Chapter 45. The Flare.

They put drops from each test tube into glasses of water to see if they dissolved. They boiled it. They crushed an apple and mixed in the juice. They sprinkled salt, dust and whatever they could find onto the liquid. The problem wasn't that nothing reacted; many things did, and that's what made it so frustrating. The liquids dissolved in water, turned into foul-smelling steam when boiled, and became greenish when reacting to anything sour. The two different liquids appeared identical, down to the blue hue and flowery smell.

Minho yawned. "What's next?"

Thomas put a plate onto the steadily growing stack. They dripped liquid onto plates when testing something new. One plate, eight drops of poison, one of a cure. One plate on the pile, one failed experiment. It was a large pile. Thomas looked around the kitchen for anything they hadn't tried.

He looked out the window."It's late. Maybe it's best if we sleep a few hours. Clear our heads, you know." His stomach growled angrily. "We should eat first, though."

"Do we have time for a break?" Minho asked.

"We have three days."

"We've been at this for hours without any results."

"We won't get any results if we're starved and sleep-deprived. This isn't a challenge, it's a puzzle. They expect us to figure it out, but we need to be able to think."

"Rat Man said it didn't matter to them if we failed."

"Then let's stop wasting time arguing and get dinner. We can think about the trial while we're eating."

Minho —as tired and hungry as Thomas— had to agree.

Thomas went to the council room to fetch Newt. Upon entering the room, he froze in alarm for a second, until he saw his friend blink. He lay motionless on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

"Hey," Thomas said. "Minho and I—"

"Can you see me?" Newt interrupted, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I? You're lying in the middle of the room."

"She can't see. Maybe it's just you." His expression changed from blank to sad.

"If she looked up at you—"

"Through me."

"Then the barrier lets us see her and not the other way around. Come on, we're having dinner. Get up."

Newt didn't seem to hear him, but he got up when Thomas reached out to help him. "Ghosts don't eat dinner," he mumbled.

"You're not a ghost, though, so I don't see a problem."

"But that's why only you can see me. Because you killed me, and I'm haunting you now." As quickly as the sorrow had appeared, it gave way for anger. The change was seemingly out of nowhere, in the middle of his sentence.

"You're not dead, Newt," Thomas said, startled.

"You killed me!" Newt pointed at him accusingly. "I begged you to… I don't remember, but either way you failed! Let me live, kill me now… Please, Tommy, plea—"

"Stop!" Thomas said sharply. He'd tried to stay neutral but those words were unbearable. Not because of the memory of them, but because of how they sounded now, and because whereas before they had been a last moment of sanity, there was no such thing in Newt's eyes this time. The look was intense, wild. He had to look away. He couldn't help but feel that his friend was lost, though he knew there was still time. He would go back to normal at some point, surely, but now there was the creeping fear that the point would never appear. As soon as he'd thought it, Newt threw himself at Thomas, almost pushing him off his feet. His arms clung to him tightly. Thomas wasn't sure whether Newt was trying to hug or squeeze the life out of him. Before he could react, his friend let go and pushed him away angrily.

Thomas caught himself on the wall and stared in confusion as Newt walked away. He hadn't been like this before, in the simulation, though that wasn't the real thing. If this was the real Flare, he didn't like it any more than the other one. He couldn't begin to imagine what was going through Newt's head that made him act like this. He hadn't tried to hurt Thomas, but if he could shift from sorrow to aggression in the blink of an eye, how long would it be before he became a danger? He didn't want to think of his friend like that, but he couldn't forget how he'd fought with Minho, or how he'd pummelled the Crank that hurt his sister with his fists until it was dead and then kept going, or how he'd raked his nails across his own head until he bled, like that would get rid of the virus in his brain. He almost changed his mind about taking a break in the search for a cure, but logic won out in the end.

Nobody said a word during dinner. Thomas would meet Minho's gaze every once in a while. Newt looked stubbornly out the window the entire time. Thomas turned the puzzle over in his head, trying to think of anything new to try, but his concentration was constantly slipping, partly from the room's tension putting him on edge. He left the kitchen as soon as he'd eaten, leaving his friends behind. Somebody would have to wash the dishes soon, he knew. There were enough plates for all the Gladers from before, but they had used quite a few already. He supposed he'd have to do it. He couldn't ask Minho with his arm in the state it was, and he didn't know what would happen if he spoke to Newt. He wouldn't do it now, though. He brushed his teeth before heading to bed -toothpaste, they hadn't tried that.

He awoke at seven, feeling rested and almost good until he remembered what was going on. Twelve hours were gone already, but he had the hope that came with a new day. He considered waking Minho but decided against it; he could work by himself for a while. He went downstairs to look at the hourglass. He found Newt in the council room, though he slipped out as soon as he saw Thomas, who didn't comment on it, instead going over to the end of the room. A fine dusting of purple sand had formed beneath the hourglass. He went over to the guard next. She looked straight ahead this time. Though he waved his hand in front of her, she could obviously not see through the wall.

He was about to leave when he noticed the chairs. Before they had stood in disarray, but now they were placed like they had been on the day Thomas stood before the council. He stopped behind the chair, putting a hand on the back of it, and remembered the keepers' eyes on him. Nobody was looking now, not that he could see, at least. Some of the keepers were dead now. He remembered where they sat that day, Zart and Winston, the Grievers and the lightning storm. Why would Newt replicate the scene like this? He supposed there had been more meetings in there, ones he'd never attended, but even to him, this view was a painful reminder. When he left he took care to not disturb the seats, which had some sort of sacredness to them now, as if the ghosts sat there, still judging him.

He'd come up with a few new tricks to try. New plates were taken from their cupboard and had the two liquids dripped onto them. One plate he put in the freezer, the other on the windowsill where it was struck by the morning sun. He didn't know what kind of result he expected from the latter, but what's to say there wasn't something hidden in the artificial sunshine? Both experiments would take time and attention, but that was just as well. Thomas could go back and forth to view the liquids and their changes while thinking of other solutions should these tests prove fruitless.

The drops in the freezer had turned to ice before he finished breakfast, all of them at the same time as far as he saw. He perched in front of the window to keep a closer watch on the other plate, though it was dreadfully boring and his gaze kept wandering to the window. The east door should have opened by now. Seeing the uninterrupted stone wall in broad daylight made the Glade seem like even more of a prison, like he wasn't trapped in the Homestead already. At least the Glade would be a bigger cell. He glanced down at the plate once before resuming his staring. The difference in climate to the outside world was jarring. Though the gardens had been overtaken by weeds, they were very much alive. Then again, WICKED had maintained the same comfortable temperature throughout the experiment. However the Glade had been designed, it wasn't meant to mimic the weather outside. Why couldn't WICKED have used this for good? Get rid of the maze and expand it a bit, and you'd have a village able to shelter hundreds. It would have been a way to keep non-immunes safely out of reach of contamination. It had been a difficult structure to create, and expensive, but surely they could have done more with this than run their trials. Maybe they figured looking for a cure to the Flare was good enough, and didn't think about what would happen if they failed or what went on while they were searching. He could understand the Right Arm's motivations and their resentment towards WICKED.

An unwanted thought came to him. A scenario in which they didn't find a cure and gave up, deciding to stick all the immunes they could find inside the two mazes and keep them in there forever. They would lead a miserable existence, but they would be able to sustain themselves. Until the people on the outside stopped caring and the water supply was cut off. With a shudder, Thomas looked down at the plates again. No changes.

Fed up with sitting down and not doing anything, he decided to try out some of his newer ideas. He pricked his finger with a sewing needle from the infirmary and let the blood drip onto the liquids, thinking that the poison might have an effect. There was no change in appearance, and though the poison had worked quickly when used earlier, Thomas let it sit for a while to see if anything would happen eventually. He wondered if Newt's blood would help distinguish between the poison and cure. Though the virus clung to the brain, there were surely trace amounts of it passing through the blood, and it stood to reason that the cure would attack the virus.

