Begins on page 262 of Death Cure, after Thomas has arrived at WICKED and they are telling him what is expected of the final candidate.
"Thomas, we need your brain."
His heart stopped. He knew this wasn't a test; they'd gone as far as they could in analyzing reactions and brain patterns. Now they'd chosen him to… take apart in their effort to build the cure.
Dr Christensen continued talking, telling him how the Final Candidate would provide the missing piece of the blueprint, give them data about how the physical makeup of his brain tissue allows it to resist the Flare virus's power, how The Trials were created so they wouldn't have to cut everyone open. He went on to outline the process while Thomas listened in numb silence. And then he revealed what Thomas had already suspected: He wouldn't survive the procedure.
Suddenly Right Arm couldn't come fast enough.
And yet, even if they did come, if they did somehow succeed in saving the other Immunes and destroying WICKED, what would come next? The world was a mess. Without a cure, there was no future. The Flare would continue to destroy everything until there were only Cranks and Immunes left, and even if the virus couldn't affect the Immunes, they certainly could be killed by Cranks. If they destroyed WICKED, that would be the only future left.
He thought of Newt then, his final moments. What if Thomas could prevent that horrible death for countless others? What if, after everything, they really did only need one more death?
If Newt were alive, he would do it in a heartbeat, he realized. He would do it without hesitation if it meant he could save his friend. He was the only one who could do it, give them this chance to find the cure, to save the human race. Didn't he owe it to everyone – to Newt, who would rather die than live as a Crank – to try?
"Okay." He said suddenly, clearly surprising them. "I'll do it." Even if there was only a small chance it would work, he had to do it. It was the only way.
"You're doing the right thing." Doctor Wright assured him, her voice calm, almost soothing. "And I promise you won't feel an ounce of pain."
Thomas didn't want to hear another word. He was tired of listening to them justify what they'd done, tired of the agonizing pain of each decision, the weight that came with knowing that the fate of the world rested on his shoulders. Tired of living.
He just wanted to get it over with.
"Very well," Janson agreed. "This way, Thomas." He led him to a prep room with a wheeled bed surrounded by all kinds of monitors and several nurses. Doctor Christensen joined them a minute later, dressed from head to toe in scrubs, a surgical mask already in place.
"Are we ready doctor?" Janson asked, and Christenson nodded his confirmation. "Put him under."
Thomas sat down on the gurney, took a death breath and allowed them to shove a syringe into his arm, sending jolts of heat through his body. He went limp, collapsing backwards. He was numb from neck down.
Terror flared inside him suddenly. This was it. He was going to die. There was no way Right Arm was going to come in time; it hadn't been even an hour since he arrived.
He didn't care, he realized. He wanted to die. He didn't want to live in the world he had seen since escaping the Maze. He wouldn't be able to live, watching other people going insane, the Flare eating away at their brains like it had Newt's, ripping their sanity away thread by thread.
"I'm really sorry Thomas." Doctor Christensen told him solemnly. "We have to do this."
He nodded jerkily, barely able to move his head. He understood.
"I just need to run a few tests." The doctor explained, turning to fiddle with some instruments behind him. "Then we'll get you into the operating room." It sounded as if he were speaking from a hundred miles away. Thomas was vaguely aware of him drawing his blood, measuring his skull.
He thought of Minho suddenly, of Brenda. Teresa. What would happen to them? They would never know what happened to him, never know this is what he wanted, that he did it willingly.
"Wait." He gasped, struggling to form the words.
"What is it?" One of the nurses asked gently.
"Tell… tell Min-Minho t-that I… I wanted this." He dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes, exhausted.
"Of course," The nurse replied quickly, scribbling something down on a pad of paper.
"We're going to move you to the operating room now Thomas." Doctor Christensen informed him. He didn't respond; that last request had taken a lot out of him. Already he could feel the medicine taking effect, pulling him towards unconsciousness.
He thought of his friends again, hoped they would understand. Teresa would, he knew. She would do the same if it was asked of her. She had always believed in WICKED more than the rest of them, believed in a chance of finding a cure. He had to believe she was right. She usually was.
Brenda might too. She understood sacrifice in a way, and even if she didn't agree, she would understand Thomas' decision, especially if it did lead to a cure.
And then there was Minho.
Minho would hate him. He had always hated WICKED, but after they found out Newt had the Flare, he hated them even more. He could see it in the rage in his eyes when WICKED was mentioned, hear it in the malicious glint in his voice when they spoke of taking WICKED down. He would never forgive Thomas for cooperating with WICKED, even if it led to a cure.
And he would be alone.
The thought was like a stab in the gut, and for the first time, he regretted agreeing to the procedure. He would be leaving Minho alone. Minho would lose both of his best friends, his only friends left, in a matter of hours.
Minho still didn't know Newt was dead, he realized with a sickening jolt. He probably never would. He would spend months, years even, searching for Newt when the cure was made, never knowing that his best friend was already gone, his body lying rotting in the streets of Denver.
It was too late now. Whatever happened to his friends, he couldn't do anything about it now. This was the only thing left he could do. Whether or not it worked, he was done.
"Put him all the way under," He heard someone say, their words sharp, poking through the fogginess in his mind. "WICKED is good, Thomas." He felt a sharp pain in his arm and the darkness pulled at him harder. He could feel himself slipping away.
"I hope it works." He whispered, and he let the darkness pull him under.
So, I'm not sure how I feel about this, but the idea's been bugging me since I read Death Cure, and I'm home from school because I just got my wisdom teeth pulled, so I finally just sat down and wrote this.
The title is from Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams.