A/N: This story will be a mix of the books & movies. I have only consumed this material a few times, so forgive me if anything is a little different than the canon. Also, I am not a doctor, and anything medical related in this story should not be taken as actual medical advice. I just wanted Newt to have a second chance! Finally, I do not own The Maze Runner nor any characters within that world. The only thing that is mine are my OC's. Thank you. Please leave a review!
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The first thing Newt noticed when he woke up was the smell of eggs.
He opened his eyes, blinking slowly as he took in his surroundings. Nearby was a coffee table, with two unoccupied chairs pulled up to its edge. Hanging on the wall behind the table and chairs was a piece of art. He blinked again. Was it a painting of horses, or were they dogs? Either way, it was horrid, and therefore probably expensive.
Something sounded from nearby, and he started. The sound of moving feet mixed with the familiar clatter of plates and silverware being removed from cupboards and drawers.
He tried to sit up, but stopped at once. A searing pain flashed white-hot through his chest. He looked down and gaped; thick white gauze and tape covered the area where the pain had emanated from. His head throbbed, and he closed his eyes as he tried to remember what had happened, or where he might be. The faint sulfuric smell wafted again from what he assumed was a kitchen. He closed his eyes and breathed through this mouth.
You're not going to get sick, you're not going to get sick, he repeated to himself like a mantra.
He tried to pull his legs in, but only one obeyed. He looked down and saw his left ankle tied to the foot of the sofa next to him. He jerked his foot, but the complicated knot held fast. He tried to sit up to get a better angle, but the movement sent a fresh wave of pain throughout his body, and he cried out.
The noises from the kitchen stopped and someone came into the room. He looked up, and saw a girl about his age drying her hands on a towel.
"Oh good, you're awake." She said.
"Who -" He coughed; his inflamed throat made his voice sound strange to his ears. "- Who the bloody hell are you?"
"Just a minute." She disappeared and came back with a plate. She set it down before him and offered him a fork, which he took in confusion.
"I'll explain everything soon," she said. "But first, eat your eggs before they get cold."
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The riots had started in a blaze of gold and smoke. She had seen the wall, which they had claimed was impenetrable, crumble like a sandcastle at high tide. With part of the barrier gone, the city began letting in the very thing it had tried so hard to keep out. It didn't take long for the Cranks to swarm in, filling the streets and alleyways with their rebellion.
She watched her city burn from a window high up in a sterile tower. She was alone on her floor; most people had already vacated the building. She had even seen one of her coworkers, Teresa, get escorted out by two guards.
She turned from the window with a heavy sigh, took off her lab coat, and went to her desk. Notebooks, various pills and serums, a photograph of her and her mother – everything went into her bag.
She opened a small drawer and pulled a watch out. That item was a gift from her father, given to her shortly before he had left. She turned it over and ran her finger over the engraving – 'To Antoinette, all my love – WICKED is good'. Now, save for an artificial potted plant on the corner of her desk, it was like she had never been there at all.
She looked at the front of the watch. It was time to go. Her eyes swept over the office for what she hoped would not be the last time.
WICKED will take care of this, she thought. I will be back.
She went into the hallway and headed toward the emergency staircase, making her way to the first floor.
Outside the building, her first thought was that it smelled like the Fourth of July. She could taste the gunpowder in the air and covered her mouth with her scarf to keep from coughing. As she looked around, she noticed her street was empty, but she could hear people screaming and cheering off in the distance. How far away were they, ten blocks, twenty?
She pulled her coat tighter. Her apartment wasn't far away; if she walked fast, and luck was on her side, she might get there before she ran into anyone. She hugged the walls as she put distance between herself and the gate-crashers. She was glad for the gun she had stored in the pocket of her bag.
She jumped as another blast came, nearer this time. She spun around and watched, dumbstruck, as the building she had spent the last few years in collapsed.
