Chapter 57. Drive

Distorted sounds echoed through the darkness. Anticipated noise in an expected setting, as the dark matter did not consist of air. Fumbling through the water calmly, Thomas waited. Too long, he waited. It was getting harder not to breathe, and nothing was happening. To retain calm, he moved along the space to find the exit independently, albeit uselessly. 'I knew it' occupied his thoughts as the slippery walls made themselves known. No rescue, and no truth to be found anywhere. There or here. Surprisingly, this wall had a handle on the inside, which Thomas tried with all his might. It was not the really the desperation of drowning that drove him, but the pressing feeling that the fear was about to consume his senses in a matter of seconds. And the effort yielded results, or more specifically the wall yielded, swinging open. Thomas swam through, confused as no current helped pull him out.

Realising that he remained in the predicament sent a shiver of fear through Thomas. This new darkness was bigger than the last. He felt nothing in front of him. Had they gotten tired of this game? Gotten rid of him by throwing him into the sea, packaging and all? But there was no sea. He felt the wall, now. Just further away. A bigger tank. A bigger cage with no opening in sight. The cold calm trickled out, giving way to panic. They were killing him. And soon… Soon…

Soon he discovered that there was oxygen. Air went into his lungs, and though the movement was uncomfortably fast, there was no near-drowned burning there. No darkness either, once Thomas opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through a window like a blinking eye whose lid was the treetops outside. Passing a cluster of tall pines that cut off the abrasive brightness, Thomas figured out that he was still in the car. Still in that play.

The scene was silent for now. The only other conscious person was behind the wheel, and she had taken no note of Thomas stirring. That silence was the one thing keeping him in line. The longer this continued, the more tense he'd become, now feeling sick to his stomach with dread. If he'd woken to a voice or a touch, he might have hurled himself at the car door and fallen onto the road. At the speed they were going, it would have been his final act. Or at least his head —already aching— would hurt even more. He focused on the window, though it brought no sleep this time.

The worst thing was that he couldn't fit this break into WICKED's cruel scheme. Even if they wanted him settled following what seemed like a warning from that supposed dream, it made no sense to waste time. And they were wasting time. Half an hour or more had passed and he hadn't interacted with anybody. Come to think of it, he hadn't had to use telepathy for a good while. Not since before the escape. He despised them for this. They sold him all this believability, and were waiting for him to fall for it, just so they could pull the rug from under his feet. So they could crack him completely, like even his compliance wasn't enough. Why? Why? Were they punishing him? Just toying with his brain? Necessity, malice, or boredom?

"What do you want?" He shouted it, caving to the frustration.

Next to him, Newt jolted awake, alarm in his fast-blinking eyes as he looked around. Adjusting to the daylight and environment, he turned back to Thomas.

"What?" He asked apprehensively.

"Nothing," Thomas answered. They heard everything; repeating it would just be petulant.

"You shouted into my bloody ears for nothing?" Newt shook his head. "Scared me half to death, shank."

"Shouted?" Joan questioned from the front. "I didn't hear anything."

Newt shrugged. "Suppose it was telepathic, then. You've really gotta work on moderating your volume, Tommy."

"You used… How long have you been talking into each other's heads?" Joan sounded like she was about to panic.

Out of an instinct to not have the driver swerve into a ditch, Thomas answered. "Not since leaving the facility. Just this once."

"Yeah," Newt chimed in. "'Cause they can use it to… but they can't track us all the way out here. Can they?"

Joan was neither reassured nor reassuring. "I don't know. I… Janson! Wake up!"

Rat Man stirred, quickly coming to his senses. "Did they catch up? where—"

"Not yet. They used the telepathy-thing just now. Can they pick up on it from so far away?"

"Well now… Good question. Can't say for sure. Not with them looking for us. We've no way of knowing how close on our heels they are, or to what extent they can track the range."

"It's a miracle they haven't caught up already."

"I'd attribute it to the sabotage." Rat Man turned towards the back seat, grinning with self-satisfaction. "It was extensive."

"Call it what you like. What do we do? Leave the road?"