Newt entered the kitchen not long after he'd had the idea, and though his loud, increasingly clumsy movements caught Thomas' attention immediately, he went in and out before there was any time to ask. He would bring it up later that day, when Newt wasn't trying to avoid him, assuming there would be such a time. If not he'd have to approach him anyway, though that was not something he looked forward to.

Minho showed up a few minutes after eight. "Why didn't you wake me up?" He asked.

"I had some new ideas that I could try by myself. There wasn't a point in dragging you out of bed."

"Did you find anything?"

Thomas gave an account of the morning's experiments. Minho shook his head with disappointment upon hearing that he hadn't discovered anything useful. His friend had some theories of his own, but the list was short and produced no notable results.

They sat down in temporary defeat. Minho slammed a fist against the table.

"Careful, you don't wanna have two useless hands," Thomas mumbled. He had his palms pressed to his forehead as if that would ward off his headache. He had twisted and turned over the riddle in his thoughts, but he simply did not get it. It was by a narrow margin he kept from plummeting into despair, and those hopes were based on WICKED, which was hardly reassuring. He knew what they wanted: for him and his friends to struggle. That was what would get them a cure. The puzzle would seem unsolvable until they found the crucial piece. For all its faults, WICKED was usually not unnecessarily malicious, though they did have questionable standards for the whole matter of good and bad. Following the pattern, one of them would find some alternate solution of finding the cure or escaping. But if he was aware of their method, would WICKED stick to it? If his worries were eased by the knowledge that things would be fine, then the trial would be ineffective. Should he then try to stress as much as possible? He would certainly not take the cure-problem lightly, and that should be enough. Even if he went along with some unknown plan, he knew he wouldn't get the answers handed to him, and they had the threat of consequences hanging over them. He would be plenty stressed out even if he tried to prevent it, so that would not be a problem.

They were half a day into the trial and he was out of ideas, except for one. If that didn't work, he would have to sit in the chair feeling miserable until he or Minho got another idea. No, there was no point in stalling anymore, they would try Newt's blood on the substances, and if it failed it would fail.

"Minho! Tommy!" Newt called from the other room, beating Thomas to the punch.

They rushed to the council room. It sounded urgent.

"It's Rat Man. He's back," Newt said when he saw them by the doorway.

Thomas passed through to get a better look, but there was nothing to look at. He turned in all directions but he couldn't see Rat Man anywhere.

"Where is he?"

Newt pointed to an empty chair —the leader's chair— as if it were obvious.

"Did he leave?" Thomas asked though that wasn't the answer his mind led towards.

"No. Rat Man is here. Now." Newt rolled his eyes at the place he'd pointed out. "I don't care what your name is, you still look like a bloody rat."

"Dude, there's nobody there," Minho said.

A disbelieving smile crossed Newt's face before he turned narrowed eyes on the chair. "What's this? Why can't they see you?" He paused, waiting for a response. "I'm not. You know that, so stop pretending."

Was the Rat Man truly there, invisible to them? But what would be the point of that? Minho looked no less baffled than Thomas felt.

"Not real? What's that supposed to mean?" Newt's eyes widened as if he understood everything perfectly. "None of this is real. The trial, all the trials… everything?" Some strange emotion passed over his face, soon settling on anger. "Answer me! Was any of it real?" He recoiled at what was presumably the answer.

"What's going on?" Minho asked.

"He says everything was a lie. This place was never real, and the people…" Newt looked at his friends with a fresh wave of terror. "Are you real? Am I?"

"Of course we are," Thomas said. "I don't know what… what Rat Man is telling you, but don't listen to him."

"You don't believe me. You think I'm lying."

"Look, I'm sure you see Rat Man over there, but we don't," Minho said. "If he's there or not, Thomas is right. Don't listen."

"Is this it?" Newt asked. "The Gone?" He turned to the figure he saw, glaring. "Slim it!" He leapt at the empty air as if to tackle Rat Man, but only knocked the chair to the floor. He stood up, confused, and Thomas thought he must have snapped out of it, but then he turned around and appeared to see his target again.

Thomas had entertained the possibility that Rat Man was there, invisible to him and Minho, but this? Invisibly teleporting around the room, judging by the failed attacks. Saying that nothing was real; wasn't that the type of paranoid ideas an infected would come up with? And he was sure he'd seen hallucinations listed as a symptom. It seemed to come out of nowhere with this sudden intensity, but what else could it be?