Those Cranks have no idea what they're doing, how hard we have worked to help them. She wiped away angry tears, and an image of Teresa flashed in her mind – she hoped she had made it out of the building in time.
With a heaviness in her chest she moved on and came across an open stretch of concrete. It was the last block before her apartment building, and at this time of night it was usually swarming with exhausted looking people in business suits, going out for a stiff drink before going home to their families. But tonight the area was completely empty. The stark contrast made her shiver, and she hunched her shoulders as she quickened her pace.
Her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the shadows as she walked. All her muscles were tensed as she anticipated someone jumping out at her from the darkness at any moment, and she had to remind herself to breathe. Something crashed to her left and she started violently, then cursed to herself as she saw an orange cat skitter out of the alley. She turned back around, laughing shakily, and then froze.
Something was in the middle of her path.
Her breath caught in her throat as a sudden coldness expanded in her stomach. She absentmindedly felt for her bag, making sure it was still on her shoulder.
She bit her lip as she looked back and forth. Most likely it was nothing. The city council was always installing something new around town. Last week it had been a Japanese-style fountain. Perhaps this was just a new piece of street art, some avant-garde junk that was supposed to mean something.
But the closer she got, the more her heart sank. For a piece of art, it looked awfully... body shaped.
She stopped.
It was a body.
He looked about her age, but that is where the similarities ended. Black veins ran up his neck, creeping onto his face like twisted vines. Dark liquid dripped out the corner of his mouth, creating a small puddle next to his head.
A Crank.
Most horrifying of all, was the knife embedded in his chest.
A chill ran through her. She looked at the poor victim and felt a familiar pang of guilt come back to haunt her. It reminded her she was one of the lucky ones, being born immune while so many others suffered a violent end.
That could be you, her mind taunted.
But instead of walking around him, she crept closer. Because he wasn't a complete stranger.
Her pulse increased as she noticed he wore the familiar red and grey uniform of a WICKED security officer. She stepped closer again, caught between fear and curiosity. Perhaps under all that Kevlar he had some sort of identification; a driver's license or work badge. She might be able to get in touch with his parents, or a sibling. Someone who could claim him, and grieve the loss rather than wait around with deferred hope.
She started by rummaging through his bag, then checked the compartments in his vest one-by-one. When both of those turned up nothing, she tugged at his neckline and felt for the cool metal of dog tags.
Nothing again. It was as if he were a ghost. She shivered.
"Who are you?" She asked. Something about him sparked a vague memory in her mind, but she couldn't place it.
"Tommy," he hissed back.
She stumbled backward, hand over her mouth. She hadn't actually expected a response. She wasn't even sure it was him who had spoken or if she'd just imagined it. Gingerly, she nudged his arm with her foot and waited.
He didn't move or speak again.
She looked around. Her apartment building was so close; if she left now, she could make it before anyone else came.
Before anyone sees me leave him to die, she thought.
"No," she said aloud to herself as she shook her head. She had sworn an oath when she started working for WICKED that she would help people who needed it. And this boy definitely needed it.
No exceptions. No compromises.
She knelt down beside him again and took his wrist. His skin still felt warm under her fingertips; he must not have been lying there for long. She found what she was looking for: a pulse, faint and unsteady.
She let his arm drop and looked at the knife in his chest.
If it had hit a vital organ, he would be dead already, she reasoned.
She undid the clips on his vest, set it aside, and then tugged at the hem of his shirt. She pulled up the fabric to the knife, studying the wound. She was surprised yet relieved to see it was a clean cut, one swift entry - not a repeated attack.
Who would do this? She wondered as she pulled his shirt back down.
She sat back and looked at him for a moment, at his blonde hair and down-turned mouth. She felt a prickle in her mind again; that familiar creeping feeling that they had met before.
It wouldn't let her go, and she knew then what she had to do.
"Okay," she said as she steeled herself and put one hand on the hilt of the knife. "Okay."
She looked at his void face. At least he would never know if this didn't work.
"I'm sorry." She said.