"They'd see exactly where we went, assuming we went anywhere before crashing the car into a tree. And obviously we can't leave the car. We're stuck here for a good while longer."

"We could at least use one of the diversions. You know it'll get sparse where that big wildfire was. Someone could go through there and make enough of a mess to keep us safe."

Rat Man deliberated for a moment. "Yes. Good thinking. We will only have one more car left, but there isn't much of a choice if we want to ensure our safety."

It was decided without any consultation from the Gladers. It wasn't their escape plan, so it wasn't their responsibility, Thomas supposed.

"No more telepathy, yeah?" Newt said, split between nervousness and some form of excitement.

"Good that," Thomas mumbled, tempted to go against instructions but too tired to do so.

Newt sighed. "Seriously, Tommy, what is it? You can at least share what we almost got discovered for."

Why repeat it? What was the game?

"Did you see something? Was it a bad dream?" Newt spoke softly. The adults were arguing over a map and wouldn't be able to hear.

"Something like the latter," Thomas admitted hesitantly.

"You wanna—"

"No. I don't want to talk about it."

Newt looked taken aback for a second. "Good that."

Joan was calling someone through an old-fashioned device, giving them directions to places Thomas had never heard of, though granted they seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

She looked stressed, but not panicked. Next to her, Rat Man was calmly tracing paths on a map, informing Joan of the distances.

Finally, Thomas turned back to Newt, only to find him already staring.

"What?" Thomas asked.

"You're acting odd. Have been since last night. I'm not asking you to talk about anything, but… all those simulations, they jack up your sense of reality. I hope you know I understand."

At that, Thomas couldn't suppress an incredulous grin. "So that's what you're playing at."

"What?"

They wanted Thomas to open up and expose his last bit of sanity and trust. He didn't resist their demands anymore, that much was true, but their indirectness changed the matter. And this was something Thomas couldn't give up. The betrayal to top them all, and to scramble his brain. They could trick and torture him again, but he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Around noon, they felt safe enough to stop. Thomas got out apprehensively. When nothing happened, he stretched his arms over his head, feeling the soreness as his spine cracked. The stiffness melted away, at least in part, and the headache went in the same direction. He'd been stuck for too long. Even before the drive.

He ran. The road continued up a small, steep hill powdered with snow. He rushed through the icy air to the peak, where vastness greeted him. The sun shone over a road that continued as far as he could see, beautifully solitary, like a wintery kingdom abandoned by all living things.

Someone called from behind, and he felt his heart beating fast. He breathed heavily. He hadn't noticed becoming so winded, and was surprised that such a short run was making his muscles complain, too. He'd been still for too long. Even before the drive.

Then Newt was standing next to him atop the hill. He was breathing almost as heavily as Thomas, and he grimaced a little, like his leg was hurting him. That thought seemed to trigger some kind of empathy in Thomas' own leg, which throbbed threateningly. He remembered being shot, and the memory brought on a pain he hadn't noticed running up the hill. In the illusions, it hurt sometimes, but much less consistently than now. He tried to ignore it, looking back to the car. Joan was waving at the two of them to come back.

"It's nice, isn't it?" Newt asked before Thomas could go.

"Sure."

"I know we're not safe yet, but we're on neutral ground. It's not WICKED's facility, or their forest." He swept the scene with his hand. "We're out."

Thomas shrugged. "Or so it may seem."

"We are. Why don't you feel excited about that?"

"I wish I could." He meant it.

"Soon enough you'll see."

Newt reached for Thomas' hand. He was smiling, like exhaustion giving way for hope.

Thomas backed away, biting back the terror. He wanted to let his guard down. He wanted to stand with Newt on a hill in an abandoned road and believe that they were free.

He took another step back.

Surprised, Newt stepped back, too. "Tommy," he said uncertainly. "Are you scared of me?" It was said as half a joke, and half a worry.

Thomas ran back down the hill, to Joan, who was shouting at them to get in the car. He nearly stumbled on the hard ground, and pain seared through his leg. Somehow, that pain wasn't nearly as bad as what was behind him. He couldn't bear to see the hurt on Newt's face, because WICKED's new strategy would break his resolve.