With Minho's help, Thomas pulled Newt out of the room. He had stopped protesting after they passed the doorway, but Thomas still wished there was a door to shut behind them.

"He wasn't there," Newt said quietly. "He looked so real, but I couldn't touch him, and you couldn't see him."

"So it was a hallucination?" Minho asked.

"I don't know!" Newt exploded. He wiped at his eyes. "It's all so blurry! You're not real." He swung a fist at Minho, who just managed to back away.

"Stop it! I'm not your enemy," Minho raised his hand in surrender.

The fist dropped. Newt looked back and forth between Minho and Thomas. "I can't take it. Please, just make it stop."

"We will. We'll find the cure any minute now," Thomas said. Things were looking bleak on that front, but what else could he say? He knew they would find it before the conclusion of their three days.

Newt shook his head. "No. you can't cure me. I can't be saved."

"Of course you can. Come on, we'll show you. We could use your help, actually."

Newt was gone in a flash, up the stairs, and into the room.

The miserable day continued. No discoveries, no progress. Anything Thomas or Minho could come up with ended up useless, and with every failed experiment they grew more frustrated. Frustrated and afraid. The Flare was making itself clearer each time they saw their friend. After the incident in the council room, he'd thrown everything he could find across the upstairs room, and though it seemed he had come to his senses and tried to clean up, the room was a mess. At lunch, his face twitched involuntarily every other minute, and he sat muttering to himself through most of dinner. He wouldn't say what it was about, and it soon became clear that getting near enough to hear was not a good idea."We should go to bed," Minho said. "I'm sure we'll have some new ideas in the morning.

"It is getting late," Thomas agreed. "You guys go first, I'll clean the dishes."

Minho left, and Thomas stared at the stacks of plates. The sight of every one of his failures made him feel ready to throw up. Just as he was putting the first plate in the sink, it was snatched from his hand.

"I can do it," Newt said.

Thomas hadn't realized he was still in the room. "Okay. Thanks."

One moment his friend was throwing furniture, the next he was helping with the dishes. The unpredictability was putting him on edge. This seemed like a period of clarity, though. Now the other boy was determined to help out however he could. Thomas sat at the table after he'd picked up a towel to help out and been glared at. He didn't protest, having no desire to be near those plates, though it was satisfying to watch his failures being washed away.

The experiment with his blood had resulted in a diluted, poisonous sludge that left a stain on the plate on top of it. Newt stilled. He probably hadn't expected to see the blood, and it did look like there was more of it than it really was now that it had mixed with the other liquids. His friend looked from the plate in his hands to the one that had been underneath. With a start, he dropped the plate into the sink.

"It's happening again."

"Huh?"

"Blood. It's everywhere! It can't be, but…" He caught sight of his sleeve, still displaying a rust-like stain from Alby's death.

"You're not imagining it," Thomas said, but was drowned out by the running tap-water.

For all his efforts to wash them out, the stains would not come out of Newt's shirt, and when he realized that, he picked up a shard of the broken plate.

Thomas leapt to his feet "No! It's real! It's been there for days!" He shouted as he took away the shard before his friend tried to remove the sleeve with it. "It's Alby's. I'm sure you can get rid of it, but not like that."

"Alby's?" For a moment Thomas feared he had forgotten. "Oh. Of course. But…" He pointed at the bloody plate.

"That's mine,"

"Yours? What did you do?"

"It was an experiment. I added some of my blood to the liquids to see if the poison and cure reacted differently."

"Did they?"

"Nothing happened to either. I didn't expect the cure to do anything, but I had hopes about the poison."

"You should have asked me to do it. I'm a Crank. The cure's got to do something when it touches the Flare in my blood."

"I was going to ask, actually. We could try now."

Thomas hurried to prepare the two liquids for testing, while Newt cleared away the broken plate. Logically speaking, it should work. The blood dripped slowly, one for each on the plate —nine drops in total. Thomas waited for the cure to start sizzling, or moving, or doing anything.

