Author's note: Okay. So this is my first TMR fanfiction. I will say right now there will be spoilers for all the books and, I mean its maze runner, there will be some violence and dark themes. As for the main point of the story, ever since I started this series the thought in my head had been, besides WTF this can't be happening oh poor baby Newt and WTF are you doing Thomas, was what would happen when W.I.C.K.E.D. did find their cure, and the details of their "trials" came to light. So, hopefully, eventually that is where this story will go. I just still can't handle what happened to Newt and the absolute zero amount of closure we got for him. A lot of this will have to do with him, naturally. I guess I should just let you guys read the story now... Good luck. Hope you enjoy. If I do change this to M rating it will be just to be safe, I don't plan on having anything explicit or really any pairings at all, I just am not that kind of writer.

The Maze Runner

Thomas sat, the cool breeze brushing his hair around his forehead and chilling his arms as the night crept towards him. The bark of the fallen tree was rough under his fingertips and his rear was sore from having sat on the uneven surface for so long, but he had no desire to leave. He could see everything from his vantage point on top of the hill, his feet hanging of the ledge on the steeper side of the out-cropping, the green grass and sparse wooden structures stretching out in front of him. It had taken a lot of work to make with only the minimal supplies the former-gladers had on their backs when they escaped W.I.C.K.E.D. with the new immunes, and still took a lot to upkeep.

The ones that had experience in the glade went out for supply runs roughly once a month, needing items that weren't craftable in nature, mostly stuff for the females in the paradise - stuff all the boys dueled rock paper scissors about who would have to carry back. The rest of the month consisted of hunting and scavenging, stockpiling and rationing. The set up they had in the glade was far more advanced, but they were making their little spot home day by day, week by week, face by face.

The log shakes underneath him as another person sits down, bowing the large wood with the added weight. Minho's face is hard in the afternoon light, his thick eyebrows scrunched together and lowered down on his eyes as sat, his expression indicating he was deep in thought. Don't hurt yourself there buddy, Thomas thought. Thomas looks forward again, waiting for his friend to say what's on his mind.

"Do you think he's alright? Minho asks Thomas.

"Who?" A long pause follows before Minho looks up at Thomas, his face still serious and his thumbs twiddling between the legs of his dirty pants.

"Newt." Thomas's stomach drops then twists painfully around in his gut. Minho's gaze goes to the horizon of their "paradise," thinking about the answer to his own question. Thomas remained quiet, the image of Newt's pleading eyes as he'd held the gun to his own forehead flashed and seared through Thomas's brain. "That was a stupid question." Minho finally said, breaking the silence and relaxing his tense expression and body language, placing his hands behind him and leaning back on the log. "Guy was half crazy with the flare last time we saw him," Minho exhaled sharply. He pushed himself back up and put his hands on his knees. "I guess what I'm really asking is, do you think he's still alive over there?" His eyes turned back to Thomas, hope, almost indiscernible, shining behind his dark brown eyes. He shook his head then. "Look at you turning me into a thinker," he shoved Thomas in the shoulder, a forced grin on his darkened face.

"Ain't many of us that ever got curious, that ever gave a klunk about the world for long after we came out of the box. Those that did wound up dead or were shut the shuck down by Alby. After the first changlings, seeing how horrified they were with the memories they regained, everyone got down. Shoved questions away. Most of us didn't want to even think about the possibility that when, and later if, we got out of that godforesaken maze the world could be just as shucked, or even more shucked than the maze. The changlings were so discouraging. Destroyed people's spirits at first. Newt always kept them up though, told them we were gonna be okay."

Minho mumbled something that sounded like dumb ass shank didn't believe a word of it, but Thomas wasn't really sure. He could have just as easily said dumb ass shanks didn't believe a word of it, and that's honestly what Thomas hoped he'd said.

