The doors to the Medical Wing slid open with a hiss, echoing around the empty hallway. Thomas stood at the entrance, before cautiously stepping into the tangled web of glass partitions, IV machines, and sterile white walls. The lab looked abandoned, a thin layer of dust covering the beds, and the normally beeping machines shut off.

Except for one room.

The doorknob was well-worn, the door thick white wood, and Thomas could hear the beeping of machines through the solid walls. A sign on the door read Private. Authorized Personnel Only.

I'll bet that's where Newt is. Thomas gripped the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door opened with a creak, and Thomas stepped inside, expecting to see his best friend, and his heart leap with anticipation.

But it deflated when he got inside.

The room had a single window in the back, and the setting sun gleamed off the metal equipment inside. It was the largest room Thomas had seen in the Wing, with desks pushed up against the side walls, and multiple computer screens lining above. A gurney with leather bounds lay in the center, multiple tubes ending in needles leading their way from the gurney to a large metal piece of technology. Dials, buttons, all sorts of bells and whistles lined the sides, which lead to metal spouts that dripped into glass vials.

All in all, it was huge, and looked ominously like an instrument of torture.

All it seemed to be missing was a person to lie on the gurney.

Thomas glanced around the room, until catching a metal sign with his eye above the doorway. Fused metal letters read Extraction-Replication standing starkly out against the off-white colouring of the walls.

Sudden realization hit Thomas.

This was for him.

He kept his eyes glued to the needles and tubes as he backed out of the room, as if they were going to come up and grab him if he turned away. As soon as he was fully out of the room, he swung the door shut and backed away down the corridor. No way was this ever going to be used. He was getting Newt, and he was getting the hell out of here.

Thomas raced down the hall, gun ready to shoot anything that came around the corner. Knowing that anyone he met could strap him down into that gurney and drain the life out of him naturally put him on edge.

But every room he passed seemed deserted.

If not for the Extraction-Replication room with the new technology, Thomas would've guessed that nobody had been in here for years. Not only did the dust give it away, but the aura was one that felt abandoned, one you wouldn't want for a medical lab.

Suddenly, as Thomas rounded a corner, he heard a noise.

A beeping.

A faint sound from a machine, signifying something was actually vibrant.

Like Newt.

Thomas quickened his pace until he was fully running, the slap of his shoes echoing around the empty wing. Following the impersonal beeping, he raced around corners, until he reached a pair of sliding glass doors.

And beyond them, slightly cloudy through the smudged glass was…

"Newt." Thomas let out the word in a long exhale, and he stepped forward as the doors slid open, fully revealing the body on the gurney.

Thomas stumbled forward, unshed tears blurring his vision as he hurriedly crossed the room to Newt. He was there. He was right there, and he was alive.

Oh God, Newt was alive.

Thomas was suddenly overcome with a rush of emotion, and he sank to his knees, and half crawled, half dragged his way to the side of the gurney and pulled himself up.

Newt lay there, asleep or unconscious, cuts and gashes peppering his face. He wore a plain white shirt and cargo pants, and Thomas couldn't see his arms and legs, but judging on the blood stains, he was injured on them as well. His face was pale, and scrunched with discomfort as he slept, and the stark black veins still snaked their way around his neck. His shoulder lay precariously, looking slightly off of where it should be. Burns dotted his collarbone, and Thomas could see the tops of whip marks poking out of the top of his loose-fitting shirt.

"My god Newt, what have they done to you?" Thomas muttered, horrified. His eyes roved over the blood and other injuries, resting on the veins contrasting strongly against his pale skin.

"Tommy! Kill me!"

The last time that Thomas saw veins like that on Newt, was when he was begging to die.

The knife tip brushed precariously against Thomas's chest. All remnants of his best friend were gone as Newt drove the blade closer and closer. It seemed like Newt was fighting though, as a flash of him came back, and he pulled the blade out. "I'm sorry Tommy."

"It's okay, it's okay."

And then he pulled the gun on himself. And Thomas's heart stopped. As the gun hit the floor with a clatter, Newt lost himself again. And they struggled and fought, and one ended up with a knife through his chest, and the other one a knife through his heart.

Thomas jolted back to reality as a small moan escaped Newt, He fumbled around in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a familiar blue vial.

The Cure.

