Frozen Hope
Minho remembers pain, remembers fear, he remembers the desperation to live and the need to fight for survival. 'Subject A7 has been preserved for further examinations.' When he escaped WICKED, the world before him surprised him. Minho felt numb as realization sinks in. He's been put asleep… for more than a thousand year.
Prologue
Minho glanced around frantically, his heart beating wildly against his chest. The wailing of the alarm around the whole building hurts his ears. He's been caught. 'They know I escaped.' Red and blue lights flash everywhere as he cautiously made his way towards his escape.
Running, pushing his legs to its limits, left, right, right, left, turn, he ran the hallways in full speed he knew now by heart. The familiar narrow path he's spent his entire life passes like a blur at the side of his eyes. He found an escape. After all these years of being locked inside this huge facility and being tested by people in white coats, he now finally got his hands on his escape route.
A small triumphant smile surfaced on his face the moment his thoughts sail towards a certain boy. He couldn't wait to break the news to him. He can't wait to see the look on his face when he announces that he's finally going to get them out. Together, as promised.
"Newton, I'm coming." Minho breathes as he runs faster. All he could focus on now is reaching that one special door. The room that hold captive of the person he vowed to protect.
He felt the buzzing in his ears and the dryness of his throat, the pain in his legs and the stiffness in his arms yelling for him to stop. He ignored them all; he never let such discomfort stop him. He would never let anything or anyone stop him from getting to him.
"Close all gates on Section 5. I repeat, close all gates on Section 5!"
The Asian lad heard the firm orders on the speakers. They're shitting their ugly pants just because of one 'subject' on the loose. Minho smirked arrogantly.
He made one final turn and successfully reached the room without getting caught. He pushed open the door and saw the boy sitting on his bed.
"Newt," The name left his lips in a tender whisper.
It's been weeks since they were separated and was taken to their own chambers where they were being run by tests – experimented, to what Minho calls them. Weeks since they last saw each other. WICKED. A group of scientists who were working on finding a cure of a virus Minho was yet sure to name. A virus. A virus that was also ironically created by them. Minho's hands balled. What a bunch of psychos.
They weren't making a cure; they were making a source of living. Spread a virus, create a cure, and make a sale. That's what he heard from the staffs whispering to each other when he was being lead to his own room. They were only using kids like him for the sake of themselves, for the money. They are definitely wicked. But the experiments got out of hand, and now they're losing their heads because they can't come up with a cure. What made Minho's blood boil is that some of them 'subjects' are believed to be not immune.
Isaac's room is separated from the rest. They said he needs proper care and monitoring more than the others. Because of that one incident that almost took Isaac's life, WICKED has doubled his security. He was the weakest of all subjects, they said, and it made Minho feel the more worried and protective over him. He was not immune to the virus they've created. He's been infected. The news was like a bullet to his heart. They made a virus… that is slowly taking Newt's sanity.
It made him detest WICKED much, much more.
Minho gave a quick scan around the room before returning his gaze back to the boy on his bed. The reason of all this is happening. The only reason why he never stop finding a way to escape this hell. An escape to find a better place for the both of them.
To find a life for Newt.
"Newt," He tried the name again, louder and more clear this time. The lanky boy was sitting by the edge of his bed, body leaning forward and shoulders slumped.
Minho felt his heart swell at the sight of the boy before him. He's gotten thinner, he noticed, his posture became poorer. Newt's long dirty-blond hair reaching down his shoulders is now anything but a mess, eyes all but blank and lifeless; his body motionless as if he's not aware of what's happening around him. As if he's not aware that Minho is finally at his side.
Minho dashed towards Newt and kneels before the boy.
"Hey, you okay?" He gently took the boy's face in his calloused hands and examines him. "We're getting out, you hear me?" Minho declares and searches for his eyes, but only realizes that Newt is looking past him, his skin much paler under his touch. Why isn't he saying anything? Something is wrong. "Newt?" He tries to call for his name but didn't receive an answer. Dread strike through him.
"Newt, what have they done to you?!" He exclaimed in pure horror at the unresponsive boy.
