I'm honestly surprised people still read this. I thought this was a sack of clunk, really. I went over to fictionpress, and that's where I'm at most of the time.
But I'm doing this one for old times sake, back in my old writing style. Totally not cause a friend pestered me till I did it.
I don't own the Maze Runner or its characters, all rights go to James Dashner
Thomas was in his room. How had he gotten in his room?
He remembered drinking alone, in a narrow corridor, till he passed out. Newt was there, laughing at him and nicking his glass.
No, that was wrong. He didn't drink. Nor had alcohol been made in years. Not even moonshine was created anymore.
A narrow corridor. Screams. A woman sobbing. A baby crying. He knew that corridor.
He could almost hear somebody asking him to just forget about it. But he hadn't made it through the Maze, then the Scorch, by being anybody's fool.
His gut told him something was very wrong here. And he had to find out, if only because curiosity would eat at him from the inside if he didn't at least try.
A nagging voice in the back of his head told him this was probably another set up by WICKED. Still didn't assuage his curiosity. For better or for worse, Thomas needed to know if the screams and the crying were real. Because if so, there were a couple answers he really needed to beat out of the Rat.
Who could he take along? Minho would be way too trigger-happy for this. He'd charge in screaming bloody murder the moment he heard anything, and the whole business would deteriorate from there.
Newt might be an option too. But really, did Thomas want to drag him into yet another potentially dangerous situation? He'd already caused the guy to get shot once, and now his memories were probably as scrambled as his own were just a minute ago. That, more than anything, told him WICKED was trying to cover something up.
Who else could he count on? His mind cycled through various companions, everybody he'd taken the time to know during the whirlwind of a time they'd been in the Trials. His mind kept settling to Aris, then Teresa.
Aris? Thomas raised an eyebrow, not caring that only he could see it. Unless, of course, WICKED had planted a camera or a dozen in his room. He wouldn't put it past them, actually. But he hadn't really known Aris for too long. Well, not since the Trials had started and he'd lost most of his memories. The Rat and what few memories he got did imply that they were tight before though. So many he was just being paranoid.
Teresa, though… there was a piece of work more tangled up than a ball of yarn. On one hand, he had a sneaking suspicion she was still somewhat mad at him. After all, he had been something of a slinthead to her for ages after the Betrayal Variable. Still, she would have his back. But that meant thrusting her right back into the line of fire again.
It was so much harder to decide what to do when it wasn't all of them that was in danger, but he could pick which.
But that was wrong, Thomas realized. If he messed up here, WICKED would know scrambling his memories wouldn't cut it anymore. If he disappeared, somebody was bound to be suspicious. Unless, of course, WICKED simply faked all their memories of him.
Since when had he thought things like that were simple? Since WICKED had made him think a brick wall existed where there was none, maybe.
He'd bring nobody else. He couldn't put all of them into danger again. But first he had to get out of this room.
You could call a room yours if you live in it, and you had your belongings in it. He'd only seen this room for the first time, but he knew it was his somehow.
He walked slowly to the nearest drawer, an odd sense of familiarity in his mind. The whitewashed walls had little markings on them, like scratches made from little fingernails rubbing away at the walls repeatedly. Perhaps from boredom, really, because it would take a really, really long time to make markings like the ones he was seeing. Whoever had lived in here hadn't exactly been thrilled by the place.
His hands clammy in the air-conditioned room, he opened the nearest drawer slowly, afraid of what he might find. More likely, though, there would be nothing in it. WICKED didn't waste much, seeing how the entire planet was in the middle of a crisis.
All it contained, though, was neatly folded clothes. Thomas pulled one out, holding it in his hands till it unfolded to its full size.
"Looks like what a 12 year old would wear," he muttered to himself, "Looks like my style, actually."
He piled the clothes on the sparse bed beside it. He wasn't sure exactly what he was hoping to find, just something less mundane than old clothing that some kid used to wear.
Some kid that was probably long dead. The world they lived in was neither gentle nor kind. Maybe that's why he was here.
His intuition was right, though. At the bottom of the pile was a folded piece of paper and a metal key.
He picked up the metal key, examining it. Walking back to the door, he took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn't accidentally set off any alarms.
It slipped in easily. Thomas stopped breathing, one hand still on the key while the other ready to punch anybody or anything that came through that door.
Five seconds passed. Then ten. Still nothing.
His heart pounding in his ears, he turned the lock. No alarms went off yet. That was a good sign, he hoped.
Breathing slightly easier, he left the key in the hole and walked back to the drawer, eager to read the note.
The paper had yellowed somewhat, and the handwriting, already shaky when written, was hard to decipher, even for him. It was a simple letter, only four lines long, but it still made him shiver.
We were wrong.
We're not gods.
We can't do this.
Stop this, Thomas.
He remembered a saying about how it felt like a goose was walking over his grave. Well, this felt like the goose had made a nest and laid eggs on it.
It did pretty much confirm that this used to be his room, though. He almost pitied the old him, but then he remembered how many of his friends he'd watched die in the Scorch.
Maybe his old life was still better than the horror that his current life is. He just didn't sleep as much, so the nightmares don't come.
He just didn't sleep so he wouldn't have to see their faces. All of them with hopes and dreams, all with friends, and the collective desire to get out of the Trials.
Try as he might, he couldn't imagine them as a statistic. No, they were all people, who would now never get to live another day.
A necessary sacrifice? Maybe. But he'd sooner die than follow WICKED's thinking.
He placed the piece of paper back, concealing it again with those old clothes. He almost wished he hadn't seen it, cause all it had brought were unpleasant memories.
He recollected his thoughts, forcing himself into a state of calm. It would do him no good to fall apart right now.
He stepped out of the room as quickly and soundlessly as he could, dodging security cameras on instinct. He remembered doing this a long time ago, with Teresa manipulating the feeds. But that was the past, and he had to concentrate on the present.
He slipped past camera after camera, ducking occasionally so they wouldn't catch him. He was forced to reroute several times, so he wouldn't be caught by WICKED staff walking past.
Twice he saw a Psych in arm's reach. It took every ounce of control he had not to reach out and strangle the guy where he stood.
In a flash, he found the corridor that he remembered. There were no more screams, or crying. He took a quick look around him to make sure nobody was tailing him, then walked into the room.
Nothing he'd seen could have prepared him for the sight. In front of him were two people, a woman and a small child, lying on surgical tables, the bloody tools of the trade next to them.
Their brains had been dissected, and certain parts looked like they had been removed. The woman's hands were caught into claws, and the baby's face in a rictus grin. Both had empty, staring eyes with a suffering expression on their face.
Thomas quickly swallowed down the vomit that had risen. He couldn't stand to be in the room any longer, not even to find out just what was going on.
He ran blindly, not caring if every camera saw him. He ran because running could take away all his thoughts and just leave him there, peaceful. He ran like he would run, back in the Maze.
And he just kept running.