to the Fort, I will fire a bullet up your ass," the Claire in the video says. She sounds somewhere between amused and dead serious.

"What a waste of good ammunition," Flynn replies. His voice is recognisable even through the hidden microphone.

Apparently this is good technology.

"And besides, it's got one of those newfangled 'you'll be in a care home before I run out of life' battery packs in it. How about you just say 'hi' to the video?"

"Nope," Claire calls over her shoulder, striding away.

The camera jostles as Flynn follows her.

"Claire-Bear!" he whines.

Just steps from the jeep, she wheels on him. The rifle swings from her shoulder and smoothly into her hands with an ease that speaks of practice and familiarity. She levels the sight on the camera and raises an eyebrow.

"It's off, it's off!" Flynn says hastily. The screen falls black.

Before Thomas can look up or hand back the tablet, it comes to life again. He's dimly aware that Frypan has leant in to watch, too, all trace of amusement gone from his face.

The screen shows the inside of a tent in the dark. The only light comes from a dying glow stick between two sleeping bags, and it's just strong enough to reveal a sagging ceiling and three hunched shapes.

A rustling and a low croaking sound echoes through the speaker, but it sounds distant. Like noises outside the tent.

"What the fuck was that?" Jobe's voice is recognisable, too. It's a low, tight whisper and one of his hands reaches down the side of his bag. When he lifts it, blue light shines dully off of a crowbar.

"Your imagination," Flynn's voice replies. "Everyone go back to sleep and chill. Everyone's just on edge because we're not far from that town."

There's another rustle that follows his words.

This time it's Claire, identifiable by the long blue-silver braid against the shadows. She slides away from her sleeping bag and scoops up a machete without making a sound. The camera pitches just slightly in order to follow her.

"Oh, great," Flynn mutters. "That's just great. Claire, go to sleep."

She scoffs quietly, attention fixed on the intermittent noises outside. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Yeah, that never goes well," Jobe whispers. "Damn, Flynn. Now she's gonna leave just to spite you, Man."

"Then you tell her," Flynn retorts. "What's she going to do? Its pitch black out there; she's going to hack the tent to shreds and then we'll have to sleep in the truck. I don't want to sleep in the truck – the wheel arch digs into my back."

"You are such a fucking child," Claire says, before Jobe can open his mouth.

But she sets down the machete and instead leans out of the shot. When she sits up again, she's holding a handgun.

"What the hell, Girl?" Jobe says. "Was that under your pillow?"

"Yep," Claire replies. She slips out the magazine, checks it and slams it back up before springing back the slide and crawling towards the front of the tent.

"Claire, get the fuck back in your bag," Flynn whisper-yells after her. "I'd rather you hack up the tent than shoot us all."

In response, she clicks on a tiny flashlight which she holds over the sightline of the gun with her free hand. The flare of white light throws the expression on her face into view despite the grainy recording – a focused but largely unconcerned look. Then she ducks out of the tent.

"Great," Flynn mutters. The image of the tent whirls, and then Flynn's face fills the screen, features set into exasperation that's just visible in the dim lighting. He's still folded in his own bag. "We're all going to die. Claire's going to shoot us."

Flynn starts humming. It's just possible to hear the faint noises from outside.

Thomas isn't sure exactly when he got invested, but when the flap rustles – the image quickly whirling back to the tent again – and Claire drops back inside, his grip on the tablet relaxes. Feeling tense is irrational – he knows that. He knows the others are fine and that Claire didn't get injured until later. But he can't help it.

And he's not wholly sure showing Connor these is helping more than giving him something to mourn. And that's before he considers all the swearing in it.

"Are we all about to die?"

"Imminently," she snarks back. There's the sound of the handgun having the safety put on and then the thud as she tosses it onto the ground. She sinks down after it.

"Cranky," Flynn chides.

Claire muffles a snort of laughter into her sleeping bag.

"You two…I don't know how you even put up with each other," Jobe mutters. "What was the noise, anyway?"

"Wind," Claire confesses. "It's blowing the sand around pretty bad, and it's causing that groaning noise where it's getting stuck in the truck. But no cranks."

"You are so paranoid," Flynn mutters.