This time, Rat Man took the driver's seat, giving Joan some well-earned rest. Unfortunately, she was the better driver. The car took off like a rocket, twice as fast and half as steady as Thomas would have liked. From what he could see of the man's face, it was almost as maniacal as his driving. He wasn't scared, though. More like impatient, if he had to define it.

Eventually, it became monotonous. The driving didn't get more risky, and Thomas' anticipation had reached its peak so long ago that it sank just a little. The landscape was soothing, which helped more than anything. It changed so massively and subtly at the same time, yet it made perfect sense. If he focused on tracing the patterns of trees, the observation seemed within his control. He knew what was happening, why, and what would continue to happen. It was all that mattered at the moment. He didn't have to pay attention to the others, who were all quiet. Nor to his own aches and fears. The closest he got to that was through brief flashes of remembrance, triggered by a thought or a pain, and when they ate a lunch of dried meat and bread that almost made him cough before he had some water.

He knew it couldn't last. He hadn't been placed in this car with these people to do nothing. They wanted him to talk to Newt, to open up to his friend about how he doubted reality, only so Newt could reassure him, gain his trust, and then turn out to be somebody else. Everything around it was just selling believability. He couldn't avoid it for much longer.

They stopped again in the early evening. Between the windy sighs of shadowed trees, he heard mutterings about fuel. They were running low on gas. Thomas re-entered the car knowing that was the time limit. He'd failed to seize any chance of following the plan, and now they were out of patience. They were angry at this point. If they were going to drain his last piece of clarity anyways, it didn't matter how they felt. In that case, he'd bring the last of his defiance with him to the end. He wasn't trying to counteract them, really, or do anything meaningful. He just wanted to sleep for a little while.

Thomas was awoken by the harsh whisper of sand running through the hourglass.

"They can't be keeping guards at every gas station in the country," Joan was saying to Rat Man, voice low with annoyance. "What other choice do we have?"

"We send the other car. It's much less risky."

"Have you seen Sam act? She'll give the whole thing away in a second."

"And her wife is even worse," Rat Man sighed. "But for all we know, the chancellor could be in contact with the dwellers. If they catch sight of the boys—"

"We'll leave them in a hiding place and return after we get the gas."

"A risk in itself."

Thomas dared a glance in Newt's direction. He was tightly gripping one hand with the other, frowning, wondering if the taste of freedom was coming to an end. Thomas pushed down the urge to say something, turning back to the window.

An hour later, they had a plan and were about to execute it. Thomas tapped his foot against the car's floor, trying to piece it all together. He heard the message they were sending him. This scenario was coming to a close, and he could either choose to accept that or keep resisting. WICKED's warning became clearer with every tree they zipped past and every shudder of the dying car. They were bringing things to an end, and it was time for him to act along. He didn't know what would happen if they got the gas. It would just delay the inevitable, it seemed. The car could break down in a few hours, leaving them to wander the forest. If he let it get to that point, it would reach a lower one after that. They could make him suffer if they wished. And they would if nothing else worked. He could freeze and starve for days, and watch those around him die. They could get discovered at any second, when WICKED was out of patience. He was getting weary, and wasn't sure how to respond to the warning. They were telling him in clear terms to play along. They knew he understood. It was nearly tempting to slip back into the sea of confused dreams, unable to comprehend or feel, finally.

It took a while to drive through the more forested terrain. To throw off potential suspicion, they were pretending to come from the opposite direction, driving towards the facility rather than away. Their broad half-circle around the gas station threatened to ruin the tires, even though they were made to be extra resilient. At least there were fewer trees around, or else they would have been stopped immediately.

Through what would have been a miracle in real life, they made it back to the road with nothing worse than some scrapes on the car, and, for Thomas, a stinging tongue that he'd bitten as they drove over a cluster of rocks. After just a few minutes of driving down the actual road, in the wrong direction, of course, a surprisingly well-kept gas station broke out of the wild landscape. The electronic sign was off, but the place was clearly inhabited. Wet clothes hung under the shelter of a sloping roof, drying in the weak sun. It was at odds with the tall metal fence lined with barbed wire surrounding the main building, along with two sheds and the gas pumps. Maybe they would find that there was no gas left. Maybe they would be chased off the property by a group of infected teetering on the edge of insanity.