After some minutes, Newt was the first to give up. "If this doesn't work, nothing will!" His friend said.

"Don't say that. We simply haven't found the right thing yet. If I keep trying—"

"No way! You've already bled for my sake. You can't get hurt over some pointless experiment."

"I won't get hurt, but you will, if I don't do anything."

"This is my problem. Mine, not yours!"

"If it's your problem, it's mine, too. And Minho's. We're your friends."

"That's why I'm telling you to stop trying and accept the truth!"

"The truth is that we will keep going until we find the cure."

"You won't find it."

Thomas took his friend by the hand. "Don't give up now. We're close —I know we are."

"And when will you give up?" Newt asked, squeezing Thomas' hand.

"Never. Please, promise me you won't either."

"I…" Newt let go, walked away.

Half their time had passed and Thomas was trying to disguise his despair from himself as much as from his friends, who were in low spirits themselves. Minho was tired and in pain, and Newt was watching from the other side of the room with hopelessness written over his features. Thomas had said he would never give up, and he had meant it, but how far could determination take anything? It would be far enough, or so he kept saying.

At one moment of desperation he suggested a particularly bad idea. None of them had seen how much poison had been taken by the dead women in the council room, but surely it was more than five drops, which was the most Thomas or Minho would have to take if they split the task between them."I take five and you take four," he told Minho.

"Good that. One at a time, so we can see if anything happens," Minho said.

Thomas agreed that the tastes would likely be as identical as the scents, and the true experiment was what the poison did to them that the cure didn't. It went unsaid that WICKED wouldn't let them drink enough to be harmed, so really, the worst that could happen was a tiny bit of excruciating pain. As long as he recovered fast enough to repeat the action, it would be worth it. They each took a test tube.

"Cheers," Minho said, about to pour a drop onto his finger.

"Slim it, the both of ya." Newt marched across the room to take the test tubes away from them."If anyone's drinkin' this, it's me."

"It won't work for you," Thomas said. "the cure won't affect us, but you could react to it and the poison the same way, and that wouldn't tell us anything."

"And what if it doesn't?"

"Five drops is already pushing it. Three more drops could be the difference between life and death."

"If three drops make that difference, you can't drink four or five. I drink or nobody does."

"Give the bottles back, Newt. We've gotta try," Minho said. Newt's face twisted into anger and he threw one of the test tubes to the floor. It didn't break or even crack, to Thomas' relief. Before it could be prevented, his friend stomped on it. Thomas, again, expected the crunch of broken glass, but the material was resilient. Newt picked it up, gathered the other eight in his arms, and took off.

Thomas and Minho followed him to the council room, where he was shoving the test tubes back onto their shelf. He then put himself in front of it like an ill-tempered guard dog.

"We won't drink them," Thomas said. "But we do need them to continue working, so if you could step aside, that'd be nice."

"You've done all you can. The only things left to try now will put you at risk, and I can't let you do that."

"We don't have time for this, shuckface," Minho said, advancing on the shelf.

"We've lost already, Minho. Whatever hell I'll end up in, I don't want your ugly face there with me, so back off."

Minho ignored it, attempting to reach past him to get to the test tubes. The blow was sudden and devastating, delivered to Minho's broken arm. He fell back with a scream of agony, curling up on the floor to protect his arm. Newt regarded his friend with a terrifying look of pure cruelty. With a grin, he aimed a kick at Minho's side. Thomas was there before he struck, pushing Newt away from Minho. He wasn't grinning anymore, but there was no remorse either. Thomas dodged his fists easily, because for all his unpredictability, Newt was staggering like a drunk and fighting like one, too. Thomas backed, leading Newt away from Minho, who was still on the floor

"Calm down, you don't have to do this," he tried. Newt paused. However, what Thomas had taken as his words breaking through the Flare's haze had been a feint. The fist collided with Thomas' cheek. The force and surprise and pain swept his feet out from beneath him and he landed under the hourglass. The purple sand billowed up around him like a dust-cloud. He had only the time to blink a few times and catch up with what had happened before a knee was pressed to his chest.

