Kill Me, Please - Let Me Die, a maze runner trilogy fanfic

A/N: Before I get started, I would like to give a huge shoutout and ten million virtual hugs, kisses, and brownies to the two friends who beta'd this for me. You guys are awesome and I would probably be drowning in a pool of my own tears right now if it weren't for you.

This story started out as a little drabble for Newt. See, when I was reading the Death Cure and all the feelsy "kill me, please, Tommy" action was going on, I couldn't help but wonder why Newt didn't just kill himself if he wanted to die so much. Especially since he'd already tried to kill himself once before. What was stopping him now? (The author's desire for feels and angst was stopping him, but let's ignore that little detail, shall we?) So, I wrote this to help myself rationalize the events in the Death Cure. It was supposed to be a short, sweet, painless drabble, and then - as you can tell from the word count - it...ran off and became a thing of its own.

Prepare for OOCness, badly written angst, and tons and tons of feels (hopefully). Hope you enjoy!

PROLOGUE

"Leave me alone!" he screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks - half because of the stabbing pain in his leg, half because Alby just. Wasn't. Listening. "Go away! Leave me here, let me die, let me die, just let me - let me - please - let me..."

But Alby wouldn't let go, no matter how furiously Newt struggled. The older boy merely gritted his teeth, tightened his grip around Newt's chest, and dragged him further, further out of the Maze, closer to the Gates that would lead them back into the Glade - the Glade that Newt had been trying to escape from in the first place -

"Bloody Hell, Alby!" Newt spat, he didn't know what he was thinking - he tried to reach behind him, tried to grab for his knife - what was he planning on doing with it? He didn't even know - but Alby was in the way, stupid Alby, shucking Alby, couldn't he just let him die?

"Let me die! I want to die! I WANT TO DIE, ALBY, JUST LET ME BLOODY DIE!"

"Shut your stupid hole, you piece of klunk!" Alby yelled back. "You're not dying, you understand? Nobody's letting you die!"

"Let me -" He couldn't even speak anymore, he was crying that hard. "Let me -" he choked out.

Alby wasn't listening, wasn't listening, just marching on with his usual cold firm determination, so stubborn, couldn't he just for once listen to what other people were saying?

Newt broke down and cried. He didn't care what Alby thought of him anymore; he didn't care about what the others would think of him when they find out what he'd tried to do. He was a weak, blubbering, hopeless mess. Die. Die. Let me die.

He was no longer conscious by the time they finally returned, mere minutes before the Gates were closed for the night.

He was sick to death of the bloody piece-of-klunk Maze. He was sick of running through it every day, memorizing its changes, exhausting himself and returning to the Glade only to draw out what the layout of the Maze had been for that day - and what was the point of it all? What was the bloody point? There was none. None. There never had been, had there? It was time to face it: there was no way out. They were trapped. They were all trapped and they didn't even know it, or they at least pretended they didn't know it, because if they acknowledged it - what was the point of living anymore? What was the point of trying to escape an inescapable prison? Had the last half-year of their lives been for nothing?

He was ready to give up, ready to just go to bed one night and never get up again, somebody else could become the bloody Keeper in his place -

Yet the next day, there he was again, running out into the Maze, memorizing every nook and cranny, just like every. Other. Bloody. Day.

"Newt."

The blond boy gave no indication of having heard Minho speak. He barely even seemed alive, sitting motionlessly on the plain wooden bed. His hands lay limp and lifeless in his lap; his eyes, staring dully off into the distance, would have belonged more to a corpse than a living human; his back was as straight as the splintered wooden wallboards that he stared past.

"Hey. Newt, buddy." When there was still no response, Minho stuck his hand in front of his friend's expressionless face and waved. "Newt."

"...Go away."

Newt's voice was barely more than a croak, hardly even audible, but still, Minho flinched at the dullness, the apathy, brimming in those two short words. Go away. Leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you - why are you even here? If Newt had had any more energy, he would've probably said that. Why bother talking to me?

Minho didn't know how to respond to that. Heck, he didn't know how to respond to any part of this situation. What was a guy supposed to do when he found out that his friend, his best friend whom he'd thought he'd known inside and out, had just tried to kill himself by jumping off a wall? How was he supposed to react when he found out his friend was still trying to kill himself at every opportunity: refusing to eat or drink unless the food was forced down his throat; scratching at his wrists with any remotely sharp object he could find around him; trying to jump out of any window within sight, as though he thought that a two-storey fall would somehow manage to put him out of his misery when a ten-storey jump hadn't even managed it?

Why had Newt done it?

Minho's hand dropped back to his side without him even realizing it, but even that didn't make Newt react. His eyes were as blank as before, still fixed on that imaginary point in the distance; his hands were still pale and motionless in his lap, his chest barely rising with each slow, shallow breath he took, his legs lying like sticks beneath the thick hemp blanket-

"Your leg." Minho was grasping at straws now, trying to come up with something to say - anything that might provoke a response from this broken boy that he considered to be one of his closest friends. "How... How's it healing up?"

"It's not." The corner of Newt's mouth quirked up in an unexplainable, yet undeniable, smile. "It never will."

Newt turned to Minho and glared at his Asian friend through eyes narrowed in spite. His smile was gone; his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

"Minho, leave me the bloody hell alone."

With that, he turned away again, staring back at that cursed, unadorned, dilapidated wall. Expressionless.

Minho felt like he'd been slapped. Not only had he been slapped, but he'd been punched in the gut, run over by a bulldozer, pushed off the edge of a cliff and even laughed at as he plummeted down an endless, pitiless void.

Normally, he would've replied with a sarcastic, cutting comment just as cruel as the one he'd been given, but his dry throat couldn't produce a single sound. His mind, usually so quick to come up with scathing retorts, was as bare as the wall that Newt watched so indifferently.

What was the point? Minho found himself wondering. What was the point in responding, when it was so obvious that Newt wouldn't care? He hadn't care about whether or not he'd hurt Minho with that short sentence; he didn't care if Minho was going to respond; he didn't even care if Minho would obey. What was the point in Minho saying anything more, or staying here any longer?

So he turned and left.

He took one final glance at Newt on his way out, and saw his friend sitting in the exact same position as he'd been when Minho had entered the room: back straight, hands in his lap, staring far off into the distance with glazed-over eyes. Minho barely even recognized him anymore.

Maybe he really would've been better off dead.

Minho, Alby, Frypan, Ben, all the others... Why did Newt feel like they didn't see this situation the same way he did? He saw the bleak future, the hopelessness of escape. But the other boys - they seemed not to know it. Some of them threw themselves in their daily work (Alby, Frypan), as though mere work would help them ignore the hideous truth that dangled above their heads, constantly. Some (Minho) were certain, so certain, that they would all escape someday. Was Newt the only one who'd already given up all hope?

The next day, it was Alby who came to visit Newt. The large, dark-skinned boy was still covered in sweat from a day of running when he barged into Newt's room.

"Hey!" He threw his pack onto the ground by the door, stormed across the room, and seized Newt by the shirt, yanking him forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. "Hey, shuck-face. Wanna explain to me what that bullshit from earlier was?"

For a horrible, heart-stopping, he thought that Newt wouldn't respond. Not once had he lifted his arms to try to push Alby off; his arms merely dangled, slack, at his sides. There was a dull gloss over his eyes, as though he weren't seeing anything that went on around him, as though he wasn't really there in the room with Alby.

"...Bullshit?"

Alby froze, fists still clenched on Newt's shirt, breathing in short, rapid pants of air. Watching, stupefied, as the blond boy raised his head and fixed the older boy with an impassive stare.

"What bullshit?" He croaked more than spoke; his voice was already fading from two days of disuse. "Me trying to kill myself? I thought it was obvious what that was."

"I know that!" He shook the blond, hard enough to make his head wobble on his neck, but other than that, he couldn't elicit any reaction from him. "I meant, shuckface, why'd you do it? Why would you even do such a - such a... Such a stupid thing! I thought-"

"Thought what?"

There was a hard edge to that voice that Alby hadn't expected. He blinked and, to his shock, found that Newt was glaring at him with ice in his eyes.

"Thought what?" Newt repeated, voice full of disdain. "Tell me, Alby. What did you think about me?"

Alby should have, by any right, wanted to strangle Newt at that point. He should've wanted to rip the blond boy's haunted, sneering head right off his shoulders - but he couldn't. Every last trace of his rage, and the strength it lent to him, dissipated into thin air. He could only take a deep, shuddering breath as tears sprang to his eyes.

"I thought..." To his dismay, his voice cracked, but he could see Newt blink at the sound. A little bit of his frostiness faded; his apathetic mask cracked; his inscrutable composure had just begun to break down. Good - he was reacting to the world again. He was, Alby hoped, starting to realize just how worried his friends had been about him. Maybe now, he'd realize how stupid he'd been to jump off that wall. "I thought you trusted us enough to tell us if anything was wrong."

He watched as Newt's face contorted, as the boy hunted for something to say in response. Who's "us"? The twenty Gladers that aren't you and Minho? Why would I trust people I never even talk to? maybe. Or, Nothing was wrong, bloody shank. Stop pretending to understand me. Alby wouldn't have had anything to say to that; he'd already realized that what he'd thought he'd known about Newt was wrong.

"I just wanted to die." Newt shoved Alby off him, and the older boy, unprepared for the blow, released him and stumbled back a few steps. "Why couldn't you just let me die?"

Newt's voice was hysteric, pleading, almost disgusting in its desperation. Alby couldn't help but wince at the raw emotion in his tone. Did he even realize what he was saying? Why was he still saying it? Why had he jumped off that stupid shucking wall in the first place, without even going to his friends for help with whatever had been torturing him to the point that he no longer wanted to live? And how had Alby not noticed his suffering? It was all Newt's fault for not trusting his friends; it was Alby's and Minho's and all the other Gladers' faults for not seeing his pain, for not helping him...

Alby was jolted out of his confusion and guilt when Newt rolled off his bed, landing on the ground with a hiss of pain, and began frantically crawling toward the door.

For a moment, the dark-skinned boy simply stared down at his blond friend bewilderment. What did he think he was doing? He was going to make his already ruined leg even worse. Didn't it hurt? Where was he headed to, so desperately, and...?

Newt was heading to the door.

Alby's Runner's pack was still by the door. His pack, filled with food, water, and knives.

...That little piece of klunk.

Without a second thought, Alby threw himself down on top of his struggling friend and pinned his thrashing limbs to the ground. Enraged as he was, he didn't care if he was crushing Newt's leg with his weight, didn't care if Newt could hardly even breathe with Alby lying on top of him. All he cared about was why was Newt still trying to move?

"What do you think you're doing, you-"

"Leave me alone!"

The suicidal moron was crying again, just like he had back in the Maze. His voice was strangled as he screamed and writhed under Alby's weight, trying to make the older boy get off so that - what? So that he could go off and try to kill himself again? He was an idiot if he thought Alby would ever let that happen.

Before the Med-jacks could come running in to see what the commotion was about, Alby put his mouth beside Newt's ear and hissed, "Newt. Newt. Newt. Listen to me. If you call yourself my friend, if you've ever thought of yourself as my friend, then don't kill yourself. For me, for Minho, for every other piece of klunk in this Glade that looks up to you as a leader and a friend. Don't do it."

Those desperate, harshly-whispered words, finally made Newt stop struggling. His movements slowed, then came to a total halt; his breathing, once rapid and panicked, slowed.

"Why?" If Alby had been able to see Newt's face at that moment, he was certain he would've seen tears running past trembling lips, just like two days ago, when Newt had barely been able to speak through his sobbing. "Why? There's no point. We're never going to escape. Why... Can't I just..."

Alby didn't want to answer - couldn't answer. After all, Newt was probably right: The Gladers were never going to escape the shucking Maze. A whole half-year of searching for clues hadn't led them any closer to the exit. What if they never found it? But if Alby said that, then it would only give Newt an excuse to try all the harder to end his life.