With a steady upward motion she pulled the knife out.
"Jesus!" She exclaimed as the gash began to bleed freely, no longer obstructed by the blade. She dropped it by her feet and quickly unwound her scarf, setting it over the wound and using her body weight to apply pressure.
"What am I doing?" She asked into the night.
With one shaking hand she reached into her bag and felt around. Her fingers brushed against something cool and metal, and she pulled it out.
A serum injector, filled with a vial of pale blue liquid.
It was a leftover from one of the many tests WICKED had deemed a failure. At this point in the game, if a medicine couldn't cure the Flare completely, it was discarded without a second thought.
But that didn't mean they were worthless.
In the right market, the vial in her hands would have fetched her a pretty penny. Desperation knew no price, and people were willing to pay. Unfortunately, this was the last one in her arsenal. The rest, which she had kept in a box under her bed, had all been sold. And with the headquarters gone, she doubted she would come across another any time soon.
"Hope you're worth it," she muttered as she held the injector between her teeth and rolled up the boy's sleeve.
It hissed as soon as she pulled the trigger, and she watched as the precious blue liquid left the cartridge and disappeared into his darkened veins.
Empty now, she tossed it aside and leaned back on her heels. She bit her lip as she watched and waited. One minute. Two. Nothing happened.
"Come on," she muttered.
Her muscles tensed as she heard calls coming from closer now, and she knew she didn't have much time.
"Wake up!" She urged, giving his arm a light slap.
As if he had heard her, a strong tremor surged through his body.
"Yes, come on!"
The rush that went through her in that moment quickly turned to panic however as instead of waking up, the boy began to shake violently.
It started with his chest, and then his arms. His left leg thrashed, and then his right. A moment later it had overtaken his entire body. He convulsed upon the hard ground, his body flailing uncontrollably.
Antoinette pressed down upon him again, trying to keep him still. She had seen enough seizure victims to know what damage he could do to himself, and she wished for a moment she had something to place between his teeth.
Had the serum not worked? Was he still succumbed to the Flare? If that was the case, he would be strong, too strong for her to manage. She glanced at her bag - would the gun or a sedative be more useful?
His chest rose, lifting her with it, and for a moment she wondered whether she should cut and run, when suddenly he let out a long, ragged breath and went still.
"It's all right," she said, more to herself than him as exhaustion overtook her and she wiped a sweaty hair away from her forehead.
She looked at his arm. The veins nearest the injection site were fading from black to dark grey. An encouraging sign.
Tentatively, she grabbed the boy's wrist and felt for his pulse again. It was stabilizing.
"We've done it," she said, leaning back on the palms of her hands. A sense of pride soared through her, and she watched him with some inner satisfaction as his breath began to come out even and strong.
But as her adrenaline crashed, warnings began to flood her mind.
How stupid was she to even attempt to revive this boy? He could have killed her, and she didn't even know his name. Who was he to her, anyway? Just a security guard she'd passed a hundred times in the hall before? That was probably why he looked familiar to her.
But still, she felt she couldn't leave him out here alone, not now. Not after that.
"I'm going to get you out of here, John Doe." She said.
But how? Her mind retorted.
She looked around. Not far away, crumpled on the ground was a red and white banner promoting a 5K Fun Run. She could almost laugh at how ridiculous it was now as her world was falling down around her. She grabbed it and brought it back over to the boy.
"Here we go," she said.
She grabbed under his arms and pulled him onto the banner. With care, she lifted her ruined scarf and checked his wound again. It looked raw and ugly, but the bleeding had at least slowed.
She shouldered her bag and picked up the banner ties. With great effort she dragged it behind her, toward her apartment building.
She had to stop several times to catch her breath, even over the short distance. She felt no relief until she scanned her ID, and the front door unlocked with a familiar click. The sounds of the crowd had grown louder outside, and with one final exertion she pulled the boy through the entrance, just as she caught a glimpse of someone turning a corner down the street.