"Slim it!"

Thomas' fist clenched on a handful of sand. He brought the hand before Newt's face. "Look. There's more if it in the hourglass. There's still time." He blinked as purple dust fell from his hand into his eyes. "Look at the sand. The sand… The solution! I know how to find the cure!"

The pressure on his chest disappeared. Newt looked at the hourglass with disgust and spat on the floor before he stormed out.

Thomas helped Minho to his feet and explained his realization to him. His friend had gone pale from the pain in his arm, but he nodded and tried to smile through his clenched teeth. He insisted that he was alright, aside from the pain. Thomas didn't know what damage the fight may have caused, but he was sure that WICKED would mend it once they got out. The newfound hope was enough for his friend to continue.

Thomas sprinkled the grains of sand onto the plate. The mixture begun to swirl around, as if they had created life. The liquid from test tube number one and the sand settled into three tiny, identical discs. Thomas picked one up, carefully, and found to his surprise that it felt like some kind of metal. A purple metal that did not break apart into its original form however much he squeezed it between his fingers. The second drop produced two more, indistinguishable from the other three. One, and then two, depending on how much sand they put in. The fifth liquid was different from the first four, with two discs forming but a bit of sand remaining unchanged in a tiny spot of liquid. They thought they had found their solution until they tried the rest. No more discs, only sand and liquid that wouldn't mix. They tried the first five again but nothing happened this time.

"Maybe it only reacts some of the time, like if there's something in the different sand-particles," Minho suggested.

"I think there's a message here," Thomas said. "We only get these ten discs."

"What do we do with them?"

"They look an awful lot like the dots on the test tubes, don't you think?" Thomas held up a disc next to the number one written in dots on the test tube's front.

To his amazement, it stuck to the metal of the sign like a magnet. Silently, he put the discs in the places seemingly marked out for them. Two remained once he was finished. Was this how it was supposed to be done? By seeing which number had the correct amount of dots? And he did find a fit for all ten discs. The problem was that there were an additional two matches. Three, five, and seven all had ten dots.

They twisted and turned the new materials, but there was nothing to be found. Their new hopes were gone as soon as they had appeared. Thomas was sure the cure was in one of the three marked test tubes, but how would he distinguish between those? Should he try those three liquids like he had planned to, but secretly? It couldn't be a one out-of-three gamble, that much he was certain of. He would wait until his friends were asleep and then he would sneak downstairs to conduct the experiment. He had no choice; it had been more than two days, and the hourglass had visibly less sand inside than out, and that was with some of it taken away for the tests. He would suffer the consequences of ingesting poison whatever they were, and his friends would wake up to him triumphantly holding the cure.

It was around midnight and he'd been lying awake for over an hour. Minho had crashed fast, but he didn't know about Newt. He assumed he'd be asleep by now, and Thomas' own eyelids were beginning to feel heavy in any case. He couldn't risk falling asleep and missing his chance. It was now or never, and he'd promised he wouldn't give up. Just as he was about to move, the bed next to his creaked. He was on his side, facing Minho, but he could hear Newt behind him, getting out of bed. Walking. Pausing. Walking again, fading downstairs. He sat up, stared at the empty bed on his right and the door left wide-open. Why did the feeling of ominousness rise within him? His friend had gone to the bathroom, or the kitchen. What else would he be doing downstairs? His worries were unfounded and illogical. But he was headed downstairs himself, wasn't he? He could look around, see where his friend had gone, as long as he wasn't detected. Then he'd try his experiment. It was now or never, as he'd said to himself seconds ago.

And so he crept downstairs, listening for the creak of footsteps that were not his own. At the foot of the stairs he stopped to hear better. The floor did not betray him. The noise came from the council room, and he proceeded. His blood ran cold as ice when he saw Newt with his back to the doorway, lifting the transvice off its hook.

"What are you doing?"

Newt practically jumped in surprise before he turned around. He fumbled with the weapon until it was pointed at Thomas.

"Get out," he growled.

"What happens if I do?" Could there be a reason for his friend to be holding the transvice other than the horrible one?