"Stop recording our imminent deaths and go back to sleep," Claire says.

"Oi!" Flynn retorts, a snappy whisper that's non-the-less filled with amusement. "Why should I listen to you when you don't listen to me?"

"Because I'm going back to sleep and you're tired," she says simply.

"Do you have a goodnight message for the fans?"

"I will literally shoot you."

The screen blacks out again.

Thomas swipes at it, hoping that whatever he does, it will stop the videos playing. He's seen enough. He doesn't want to know this girl – he knows better than to torture himself the way Connor is. He hands it back, feeling the weight of Frypan's eyes on him.

"Thanks, Connor," he says. "She seems great."

He's honestly not sure. Clearly her coma is hurting a lot of people, but she also seems hardened by the world; guarded and with a certain 'devil may care' attitude. She reminds him a little of Brenda and absently he wonders if they might have gotten along. But what he really thinks of her isn't the point here.

Connor cradles the screen and offers a sad smile. "You're welcome."

He turns and heads away, starting off the next video.

Thomas hears a new, male voice, say, "Captain's Log; Flynn and Claire are still arguing about who gets to strip the engine. Kimmi, Jobe and I really wish we had a pack of cards but hey; at least we have a camera. How's it going, guys?"

Claire's voice replies, "Dale, have you ever been knocked out with a catalytic converter? Because I can make it happen."

And then Connor is too far away for him to hear anything else.

"What's going on, Thomas?" Frypan asks him, voice quiet, like he's not sure this is a good topic to broach at all.

Thomas swings his gaze back over to him, non-plussed. "Nothing," he says, frowning at his friend. "That's the girl that's in a coma. Connor isn't really handling it."

"And you?"

Thomas sighs, picking up, finally, on the wary edge in the tone. "I feel for him. I don't think she's going to wake up."

"Newt would tell you to be careful, you know that, right?" Frypan checks. He's not looking at Thomas now. His eyes gaze off into the dark, the direction Connor went, though he's long gone from view. "Getting attached causes more grief, upsets the mission, all that stuff."

Thomas feels the pressing weight of Minho's absence more than ever.

"I'm not losing sight," he says. "We're getting Minho out of there. Ava's going to die."

"Didn't say you were," Fry shrugs with careful nonchalance. "Just said…Newt would warn you to be careful."

Thomas pauses. He knows it's true. It's what makes Newt such a good leader; he's able to see a bigger picture, to calculate risk against reward and give an unbiased outlook. But Frypan's tone makes him look up again.

"What would you tell me then?"

A fleeting shadow of a smile passes over Frypan's face. "I'd tell you that if everything works out and we walk away from this…this is the world we have to live in now. And thinking that far ahead may be pointless – even stupid – but it's also all we've got.

"Vince wouldn't want to be alone; he always had the Right Arm. Jorge and Brenda had their group, but they seem like they'd be fine if it were just them. Us, though? We don't know this world; seems like our best bet would be to join up with a group like this. Which means there'll be more Connors and more Claires."

Thomas gets what he's saying.

It's a long time since they've done it. Maybe never. Live as part of something bigger for longer than a few days. And for all the safety in numbers, it really is just more people to lose.

They'd be stupid to try to survive alone, though; the handful of boys that are left of the Gladers. And if they do find a group – even if they returned to this one – there will always be another small child who has to learn that their world sucks.

There'll always be another accident, another attack that leaves people torn apart like shrapnel in the aftermath, whether you lived through it or not.

"Guess I'm just saying to be careful, too," Frypan says after a moment. "But not to block it out, either. We've got to have something to live for."

…

"One more day," Vince says, two days later. "Lili's going to stock us up with food and one of the spare tents, but they can't spare the fuel for a truck."

Frypan's knee was probably the worst injury between them. Cleaning it out and giving him some antibiotics prevented an infection setting in, so now they're just waiting for him to be up to walking long distances again.

Thomas nods in acknowledgement of Vince's plans, tugging the collar of his jacket up against the sudden rush of grit that sweeps up the street.

The sun blazes down and the sand catches in the wind. The loose flaps of tarp and torn fabric snatch towards the sky and everyone in the camp moves about slowly, shoulders hunched and eyes shielded. If they're smart, they're hiding in the mess hall or elsewhere in the factory.

