Finality | The Maze Runner / Newt ³ ✓

{2.0}

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Minho: It's time for Plan B

Thomas: We have a Plan B?

Minho: No, but it's time for one

-✼-

Luckily, I landed in a snowbank. The deep pile cushioned my fall and caused cold to seep through my denim jeans. As I stood, I brushed the snow off of my rear and tried my best to ignore the fact that my pants were now wet.

The Berg began to take off again, the cargo door closing as it lifted into the air. I brushed my hair out of my face and watched it ascend into the overcast sky. It reminded me of when the sun had disappeared in the Glade and left nothing but gray hanging over us.

Thomas groaned from somewhere. I swept my gaze around before spotting a crumpled figure lying in the snow a few yards from me, staring blankly up at the clouds. The objective of this action wasn't clear; instead, he just seemed to be trapped in some sort of daze.

I was about to snap him out of it when he abruptly blinked and began to push himself to his feet. Thomas shook the snow off of himself, shuddering at the cold. Particles of white stood out jarringly from his raven hair.

"Let's go," he said without much emotion, setting off in the direction Lawrence had indicated without more hesitation. Whatever stupor he'd been in was gone and replaced with determination. We didn't have time to dilly-dally anymore.

As I stomped through the undisturbed snow on the group to catch up, I opened my mouth, but paused before any sound could come out once I caught sight of my brother's face. His expression was glazed like he was purposely fighting any emotions or thoughts from registering in his brain. It was his coping mechanism— he'd had his time to grieve in the van, and now he was forcing himself to recover.

"Thomas," I began carefully. When he didn't acknowledge me, I continued anyway, hoping at least some part of him was listening. "Hey. I don't—" My words tripped over themselves. "Don't think I hate you or something. I don't."

Thomas' eyes stayed trained on the barely-visible path ahead of us. There, the snow was thinner, but the cold was slowly bringing color to both of our pale complexions. His cheeks already appeared a bit rosy.

"Look, I...I understand, okay? I get why you did what you did—"

It took me a moment to realize he was laughing. Probably because it started as huffs from his nose, then chuckles that steadily grew louder until I was staring at him in confusion. Finally, he stopped and spoke.

"Don't say that," he said with conviction and all humor gone from his voice. "You understand. You don't. You don't know what it's like. You're just saying that because you feel like you have to."

"I killed Theo."

Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. The spiteful expression he'd had when speaking to me instantly vanished, replaced with one of shock, then horror, then realization. I watched as he connected the dots before my eyes.

The words were difficult to force out, to admit aloud, to relive as the flashbacks pierced my mind. "He was mauled by Cranks in the Scorch. Jorge told us that the Flare spreads more quickly from a bite, and at the time, we all thought we had the virus..." My throat began to close. I pushed the rest of it out anyway, my voice growing thick. "He asked me to kill him. Two shots and my best friend was gone. So, yes, I do understand."