"Newt! Newt, look at me. Look at me!" Minho begged and holds the boy's face like it's the most fragile flower he has ever held. But the boy never lifts his chin. His dull eyes remained fixated on the white tiled floor underneath their feet. Tears pricked at the end of Minho's eyes but he shook them away. "Don't let them get to you. Promise me. We're going to make it this time, Newt—!"
"Subject A-7 is here!"
Minho jerked his head at the source of the voice. He saw the guards running their way towards the room they were in. He cursed violently. He immediately stood up and scooped the boy in his arms.
"I'm getting us out of here." Minho promised as he desperately looks for another way out. "I'm not going to let them hurt you."
Newt never made any reaction, his face remained stoic. Minho's words never reached his ears, but there are tears slowly forming at the side of his eyes, a small twitch on his fingers; a sign that Newt is fighting for his consciousness.
Minho ran, with the blond boy securely on his back. He turned to every corner he was sure could lead them out. It was getting harder and harder, he's been running for a while now and he feels as though his legs are going to give out soon.
"They're here!" Another group of WICKED's soldiers took sight of them. Minho growled in irritation and sprinted on the opposite way, the guards are suddenly everywhere. When he thought that strength is slowly leaving him, that's when he heard it.
"Min— drug—"
Minho almost trip when he heard Newt's rough voice by his ear. Then it clicked. They gave Newt something. He was drugged. And knowing WICKED, they must've used a special drug on him.
"Shuck!"
Minho needs to grab an antidote, to help remove the drug out of Newt's system before it can bring more harm to him. He made his way to the pharmacy— or to wherever they hide their medicines and such— a quick left turn with double white doors as its entrance, he made his way in. He gently got Newt off his back and leans him on the wall for support. Once he took hold of what's needed –after rummaging almost all drawers and cabinets in the room— Minho returned to Newt's side.
He quickly made Newt drink it and waited, silently praying that the guards won't find them soon. Minho ducked his head when he saw a group of soldiers passing, and sighing in relief when they weren't found. He returned his gaze back to Newt and saw the boy's eyes slowly closing before bursting out into wild coughs.
Newt started coughing violently, hands covering his mouth in a poor attempt to stop them. Minho watched him in pure worry. When Newt removed his hands from his mouth, Minho paled at the sight of blood on his palms. No. The blond went limp and fell forward into Minho's arms.
"N-no, no, no, no. Newt!" Minho stammers, gently shaking the boy. "Shit, shit, shit!" Did he get the right antidote? He felt for Newt's pulse and what he found frightened him even more. He panics. Newt's heartbeat is barely there. He's slowly losing it. It's going to stop. He's going to die. Minho shuts his eyes tightly as silent tears roll down his cheeks. Fear crawling up his skin like barbs as the thought of Newt dying because of him. He never felt so scared ever in his life. He envelops the smaller boy in his trembling arms and finally let his self cry, burying his face on the long column of the blond's neck.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He apologized repeatedly. "Don't go. Don't go. Don't leave me—" He wept. Everything is suffocating him. Without Newt, he is nothing. Everything will be pointless. Minho felt numb, the throbbing in his legs and arms are long forgotten. All he can feel now is the terror of losing the blond boy he wanted to protect so desperately. His heart breaking apart. His fear eating him up. WICKED is to blame.
The world around him doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter if they find him. He doesn't care anymore. Nothing matters anymore now that Newt is—
He never believed in miracles, but when he felt Newt stilled in his arms and let out a huge gasp— as if taking in his first breath— Minho swore he never felt more relieved in his life.
"Newt?" He called hesitantly, unsure, gently pulling away from the boy to see his face, but held him still around his shoulders. The light on Newt's eyes returned as they slowly focus on Minho's form, sweat glistened on his skin like small precious pearls.
"M-min…ho?" He croaked. His deep voice sounded hoarse and dry, as if it has been years since he last spoken.
Minho choked and sobbed. "I thought I lost you. I was so shuckin scared." Minho confessed weakly. He never admits feelings. He never cried. He never let emotions take the best of him. Feelings are for weaklings. He used to say. But Newt changed them all. Newt made him feel. Newt made him human.