"Head off at dusk?" Jorge checks. His eyes catch Thomas' own, but then slide over to look at Vince, who nods.

It's a careful choice. Travelling at night is better than travelling by day which carries higher risk for heat stroke, dehydration, hallucination and being seen. But Cranks seem to be more active in the evening hours, too. In the end…at least they have more energy to fight back if they aren't also burning up.

Thomas zones out of the conversation as it tapers off. They're used to moving on by now; there's not much to discuss other than the when. His eyes catch on three figures that duck out of a tent some way down.

He recognises Jobe; tall and lean in his usual combat gear. His hand grips the unmistakable shape of a shovel.

Adrenaline spikes in his chest with no warning, so sharp it's almost painful. The rush under his skin is unexpected and unwelcome. But still, Thomas stands up, striding away from the Gladers, barely feeling Newt and Frypan's eyes on his back.

Neither of them follow him.

…

The infirmary is unchanged. A teenager sits in a cot with an annoyed expression, scrapes up his arm, but Thomas bypasses him for the bed at the end where a crowd has formed. There's a still, broken feeling in the stuffy air under the slanted tarp. Under the smell of antiseptic there's the tang of salt and loss.

There's Lili wearing a tight, tense expression and a pretty brunette with her hair bound back in a high ponytail and eyes glassy with tears. Doc Spence holds a stethoscope in a fist. An exhausted looking woman with a head of dark curly hair has both arms curled around her own waist, like she's holding herself together. Thomas instantly guesses she is Connor's mother.

It feels like the moment balances on a thin edge.

"Still a three," Spence says in a low tone.

Lili nods stiffly, lips pressed tightly together, and when her eyes land on him approaching, she looks surprised; startled, like she'd blocked out the rest of the camp.

"Thomas," she greets. Her throat sounds thick but she doesn't move to block him or guide him away. "Everything okay?"

He shrugs it off with a distracted nod. "Yeah, what about her? I saw Jobe with a shovel."

The brunette girl covers her mouth with a hand and tears spill over her cheeks, silent but without end. Lili hugs her with one arm as she says, "We don't bury our dead. We burn them; it's safer. Jobe and the boys; Dale and Flynn are packing up one of the trucks. They and Kimmi are heading out on a raid tonight."

It seems sudden and without warning, but realisation comes in swiftly.

If they're going to let Claire die, her team won't want to be here afterwards. They'll want to be away and have a chance to mourn - what little chance this life will give them.

Which means they've made a choice.

Lili reads his expression. Squeezing the brunette's shoulder, she nods once.

"What about Connor?" Thomas asks, his heart going out to the little boy without his consent. He remembers the kid walking away, holding that tablet two nights before, clinging to the grainy, recorded footage on it.

"He'll get to say goodbye," Lili says, voice cracking at the end. "This is his mom; she'll be with him and as soon as they're back, Flynn might be able to help."

Thomas nods to her, unable to summon any more words.

"I'll get the injection prepared," The man with the stethoscope says, backing away quietly.

Thomas' heart pounds hard, just once and there's a feeling like cold water rushing down his spine. His skin itches and he feels foreign inside it.

Of course they won't just take her off the drip and slowly let her starve away. They'll help her; end it painlessly.

Which is ironic.

There's really nothing painless about this, and now he feels sort of stupid; it doesn't matter that he doesn't know her at all – the fact still is that there's a person in that bed who's perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she won't wake up. There's a person that these people are going to euthanize, because they have no other options.

He feels sick to his stomach, and a dizzying rush of sympathy for Connor.

He's too young to understand the nuances of the situation; to really grasp all the little things, which has left him with just the bigger picture.

Claire saved his life and because she can't wake up, they are going to kill her.

Something that is infinitely complicated for a grown person to grasp is just that simple to a six year old.

A hand comes down on his shoulder and Thomas startles.

Looking up, he realises he's sunk onto the cot beside Claire's. Kimmi, Spence and Connor's mom have all gone. Lili stands above him. Her smile is watery and barely there; a pitiful attempt.

"What's a three?" Thomas asks, remembering what Spence said when it looks like she is struggling for words.