They all got out of the car, moving towards a gate in the fence. Rat Man had told them how to act. They had to seem sure of what they were doing, and not raise any questions. 'And', he'd added to Thomas and Newt, 'let the grown-ups do the talking'. Thomas had just glared back at his smug face.

The gate was closed with several padlocks, but they didn't have to find a way around them. A giant of a man headed towards the gate. There was a gun on his belt, but he let it stay there. Joan was at the front of their group, undaunted.

The man stopped, eyeing each of them with caution. "We don't want any infected here," he warned.

"We're all healthy," Joan said. "And we're not here to cause you any trouble, either."

"Good to know, but you're here for something. Don't think we don't know what kinda people are traveling north —you're the scientists."

"So we are," Rat Man agreed. "And it is for the sake of the whole world that we come this way."

"It's for the sake of the world that you kidnap kids? I guess the world really is going to hell. But you'd best stay away from mine." Now he put a hand over the weapon at his hip.

"We're not here to take anyone away," Joan said slowly.

But the man wasn't looking at her. "What about those two?" He gestured at the Gladers. "Are you fellas going up north by choice?" He sounded concerned.

"Yes. We're going to where we need to be," Newt said.

The man frowned suspiciously. He looked in half a mind to rescue them from WICKED. It was nice of him, but not exactly helpful.

"We just need some gas for our car," Joan said. "We can pay you well for it, and then we'll leave."

"Pay with what? I'm not in need of any money. Or any science-tech."

Joan and Rat Man looked at each other nervously. They had discussed payment earlier, and now those plans had gone out the window.

"What do you need, then?" Rat Man asked.

"You don't happen to have any 'munies among you?"

"You need an immune?" Joan asked.

"Just for a favor. Can't be too careful with the virus going around."

They'd gone over this earlier, too. If WICKED came asking if anyone had seen any immunes, there would be no doubt. Immunes were rare. Especially on this deserted road.

Rat Man shook his head. "Unfortunately—"

"We're immunes," Thomas said, gesturing to himself and Newt. He looked at the man on the other side of the fence, ignoring the reactions of his companions. That suspicious, rather frightening face twisted into something entirely different. Hope.

It annoyed Thomas. Everyone around him had such hope, and it wasn't real. None of it. Some dark feeling almost made him walk away from all of them, just to dash the illusion.

But next to him, Rat Man sighed in defeat. And if they risked discovery, it was just as well that they gain something for it. "What is this favor?" He asked, undoubtedly glaring at Thomas and hoping it was something unpleasant.

"Just delivering a message," the man said, behind a halfhearted mask of nonchalance. "To… to an infected."

"How far gone?" Joan asked.

"It started recently. She's not dangerous. Not to 'munies."

It was a fair deal, but Rat Man was hesitant. "And if we go past that fence, can we be sure it's not a trick? You won't attack us in there?"

"I've no reason to harm two teenagers."

"And adults?"

The man shook his head. "You're not immune. Could be sick for all I know. The two of you can wait outside. Won't take long, and I'll get you the gas."

Rat Man scoffed. "And then drive off alone because you've imprisoned our… charges?"

At least they weren't 'subjects' anymore.

"Not unless they don't actually want to go with you. But in that case I'd just be doing my duty as a human."

It took a while, but Rat Man accepted the deal. With WICKED most likely breathing down their necks, it was better sorry than dead. And Thomas was glad they could stay in the car for longer, because it was a bitingly cold day, despite the sun. Even though his real body wouldn't be hurt by the cold, a mad trek through the forest was an appalling thought.