Thomas rattled around in the small bureau, hoping to find a needle in the small hospital room. The first two drawers had nothing useful, but on the third drawer, a small needle lay cleanly in it's spot.

Thomas filled the needle with shaking hands, trying not to spill a single drop. He tossed the now empty, useless glass bottle on top of the bureau, and approached Newt's bedside, rolling up the sleeve of his left arm.

Newt quivered slightly, and Thomas had to swallow down the bile that rose up in his throat. His arm was dotted with injection sites, some of them an angry red, but then again, it was hard to tell which blood was internal and which was external.

He hoped this wouldn't hurt him more, but it had to be done. With a deep breath, and hoping to God he wouldn't mess it up, he positioned the needle above Newt's arm and pushed it in. With a push of the plunger, the Cure entered Newt's bloodstream.

The effect was amazing to watch.

His skin blossomed, giving it a healthier tint rather than the pale grey it was before. As it worked its way through his body, the Crank-ness diminished at a rapid pace, before reaching his neck and face. Thomas watched with amazement as the veins slowly constricted, shrinking until all that was left was smooth, untarnished skin. His eyes didn't look so sunken, and his face grew healthier by the second.

He was Newt.

Suddenly, he started gasping, breathing in huge lungfuls of air, twitching slightly on the bed, and Thomas jumped back, alarmed. "Newt? Newt, can you hear me?!"

Then, with a great shudder, and a long intake of breath, Newt's eyes opened.

A heavenly darkness had consumed Newt. Restful sleep, something he hadn't had for a long time, as they were usually plagued with nightmares or interrupted with mind torture. But he was finally feeling peaceful.

He should have known it wouldn't have lasted.

His cloudiness was pierced as his arm was, the familiar pinch of a needle startling him from his rest. And he was suddenly on a roller coaster ride through his mind, as the sensation of drinking cool, sweet tea consumed his entire body.

And suddenly, he was feeling better.

His body still shucking hurt, but the nauseasness, constant bewilderment, and general feeling like shit was diminishing, until he felt almost fully like himself again.

Wait.

His brain was sending him a warning.

You've been here how long? You know they do mind torture. This is another form. Keep yourself safe. Prepare yourself. Protect yourself.

Being in FEUDING's hands for so long, Newt always expected torture when something was different, and though the Flare still muddled his brain, it always knew when to tell Newt to give up. To stop hoping. To keep himself safe.

So when he opened his eyes looking into Tommy's face, he knew it wasn't real.

"Newt!" Thomas ran back to Newt's bedside in 2 seconds flat. His eyes roamed wildly around the room, as if waiting for something, and Thomas could not handle the panicked look on his face.

"Newt! It's me! It's Thomas! It's Tommy!"

Thomas grabbed his hand and looked into Newt's deep brown orbs. But to his shock, Newt scrambled away from him, moaning as he jostled his injuries as he tried to fold into himself on the bed.

"Please stop!" he whispered pitifully. "You win. I can't take it! Stop showing me his face…"

Thomas's heart broke at the slow tears running down Newt's face.

"Newt. It's me. It's not them. It's me, I'm here! Look at me!"

"That's what they say. Look at him. But when I look... he turns into a Crank. He turns his back on me. He kills Minho in front of me. He pushes me off the wall. He leaves me. He dies. He's not Tommy."

Newt let out a small hiss of pain as he tried to curl his head into his arms. "Just leave me to die. Just kill me already." he muttered.

Thomas bit his lip to stop it from trembling as unshed tears blurred his vision. How could he prove to Newt that he was real? Then a thought struck him. He reached down his shirt and pulled something off his neck.

And he slowly undid it and pulled out a piece of paper.

And read something he knew FEUDING would not know existed.

"Dear Thomas. This is the first letter I can remember writing. Obviously I don't remember writing any before the Maze, but even if it's not my first, it's likely to be my last. I want you to know that I'm not scared. Well not of dying anyway, it's more forgetting."

Thomas ceased his reading to look back down at Newt, whose eyes were wide with disbelief.

"Tommy?"

Thomas nodded, once.

"This is real?"

Thomas leaned down and wrapped his arms around Newt, who hugged back enthusiastically. His grip was weak, one arm hanging uselessly by his side, but emotions were strong as they clung to each other, each crying tears of joy as two best friends reunited.