The lobby was empty. She leaned on a leather chair to catch her breath as instrumental music played over the speakers. It almost felt like a normal night, besides the body lying by her feet.
She headed toward the elevators, pressed the up button, and waited. There was a ding, and she dragged the half-Crank boy into the open metal box. She had to choke down panic as the doors closed; if he woke up and was still a true Crank, she would not be able to escape. She tapped her fingers on the metal railing as they climbed, watching the boy the entire time.
Her apartment - or penthouse, as it was - was on the top floor of the building. As she made her way past the rows of doors, she wondered if any of her nosy neighbors were awake and watching her. What a sight she would be for Mrs. Delaney, who had always thought she was odd for working instead of living off her parent's wealth.
At her own door she scanned her ID again, entered, and quickly closed it behind her. She pulled the boy over near her sofa and took a step back.
What was she going to do with him? What if he awoke again as a Crank, or didn't wake up at all and she had a dead body in her living room? What if he went back to normal but was just a huge jerk and tried to hurt her? Someone had stabbed him. Was it because he had the Flare, or something even worse?
"Mom?" She called out. She waited, but no one responded.
She realized she actually felt more relieved her mom wasn't there. She cared about helping people infected with the Flare, but even she would find this endeavor ridiculous and extremely reckless.
She went into her bathroom and grabbed a first aid kit from beneath the sink. She took out a sterilizing solution, suture kit, gauze, and medical tape, then went back and sat down next to the boy. The work should have been second nature to her after years in a lab, but her hands shook with exhaustion.
She took several minutes to stitch him up - not that he could complain. Once she finished she used the extra gauze to secure his ankle to the foot of her sofa. She would know when, or if, he awoke.
"See you in the morning," she said. "I hope."
She got up, went to her bedroom, and locked the door behind her. Too tired to change, she fell onto her bed, closed her eyes, and groaned.
"What am I doing?" She asked, voice muffled by her pillow.
A cry sounded from the living room. She set down the hot pad and rushed into the room.
It had been two nights since she had brought the boy to her apartment. Her mom had not shown up, and he was still unconscious. She had begun to regret her decision as she watched Cranks continue to overrun her city below. She had closed her curtains the morning after the attacks, unable to stomach it any longer.
Now, the boy was trying to sit up against her sofa, groaning in frustration as he jerked his tied foot.
"Oh good, you're awake." She said.
"Who -" he said, and then coughed "- Who the bloody hell are you?"
His voice was deeper than she had expected, and he spoke with an accent.
"Just a minute," she said. She went into the kitchen and came back with a plate. She set it down before him and handed him a fork. "We'll get to that soon," she said. "But first, eat your eggs before they get cold."
She barely had time to dodge the fork as it flew back in her general direction, hitting the wall behind her and falling to the floor with a metallic clink.
"Hey!" She protested. Off to a good start. She picked the fork up and kept it this time.
"Where's Thomas?" He asked. "Tommy!" He called out.
She recognized that name from the night she found him; she had thought perhaps it was his name. She shushed him. "We're the only ones here."
"Where is 'here'? Who are you?" He looked around again. "Is this a test?"
"What?" She shook her head at him. He was obviously delirious. "Hang on." She grabbed her work badge off the coffee table and held it up for him. "My name's Antoinette, see?"
"Well, that explains everything." His tone was sarcastic, but as he squinted at the badge, his face paled. He pointed a thin finger at the small print above her smiling face. "Does that say WICKED?" He asked.
"That's where I work," she said. An image of a building, collapsing into a pile of cement, glass, and rebar came to her mind. "Well, worked," she amended.
His eyes narrowed.
"Let me go," he said coolly. It was not a request. She involuntarily backed away.
"No, you haven't had time to recover and -"
"I said let me go!" He kicked the sofa. The veins under his skin pulsated as his chest heaved from the exertion.
"Stop that!"