Inside the barricaded area, it was clear that the gas station wasn't as well maintained as it appeared from outside. It wasn't shiny or fresh, but had a mellowed and cluttered charm to it. It was nice, except for the hidden traps, those being various tools and equipment hidden beneath the snow. Some were tucked under tarps, which made them incredibly slippery. And there was the rake sticking out its sharp points that almost got Thomas in the foot. Newt pulled him to the side seconds before he stepped on it, having spotted it first. Thomas' heart beat quickly. He'd thought he was being attacked for a second. He was just waiting for something to go wrong. The man leading them had just smiled at the commotion, telling them to be careful. He led them to one of the sheds, and went inside to retrieve something. Thomas looked back at the gas station itself. There was a window on the side of the building, with two young faces pressed up against it, unabashedly staring at the strangers. They looked like the man, only much smaller. There was something melancholic about the lot of them. The sadness in their eyes was stuck around every other facade-like expression.

Finally, they were given a pad of lined paper, a pen, and a stack of old, empty picture-frames. The man cleared his throat. "My… my oldest. She caught the damn virus from some crank wandering the forest. We weren't sure at first, but… never mind. She's infected. Doesn't have forever left." He looked away. "She won't speak to us. I asked her to write instead, but she won't give us anything she's touched. Won't let anyone else get infected. And I can't let the others…"

"You want us to transcribe a letter for her?" Thomas asked.

"No. She has to write it herself. It needs to be in her handwriting." The man gave him the picture frames. "You just have to take the letters and put them in these." He looked at the ground bitterly. The kids in the window stared intently. Would they be able to read the letter? Were they old enough to remember any of this in five years? Their father would carry this powerlessness through his whole life, though. Hopelessness could do horrible things to people. Thomas could have said something uplifting, something hinting at the cure being readied for the masses. But these people weren't real. He had to remember. Whatever hopelessness could do, hope was infinitely worse.

The two Gladers were directed towards an old stable some distance from the gas station. They were ushered through a gate that was smaller and more discreet than the one on the other side of the habitat. Thomas didn't think their travel companions knew they had been sent into the forest, but what did he care?

There was a clear path through the snow, lined with dead bushes and tree-stumps. He wondered how close the infected girl's family would get to this stable before the fear of infection stopped them. Could they get near enough to throw in food without catching the virus? Depending on when they discovered the Flare in her, they might have been doomed already. Without a cure, they would all soon be roaming the forest or waiting inside to trap passers-by, way past the gone. It would be untrue to say he didn't feel sorry for them, but it would be unwise to let on. This was just a sob story to make him more vulnerable. He would see how long this last adventure would go on for, but this wasn't where it ended.

He heard talking somewhere from behind, the adults preparing the car for another day on the road. A day or two, was what they'd said. Another deadline. Maybe then they would have to stay out in the cold, because Thomas had been outside for a few minutes and didn't like it one bit. A subtle torture. He jogged down the path, which hurt his leg, but made his teeth stop chattering. He slowed before long. There was a small, somewhat shabby building ahead of him, still some ways away but clearly visible. Newt had caught up beside him. Another reason Thomas had taken off: Newt had started to say something. He seemed annoyed, maybe because Thomas went off script earlier. It felt mean to ignore his friend. He hated it.

"Tommy," Newt said now, before Thomas could start running again. "You've gotta be careful with that leg. Don't wanna end up like me."

Thomas scoffed. Like it mattered. The leg could hurt all it wanted —it wasn't his real leg. He sped up, trying to relish in the defiance of the ache.

The stable door looked much sturdier than the rest of it, though it wouldn't stand long against an angry crank. It was probably for that reason it was unlocked. Aware that he would be faced with tragedy, Thomas took a moment to just breathe. Then he was inside.

The stable was warm, surprisingly. It hit him like a wall and melted some of the stiffness from his body. Unfortunately, there was a foul smell nearly as strong. He followed a hum of electricity to a box in the building's left side. On the right side were three pens. Once they might have housed horses, but now they stood empty. Except for the last one.

"What are you doing here?" A small voice shouted angrily. "I told you! I told you not to—" she'd shot to her feet, and realized it wasn't her family that had come to visit.