"It's a grading on the Glasgow Coma scale – it's an old thing; really old, but still practical," it still sounds like she's talking through a raging head cold. "A three is the lowest score a person can get. It means there's no response at all, to anything – not voices, light, touch or pain. When Flynn brought her back she was a three and she's been the same ever since."

"That means there's no chance?" Thomas asks.

Lili's breath shakes as she breathes out and she's not quick enough to blink back the tear that spills over her cheek. "People have come back from a three," she says. "They've come back from a three after years in a coma. But we're not living in that world anymore. This is why it's hurting them so much; Flynn especially. Before the Flare there would have been huge ethics and moral debates on this. It would have been a very harrowing court case. But we don't have a court, or a judge."

She squeezes her hand and he feels the pressure of it on his shoulder distantly, like its happening through cotton wool or on another plane of existence.

"I'm sorry you couldn't have stayed under better circumstances," she says, though they both know that better is a bit of a far off wish at this point. "You may have liked her."

"She swore a lot," Thomas says. And it's random; there's no train of thought that brought it up, but he's almost glad for it when Lili laughs, looking shocked that she was still capable of it.

"Yeah," she agrees. "Connor showed you the videos, huh?" She nods vaguely at a table in the corner. "Claire didn't really do cameras, but Kimmi found that a few days ago – just before you all arrived. The boys have seen it, but she's saving it for Connor. It might help him."

She shakes herself, pats Thomas' shoulder a final time and heads away. "I've got things to do. Try not to dwell; we've lost people before, and we'll lose many more."

She looks like she wishes she could follow her own advice.

…

Claire is fading into a ghost before their eyes.

She seems to be losing colour. Her skin is paler, the hair that was once a warm blonde looks washed out; reminds him more of the platinum colour that Sonya's had been before WCKD took her away.

Her breaths are still even, but they're slow; her chest barely rising with each one. She's not cold, but not exactly warm either, when he gently reaches out to touch her wrist. No movement behind the eyelids; no twitching in her fingers. She's here but already gone. Just beyond reach, maybe.

Thomas can't bring himself to talk to her, though.

He didn't know her and he feels like talking to her is crossing some kind of line.

Instead, his eyes dart to the table where a small video camera sits. Before he really knows what he's doing, he's picked it up and sat down on the cot again. The casing is silver, but scratched and chipped – probably by sand. The fold out screen has escaped mostly unscathed, though, and it's easy to work out which button turns it on and which one plays back the last recording.

Thomas entirely forgets that he wasn't going to watch anymore videos.

There's a scrabbling sound and the picture jostles before settling on Claire. She's holding it herself, clearly sitting in the roll bar jeep and the landscape spreads behind her; open, flat, vast and shimmering under the dying sun. Even in the sepia tone of the footage, her colour looked far better then; hair and scarf being lashed to the side by the wind. For once she's close enough to the lens that Thomas can see her eyes are a bright cerulean blue, so sharp and clear it's almost unnatural. It's the smile that gets him, though. Until now, she's been exasperated and amused, snarky and annoyed…but here she's smiling quietly, honestly.

"It feels like such a crazy thing to do," she begins. "To be sitting here and recording one of these – an 'if you're reading this' letter – but hey; everybody has to die one day, right?"

She looks like someone who hasn't realised her own future is just weeks long at most; not years.

"But you know…this world; I mean, it sucks. But it is ours. It's not the world we thought we'd grow up in…so I guess this message isn't what I thought it would be either.

"'If you're watching this, I'm dead'," she says, ironically, before laughing and shaking her head at herself. "I just hope I went out with a bang. A ball of fire or a building falling down. If I died tripping over a rock or because Dale shot me well…that'd suck more than the world right now."

"But me? I'm not worth mourning over. I died. Suck it up. Light me a nice bonfire; make sure Jobe gets totally blitzed and I hope someone blows up a toaster at the party. That's me done. See you on the other side; but no offence – I hope it takes a fucking long time for you to meet me. As for you guys; I have instructions.