"What is it this time?" He asked, ignoring her. "Save the Crank, tie him up, see how he reacts? What then, you gonna send me back to the Glade, throw me out in the bloomin' Scorch?" He continued to fight against the sofa, and Antoinette backed up against the wall, hand over her mouth.
"You gonna tell me Tommy and the others are dead?" He continued. "See if I burn the world down?" His frantic voice was ringing off the walls now. "I bet you poisoned these shuck eggs too, waiting to see how long it takes me to kick the bucket so you can bring me back again and start the whole bloody trial over again!
The white gauze on his chest had become speckled with red. Antoinette stepped forward off the wall, hands out in a pacifying manner.
"Stop, you're hurting yourself!" She cried out. "Stop! She rushed forward and grabbed his shoulder. "Newt, stop!" Her hand flew to her mouth again.
He looked at her. "What did you just say?"
"Newt, that's your name right?" She asked cautiously. "From the... the Glade? Group A?"
His eyes teared up as he shook his head slowly. "Stop."
"And Tommy, you mean -"
"I said stop!" He slapped her hand away, and she sat back, out of his reach.
"Listen to me," she began, voice shaking. "I swear I didn't know who you were, okay? Two nights ago you were lying in the street. I thought you were dead. I brought you here, fixed you up..." She pointed at the gauze. "That bandage, it's covering stitches I put in because you had a freaking knife sticking out of your chest."
He looked down and fingered the tape stuck around the edges of the bandage. A knife wound? His features darkened as he tried to think of the last thing he could remember. He had been sitting in an alleyway with Thomas. Had he yelled at him? He remembered he hurt Tommy with something he had said. But Tommy wouldn't have stabbed him.
"I know what you've been through," she continued. "It's true, I work for WICKED; I knew who you were as soon as you mentioned the Glade. But I don't want to hurt you, and this isn't a test."
She kept her eyes on his, trying to convince him.
"I want to help you," she said slowly. "If you can calm down, and trust me a little, I'll untie you and we can talk this out."
He must have believed her, or at least realized he had no other choice, because he relaxed his foot and leaned back against the sofa.
She went to get scissors and when she came back she approached him carefully, clutching the instrument in her hands. He groaned at her hesitation.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," he muttered. "Just get on with it, yeah?"
She closed the gap between them and bent down, lighting touching his ankle as she cut through the gauze. As promised, he made no movement toward her, but she stepped back quickly anyway. He gingerly turned his foot and bent his knee, sighing with relief as he did so.
"Better?" She asked cautiously.
He nodded and then picked up the plate of food near him. He realized he was starving, and would take the odds on whether it was safe to eat. She handed him the fork again, and this time he kept it, shoveling food into his mouth as he looked at the girl.
He was much calmer when he spoke again. "So, Annie," he said, mouth full. "Talk. Why am I not a proper Crank anymore?"
She must have felt more comfortable now because she sat down, cross-legged, and went into the full story of how she had found him. She explained what she had done for him, told him about what was going on in the city now. He listened attentively to every detail, clearing his plate as she spoke.
"So, now we're here, eating breakfast on my floor," she finished. "Any questions?"
"Yeah, a lot," he said, "But only one I care about for now. How long will this serum work for?"
"I'm not sure," she admitted as she tucked her hair behind her ears. "In some of the trials it put the Flare into remission for a week or two, in others up to a month. It lasts longer if you keep the stress down." She gave him a pointed look.
"All right," he set the plate down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "That should give me enough time."
"Time for what?" She asked.
"To find my friends."
"What?" She asked incredulously. "You can't just go."
He shrugged. "Why not? I can't stay here."
"But your wound," she protested. "It hasn't had enough time to heal. The serum helped but you still need to rest."
"Shuck it, I've had worse."
She wondered what could be worse than being stabbed in the chest, but she did not want to ask. "It could open again, what if it needs re-stitched?" She reasoned.