"Who are you?" She went down on the straw-covered floor, scrambling for something. She stood back up, pointing a pocket-knife at them. "Go away! Go somewhere far away, or I'll kill you, you stupid cranks!"

"We're not cranks," Newt said calmly. "Your dad sent us."

"Why?" She didn't lower the knife. It looked alien and wrong in her little hand. She couldn't have been older than twelve. No older than Chuck had been. And now she was just as doomed.

Newt held up the papers. "He thought you'd wanna write a letter, if you won't speak to him."

The knife sank to her side, but she shook her head vigorously. "They'll all get infected."

"No, they won't," Thomas said. "We'll put the letter in these frames." He held them up. "They can see what you write, but won't touch anything you've touched."

"But you've gotten infected coming in here, if you weren't already. It doesn't make any difference."

"We're immune," Thomas said. "We won't get sick or spread the virus."

Now she considered. Her frowning face might be one of the saddest things he'd seen. She was here, alone, missing her family. Just like Chuck had. Soon, she might have no memory of them either. Or they would be twisted and hateful figures in her faltering brain. And she had to decide whether to risk a final message to them, or leave it all unsaid for the sake of protecting them. He couldn't help but pity the poor child. He opened the half-closed door, shuddering a bit, and placed the frames outside in the snow. "The frames will be safe for them to touch," he promised her. He didn't know how long an object could be contaminated, but she'd feel better knowing they hadn't been in close proximity.

She nodded reluctantly. "Give them here, then." She reached for the papers, which Newt handed to her. She took a pencil from a purple case next to her. She had a whole bunch of colored pencils, next to some sketching paper. A drawing lay half-covered beneath them. The girl sat down on a pile of blankets and started to write rapidly. It was best not to interrupt. Looking around the child, it didn't seem like she'd been living there for long. She had some books and toys lined up next to the bedding, which seemed in good condition. She hadn't been seriously affected by the virus yet. In a corner were some food supplies, which were still well-stocked.

Thomas decided to give her some space, and backed away from her little living-space. He went to stand by the heater, holding his hands out in front of it, as they were still cold from being outside.

He didn't realize Newt had followed him until he was right next to him.

He looked at Thomas with sorrowful eyes. "Did you see she's chained to the wall?" He asked in a low voice that the child wouldn't hear.

"I didn't."

"Well, she is. With a bike chain, I think, around her ankle."

"Why would they chain her up if they didn't want to get too close to her?"

"She did it herself, obviously. Nobody even locked the door, probably didn't want to block her exit if somethin' happened."

"If something does happen, do you think she can unlock the chain? Imagine if the heater breaks and there's a fire."

Newt shook his head. "She must've thrown the key as far away as possible. It'd be too much of a risk otherwise. The Flare… well, you know what that bloody virus does to a person. Completely twists everything until ya don't know what's real and false."

He paused, maybe waiting to see if Thomas would move away again. He should, but his legs didn't move.

"I know you're not sure if this is another of WICKED's simulations, but trust me, if you can. Ya can't really know what it feels like to be in an illusion, but when you're actually out of one, it's easier to tell. And this is real. We're not under their control anymore, and we won't return to it."

That urging calm of his voice sounded so familiar and genuine. Could anyone really fabricate that? The imposter in the illusion of the Maze had hardly been convincing in that regard. But there had been other times, other mind games, where he'd firmly believed he was talking to the real Newt. As soon as he believed, the eyes turned cold. It was all over when he chose to stay. Now he couldn't make himself leave.

"Good that," Thomas said. It sounded strained and unconvincing, even to his own ears.

"Is it?"

Thomas sighed. "No. Every time I dare to hope, it turns out to be false. I can't take much more of it. There's nothing I can use to prove it's real, because they know almost everything, and what they don't know, they could have found out." It was an admission. He might as well be clear to the point now. "If you're not… you. If you're someone else pretending, again, then congratulations, WICKED. Good job, chancellor Paige, you're well on your way to jacking up my brain for good."

Newt nodded solemnly. "I understand. In your shoes, I wouldn't trust anyone either. And I won't—" he took a step to the side. "I won't stand close to you, or touch you, or pressure you to believe anythin'. It's… not easy, but I promise. I'll give you space."