"Flynn gets my rifle. And if you ever lose her, I will haunt your ass. Same goes for if you try to saw off the barrel. She's a Winchester; not one of your homemade shotguns. Kim, my machete is all yours. Be nice to him; keep him sharp and I hope he saves your life one day. Dale, I'm not giving you jack; you have enough crap. Jobe, don't replace me with an asshat. I still get to be the biggest pain in your ass, even if it's from the grave. All of you; make sure you clean up the Jeep. Often. I'm not there to bail you out if she goes bang on a raid. Always take an extra pack of rations and never light a lantern inside the tent. If you hear noises in the dark – send Dale out. He's expendable."

The smile on her face falls. Her expression becomes something…else. Something Thomas recognises; knows, but cannot name. Something soft, full of affection and honesty and heartbreak. Almost like she did know how little time she had left, even if there was no way she could.

"You guys are family. And you were the best thing to happen to me. And you're gonna be just fine. 'Burn me with a bullet in my heart'," she seems to quote from memory. "'And I'll see you in another world'."

Her eyes sit, steady into the camera for a moment; bluer than they should be, given the wrecked colour of the recording. There's a small, sad, warm smile. Then the video cuts and the screen goes black.

Thomas looks up over it and takes in the girl; this shadow of her, laid on the bed.

It isn't a choice at all; this one they have to make. It's not a choice. Realising that is like being suffocated.

"It's impossible," a voice says, and for an instant, Thomas thinks it came from his own head. But he twists on the cot, taking in Flynn by the flap at the entrance of the tent. He hesitates and then approaches.

He's a mix of contradictions. His steps slow and cautious, like he'd rather be anywhere else, but there's a yearning in his expression that says all he wants is to be beside this girl.

"You ever heard the Romeo and Juliet story?" Flynn asks, not looking at him but at Claire's still face.

Thomas frowns.

He knows Flynn said they weren't like that, but what with his past being a total blank before the Maze, he only vaguely knows the story – A forbidden love that ended in tragedy on both ends – and he doesn't see how it relates right now.

Thankfully, it seems like Flynn doesn't need his input at all. He picks up Claire's hand. His thumb brushes against the inky marks of the birds; scattered across the broken bars of music; a mournful, reverent touch.

"In the worst versions, just before Romeo takes the poison, Juliet wakes up, or moves, or something. But it's too close and he drinks it a split second before he realises he didn't have to."

Thomas holds his breath, feeling like his mind is being pulled open as he realises what Flynn means.

"I'm terrified," he finishes. "That we'll take out the drip; that Spence will give her the injection, and even if we wait a while, if we had just waited another split second, she'd have woken up."

…

Connor doesn't take it well.

Thomas is sitting with Newt, Frypan, Harriet and Brenda just inside the broken wall of the factory when he hears the little boy's wails of grief.

He kicks and cries; battering his fists over Jobe's shoulder as the tall man carries him away and into the sunlight. His mother follows just two steps behind, her tears silent and her sobs held in with a hand held firm over her mouth.

They bypass the groups of people quickly but the damage is done. The people know what the outburst means.

In their wake a solemnity settles in, heavy and contagious. The clamour of voices and conversation drops to stilted murmurs and more than a few faces look up, gazes distant as their minds fill in the blanks about what will be taking place in the Infirmary in just a couple of hours.

Thomas lowers his gaze, feeling his interest in their conversation fall away like sand through an hourglass.

Right now Connor is a little boy and he just hurts because this person he's learned to look up to is going to be gone forever. But one day – and Thomas wonders when, if, and how far away – the pain may turn to guilt. He hopes it doesn't come, because all he'll know then is that he's alive because this girl saved him but gave her own life for it.

Being a survivor carries its own kind of weight. It's hard to be the one that's left alive when the dust settles.

Thomas would know.

AN: Two chapters will follow almost simultaneously so that the endings can be read close together. In the meantime, I'd love to hear thoughts on where you think either ending could go.

I've had this written for a long while now - it was started in 2015 and didn't take long to pull together, but I've edited it a few times since and I'm finally ready to share it. Thanks to anyone who stops by.

Info:
1. The Glasgow Coma scale is a real thing. You can look it up.
2. No one knows exactly what is wrong with Claire. That's the point. That's why it's so hard. They can't diagnose it so they can't help her.