The blond boy wrapped his lean arms around his friend and smiled softly. "Min," He whispers, grateful to have Minho with him.
"Minho. Newt."
Minho spun around and gently pushes Newt behind him for protection. His eyes darkened when he saw who was standing before them.
"Thomas."
Minho spat the name with thick venom in his voice. The said boy had his right arm stretched in front of him, a gun in his hand pointed at them.
"Get away from Newt, Minho."
"Geez. What happened to the names in stupid codes?" Minho hissed at the sound of his name being called by this boy he now loathed so much, his eyes rolling at the way Thomas is now addressing them. He doesn't like how his name rolls off Thomas' tongue, especially Newt's.
"When did we start having a name?!" He yelled angrily. They were never addressed by their names. They were being called as subjects and variables WICKED has been experimenting on.
Like dirty, little rats.
Thomas is no older than Newt and Minho. They were the trio everyone envies. The three best friends no one dared to break apart. They were all under WICKED, but Thomas has always been their favorite. Until one day, he started to drift away. Away from them and closer to WICKED.
Now, standing before them— who Minho calls a traitor— flinched at Minho's words. Selfish prick. You were never our friend! All you care about is yourself! Minho gritted his teeth in irritation.
"I never imagined you'll do this to us, whose side are you really on, shuckface?!" Minho fumed.
"Enough! I never wanted any of this!" The accused boy countered, finally letting himself speak to defend himself. His hand shook terribly as he tightened his grip on his launcher aimed at his friends. Friends. Such a tragic moment. He was leveling a gun at people he calls his friends. But he's doing this for them. He believed. He couldn't let them see him waver. This is for the better. This is for their sake.
WICKED is good.
"Then why are you doing this, huh?" Minho questioned, face red with anger. He felt the faint touch of Newt's slim fingers reaching for his elbow in an attempt to calm him, but Minho is too caught up with his deep hatred towards Thomas.
He couldn't help the anger inside him, especially finding out what they have done to Newt. They were killing him.
"You should be helping us! Not helping them!" Minho barked.
"Minho, believe me! Everything is going to be okay. You don't have to fight them! They'll get Newt a cure!"
"And you shuckin believe that junk?!" Minho's jaw clenched. Lies. Lies over lies. He doesn't trust anyone anymore. He knows WICKED doesn't plan on saving Newt. They've sacrificed great numbers of other kids just for this sick game, what makes Newt any different from them? He's not like Thomas. He's not WICKED's favorite. WICKED doesn't care about kids like them.
"They're close to getting a cure. We just have to believe in them-"
"That's full of klunk! You bastard! What makes you think I'll believe you? You're their favorite pet!" Minho stood up and all he sees is red, his fist ready to strike.
"Min!"
A gunshot was heard and Minho felt his world move in slow motion.
Thomas' eyes were bloodshot. 'No. I didn't mean to—' He noticed a large hand over his own that made him pull the trigger. He felt his whole body shook as he trails his eyes on the arm up to the owner's face. And he felt the colors of his own drain.
"Dr. J-janson."
"Newt!"
Thomas snaps his head back to look at his friends. His heart froze at the sight of Minho cradling the fallen Newt, trying desperately to stop the bleeding on his head that is recoloring his beautiful blond locks. He was shot on the forehead and Minho looked desolated as he clung to him as if such action would prevent the smaller boy from leaving. Minho cried like a wounded dog, crying Newt's name over and over like a mantra. He knew it's hopeless but nothing can make Minho more than he is now.
Thomas dropped the gun in shock and felt his heart clench in pain, both his hands trembling uncontrollably; eyes wide and unblinking.
"N-no."
He felt a small pat on his shoulder, almost distracting him from the scene in front of him. Janson leans down on his ear, whispering with his hot breath, he said.
"You did well, my boy."
Tbc.
A/N: This story was written ages ago and I stumble upon this work because I've got a lot of free time on my hands now. Thought I should post this now and continue the work. ;) I own nothing, all characters belong to James Dashner.