Thomas had been worried that Newt would be hurt by his words. That he would be angry that Thomas couldn't believe in this reality. It shouldn't matter —this wasn't reality. But it was a relief to be understood nonetheless. Was that relief just a trick in itself?

"I hate looking for their plans in everything that's said or done," Thomas admitted. He couldn't help it. But it didn't have to be a defeat. "Even now I'm trying to figure out what level they're bluffing at. I don't want to let my guard down and connect to the moment, but at the same time I do. I'm…" he wanted to say 'tired', 'exhausted', but the fear wouldn't let that word out. That crossed the line for what he could confess.

"You don't have to be in this exact moment," Newt said. "Think about the future —a day that hasn't happened. It won't change, even if this is an illusion."

"I can't imagine a future if I'm still in that facility."

"There will be. If we haven't escaped, the others will come for us. We were careful —WICKED couldn't have found them."

"I don't think they could break into the building."

"They wouldn't have to. They've got the Cure. The world will have to listen. We won't stand alone. Think about that. We'll be out if we aren't already, and it'll be just as bright and free. This girl won't have to turn into… and if she isn't real, think about the other poor kids we'll save. There's more than the moment to believe in."

"You could be right, real or not."

"But you'd better not forget completely where you are," Newt warned. "If you jump in front of a crank because you think you can't get hurt, I'll bring what's left of you to the others and tell them what a stupid shank you were."

Thomas smiled, but it was a smile of agony. He wanted to tell Newt that he believed him, that they were free and together. His hands were waiting for his brain's permission to reach out and hold Newt's, more warming than anything electric or synthetic. Just as badly, he felt like running far away into the frozen forest, where nobody could get to him without revealing that it was all a game.

If he did run, there would be two results, assuming nobody found him, which he could ensure with some planning around it. Maybe he'd been right, in which case he'd ruined the experiment. He would suffer until they realised he wasn't budging, at which point he'd seemingly die and then wake up in the building he'd never escaped from. Alternatively, he would just die. In a simulation, somebody could catch up to him, but then he'd know the truth and it would be a meaningless ploy. No, in reality, if he truly wanted to hide away in the forest and never be found, he'd bide his time, get away, and never be found. He would suffer the sharp edges of snowy winds and feel the life drain out of him as the sun set. He'd not wake up again, and would not know the truth, even as it had been proven. Only in some possible afterlife would he know, and did it really count then? Simulated or not, this life he was in would never give an answer. He had to decide how to handle that fact.

For now, he looked at the child and her furious scribbling, wondering if there were enough frames for it all. He imagined what her future may be. It wasn't a prediction of madness or tragedy; she would be cured before it got too far, and then she'd have time. Her colourful scribbles would become detailed paintings. She would hang one over each pen, above the heads of the horses that would be there. Without cranks, there was no need for that fence around the gas station, either. No reason not to expand into the forest, connecting this stable with more buildings around it. A peaceful farm with lots of animals for the family to tend to. The younger ones would forget the shadow of destruction that had rested over the world for so long. This letter would be forgotten as well, buried under the texts of a new world that was finally settled enough to be described, as much as that had ever been possible. Simulated or not, this child was real, and there were hundreds of thousands of her. He had done what he could to give them a life that wasn't as twisted and false his had been. And one way or another, the pain of this conflicted moment would fade. It was hope supported by reason, which wasn't a bad replacement for faith, at least not temporarily. It was a safe hope that couldn't turn out to be false.

Newt had gone over to the girl. The writing had taken the earlier fighting spirit out of her, it seemed, because she was crying. Newt offered her hopeful words of a cure that was in the works. Maybe he shouldn't be talking about that to people at this stage, but it must have helped. She nodded as Newt told her not to give up. Each of them had made a promise. Each of them had put faith into a future. It didn't hurt as much anymore that Thomas couldn't. There was no rush. He didn't have to decide right away whether the tendrils of suspicion should be fed or cut down. For now, they could do as they liked, and he would be content for a while.