He threw his hands up in frustration. "Then either show me how to do it, or come with me if you're so bloody concerned! Don't you realize all my friends think I'm dead? I have to go."
She grew quiet. "You mean Thomas, and the others?"
He looked down and picked at the rug fibers. "Whoever's left."
"Well, I guess I can't stop you," she said resignedly. "I'm not, like, holding you hostage or anything. I wish you'd wait until you're all better, but..."
She fidgeted with her hands. She didn't want to admit it, but the truth was she was afraid of being alone. She had always been an independent person, but even the strange, half-Crank boy seemed better than what was going on outside her apartment.
"If you have to go..." her voice trailed off.
"I do." He said firmly. He paused as his eyes flicked back to her. "And you? What will you do?"
She sighed. "My life's here. Whatever's left of it, anyway. WICKED will get it under control, eventually. We'll rebuild." But even as she said it she wasn't sure she believed it.
"That's a nice dream," he said flatly. "But I don't think there will be much left of your precious city in a few days. At least where I'm heading there're more immunes than Cranks."
"When are you planning on leaving?"
"In the morning. Early."
She frowned. "So soon? That doesn't leave you much time to get ready."
"Doesn't leave you much time to decide." He said.
In the morning she laid in bed while she listened to Newt stirring in her living room. She could tell he was moving slowly, and he groaned several times as he got ready. After a few minutes there was a soft knock on her door. She could see his shadow shifting on the other side under the crack, waiting.
"Come in," she said.
He entered and limped to the foot of her bed. He looked clean; he must have used her shower while she was sleeping.
"I'm leaving," he said. He stood there awkwardly for a moment then added, "So, thanks."
She sat up in bed. "Did you get my bag?" She asked. She had left a small bag on the counter for him, filled with food, bottled water, and a first aid kit.
"I did," he said. He lifted it up to show her. He winced at the movement and set the bag back down.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "If that bag is too heavy for you, you're not going to make it very far."
"Slim it. I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes and you won't have to worry about me," he said. He began to pull his jacket on, and let out a sharp breath.
She pushed her covers back. "Damn it, let me help you." She went over to and grabbed the other sleeve, holding it out for him. "I can't believe you're doing this," she said as she tugged on the collar so it stood up straight.
He looked down at her and she shrank back slightly. She hadn't realized he was so tall.
"What other bloody choice do I have?" He asked.
He hoisted her bag over his shoulder and took a step back. He stood as straight as he could, as if to show her that her concerns were unfounded. When he saw she still looked worried, he shrugged half-heartedly and left her room, partially closing the door behind him.
Alone now, Antoinette stared at the back of her wooden door, hands balled together in her lap. A battle of thoughts whirled like a storm in her mind, confusing her.
She could go with the Glader, but for all she knew he still hated her for being tied in with WICKED and would leave her for dead at the first opportunity. Besides, he still had the Flare. He was okay now, but what about in a week, two weeks? The serum would wear of, eventually. It always did. He might not be able to infect her, but he could still hurt her.
Or, she could stay in her apartment. She looked around her room. It didn't seem like a bad place to ride out the tide of Cranks, but it could never be a permanent solution. She'd eventually run out of food, clean water. Plus, she didn't know where her mom was; would she come looking for her? Had she already left the city?
She didn't want to wait around too long, wasting her days away like a princess in a silver tower, waiting for her WICKED prince to come and rescue her.
But would they?
She had been told so many time that WICKED was good, but relying on them for her deliverance was a very different thing. Newt was about to leave, and then she would be alone.
Totally, utterly alone.
Doesn't leave you much time to decide, his voice rang in her mind.
"Don't go."
Antoinette stood behind Newt, who was putting some of her kitchen towels into his bag. She hadn't even realized she had left her bedroom.
He turned around and ran his hand through his wavy blonde hair, exasperated. "Not this again, I told you – "
"No," she interrupted. "Don't go, at least not yet. Please, wait for me. I'm coming with you."