"Alby was the one who told me… He's right, this is the best way. I'm dangerous. I can't be around you."

"Alby? You saw him?" Thomas moved closer, slowly.

"Didn't need to bloody see him. He told me… You're a liar!"

"Listen, we can sort this out. Put the transvice down."

Newt shook his head. "No. You let me believe he was still alive, but he's not. His blood is on me. It's my fault."

"It was Vince's fault."

"Just go away! Go now or I'll shoot you!"

Thomas was right in front of him, the transvice pointing at his heart. "I know you don't want to hurt me."

Newt seemed to hesitate for a second. Then the transvice swung upwards, hitting Thomas in the shoulder. He staggered back. Before he could regain his balance, he was yanked forward and spun around. He hit the wall with enough force to knock his breath out. One hand was pinning his throbbing shoulder to the wall, and a second circled his throat. The transvice lay forgotten on the floor.

"And what if I do want to hurt you?" The grip on his throat tightened, not enough to choke him, but not far from it. "This is what I am now. A murderer. A Crank. This is what you're trying to save."

"Go ahead, then, if that's who you are. Kill me."

The grip loosened. His friend looked appalled. Thomas seized the chance to push him away and dove for the transvice on the floor. Newt beat him to it.

"I don't want to kill you, but this thing is stronger than I am. I can't fight it for much longer!"

"You can! Just one more day!"

"No, you bloody idiot, I can't! If I don't do this now, I will get worse. This time tomorrow I could've already snapped and killed you. And Minho, too. It's easier for everyone…" He put the barrel of the weapon over his own chest. "It's quick, and then I'll be gone. You will forget."

"Don't you dare—"

"Alby's gone because of me! Don't make me kill you, too. I'm doing this for you -for all of you- but if you try to stop me..."

"Yes, Alby is dead, but remember what he said. He wanted you to look after the Gladers. You can't do that if you're gone." If he moved quickly, could he yank the transvice out of Newt's grip before he realized what was going on?

"The Gladers will have you."

"And who will I have?"

"Minho, and Teresa. I don't know. Figure it out. You're the bloody leader —always were."

"And you're the glue. Without you, we'd fall apart."

"Find someone else."

"There isn't anyone else, so put the shuck transvice away!" Thomas lunged, but Newt backed away before he could take the weapon.

"I'm sorry, Tommy, but you won't miss me. You'll forget."

"Never! I refuse. I don't care what technology they use, I'll never forget. Please, it's not too late. Don't leave."

The hesitation was Newt's downfall. Thomas reached for the transvice again. He got a firm grip, but Newt wasn't about to let him take it. Thomas tried his best to keep the barrel away from both of them as they fought. A kick to the shin sent Thomas tumbling to the floor, dragging Newt with him. As they fell, a dazzling white light flashed, reflecting on his friend's wild eyes. Hitting the ground hard, Thomas rolled to the side, pulling at the transvice with all his force. The resistance was suddenly gone. He sat up. The transvice! It had been fired! But no, Newt was still there, sitting next to him, staring at… Oh, something had been hit.

The transvice's beam had cut through the invisible barrier, which was now very much visible. The glass-like edges around the slash looked melted. The bodies were gone —dead and living alike. He threw the transvice behind him, going in for a closer inspection. Nothing was left of the three women. It was as if they'd turned into air in an instant.

Newt looked horrified. "I killed her. She was just there, but… I am a murderer."

"No, we were both fighting over the transvice. It's my fault as much as yours." Thomas was trying to push aside his queasiness. The guard was dead, just like that, and he was at least partly to blame, but he told himself all that mattered was that his friend was safe.

His relief almost let him forget. He embraced Newt fiercely, the adrenaline sinking away and leaving him to process what could have happened. It could have been Newt disappearing into thin air. But he was there, holding him, breathing.

"I'm sorry," Newt mumbled, over and over, the words only disrupted by strange outbursts that could have been either laughter or crying.

"I heard shout— What's going on here?" Minho had appeared at the doorway, beholding the chaos.

Thomas had to laugh himself. A laugh so devoid of humor it was humorous. What was going on? Well, the answer was clear enough: the Flare.