"Things got worse when Alby dragged back that half dead english shank from the maze. It was rough keeping people from giving up during all the changlings, death, and injury. I didn't envy Nick or Alby for having to deal with it. The few times I said anything to the cry babies didn't go over well. Apparently telling them to 'quit acting like shuck children and deal with what klunk we have' isn't very consoling."

Minho rolled his eyes and Thomas tried to force a smile, but his mind was still stuck on the image Minho had put in his head of Newt and Alby. Thomas knew exactly what he was talking about when he said that. Exactly what event destroyed the gladers hope. He remember Newt spitting it in his face, shouting how all the pain newt dealt with had been Thomas's fault, and how he had always hated him for it. Those words shook Tomas awake in the middle of the night to this day, nearly a year later he still plagued himself with what-ifs. What if Newt hadn't been taken from the burg? What if they had known he wasn't immune the whole time? And they he is stuck with what did happen.

He'd try to tell himself the anger and hate was The Flare talking, that his best friend wasn't the one saying those hurtful and spiteful thing, but the sentences still echoed in his skull and woke him up in a cold sweat most nights, still kept him from sleeping well, or even sleeping at all. Still was the reason for the constant tired eyes of the sub-leader of their "paradise."

Because he knew there was truth in those words. He wasn't sure how much truth, but even crazy people have reasons for what they say. It doesn't come out of thin air. Newt had said things that when Thomas found him in the street before going to raid W.I.C.K.E.D. that made him think there was truth in the angry words. There was substance and not just insanity.

Thomas had been cautious, not sure if his friend would remember him, but he did, and Thomas remember the short angry tone Newt had used when he said "he'd bloody remembered Thomas, that he hadn't gone that crazy in a few days," that he remembered when the gladers visited him in the crank palace, that he remember the note he'd entrusted to his Tommy, and remember Thomas had failed him. Newt was grounded in the few memories he had.

He remembered his life in the glade and the people he knew there. His friend, their second in command, was still in there. Because of this he knew there was truth in the words that were spat at him like venom. Knew they might have been skewed by the insanity, but that there was reason in them too. Knew he had had an opportunity to relieve his friend before he became consumed be the anger and hatred. Thomas clung to the hope that the hatred Newt had for him was The Flare, that maybe he had been angry once, but that when he was his sane, rational self he knew Tommy was his friend. Was on his side. That he cared for Newt. And that Newt had trusted him.

He knew Newt trusted him once. He'd been the only one Newt trusted with his plea. And Thomas knew he'd had a chance to prevent the entire nightmarish confrontation, for his friend to die, and for his last memories to have been peaceful, not full of hate and resentment for the person he'd once called a friend. The person Newt had seen as the enemy in his final moments. These thoughts and memories were what woke him with a pounding heart, quick breaths and a sweat slicked body on a cool night, and it still sent acid up his throat to think W.I.C.K.E.D. took away the life of such a caring boy because they wouldn't tell some semblance of the truth sooner.

It made Thomas think they might have been able to prevent losing Newt if they'd known he wasn't immune from the start. Could have protected him during their trek through the scorch, whether Newt was willing or not, they would have protected him. Would have done everything in their minute power to help. But it was too late for that. The only thing that calmed Thomas down from the nightmares was that hopefully, wherever Newt was, he could look at Thomas again fondly, and see him as a friend.

Author's note: Yes again. Sorry not sorry lol. So yeah, obviously I was unhappy with how Thomas seemed to forget about his friend dying at the end of the book, and I'm trying to add in stuff with Teresa too, but I just never liked her so it's hard, and its different, to me, the way she died. Yes it was tragic, and yes it was for Thomas, but she did it herself, Thomas didn't actually kill her or anything. So he'll miss her surely, but that pressing guilt won't be there. Anyway. This story is going to have a lot of backstory in there, mostly presented like this, the way it was in the books, Thomas just randomly remembering things. So yeah. Lots of backstory in store, lots of what happens after paradise also. Alright. Bye :)