All that Alby could do was repeat: "For me. If we're friends, then do it for me. Please, Newt. Please."

He repeated it, over and over, harsh but soft in Newt's ear, until the blond boy's breathing slowed back to a normal rate, until his shoulders relaxed, until his hands loosened out of their fists and his body stopped trembling. Until his despair-filled amber eyes finally stopped refilling with tears every time he blinked.

If we're friends, if we were ever friends, then please. Do it for me.

"...Fine," Newt forced out. "For you."

"And Minho."

The blond boy gritted his teeth - then sighed. All the remaining tension in his body fled, escaping him along with his breath.

"For you." He'd lost all his fighting spirit; there was nothing left in his voice but weariness. "For you. And for him. But nobody - nothing - else."

That was enough for Alby.

He hated life in the Glade, hated it with a bloody passion. Every day, every second, was an agonizing reminder of how dull and pointless the rest of his life would be. Every time he ran the Maze, every time he sat on the ground and drew those bloody maps of how Section 6 had looked that day, he was reminded of how impossible escape truly was. His life, his existence, was filled with nothing but pain - so why not end it?

He considered slitting his wrists, bleeding to death - but, no, that was too slow, too quick, too simple, too complicated, too messy. The other boys would have to clean up after him, and if there was one thing he knew for sure, it was that he didn't want his death to be an inconvenience to the rest of the Gladers. God knew their lives were already difficult enough as it was.

Strangulation? Drowning? Asphyxiation? Burning? Poison? Throwing himself off the Cliff? No. No. No. None of them seemed quite right. None of them were quick enough, slow enough, painful enough, painless enough. Too inconvenient; required too much effort; too difficult to execute.

(He refused to admit it to himself, but no matter how desperate he was to end his life, he was still scared of actually dying.)

He'd think of something eventually. He knew he would. Until then, he would endure, and endure, until he could endure no longer.

Until he fell so deeply into despair that he no longer cared how painful, slow, messy, his method of dying was.

Newt's leg never healed, and to be honest, he wasn't surprised. He'd known right from the beginning: his failed suicide attempt would leave him a cripple for the rest of his unwanted life.

He should've probably been disappointed, or even depressed, by the notion, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything except sorrow for his failure. He'd been so close to being done with life in the Glade for once and for all, only to have his hopes of happiness wrenched away from him at the last second. Maybe if he'd run a little further out into the Maze, where he would've been harder to find... If he'd climbed a little higher, fallen slightly differently... If he'd done it a different way - if he'd slit his wrists, or thrown himself off the Cliff... If he'd struggled against Alby a little harder and forced the dark-skinned boy to abandon him...

Thinking back on it now, the method of suicide he'd chosen had been pretty stupid. If he'd truly wished to die, jumping off the Cliff would've probably been the best option. So why hadn't he done that, instead?"

He hadn't wanted to disappear and leave Alby and Minho wondering what had happened to him; hadn't wanted them to search for him and possibly get shut in the Maze overnight for his sake; hadn't wanted them to worry for him, hadn't wanted them to spend the rest of their lives wondering how he'd died, where, if he'd suffered, if they could've saved him, if they should've saved him -

No. He wasn't going to go down that line of thought. Dwelling on the past would only enhance his suffering, which was something he would rather not endure. The limp he'd acquired was something he'd have to live with for the rest of his life.

At the very least, he could assure himself that it hadn't been completely useless: He was no longer Keeper of the Runners. In fact, he was no longer a Runner, period. The Med-jacks had announced at the very beginning that he would probably never be able to run on his ruined leg ever again, and only a week ago declared his leg well enough to walk on for short periods of time. At that point, they'd punted him out of his sickroom, shipping him off to the Gardens so he could be of some use to the Glade while he waited to heal as much as he ever would.

Honestly, he thought to himself bitterly as he yanked weed after weed out of the ground (the only job that he was fit enough to do). With the way that the other Track-hoes were treating him, anyone would've thought he was made out of china or something equally fragile. Part of their caution, he was sure, came from their fear that he'd try to kill himself yet again, but he was willing to bet that another, bigger part of it was because of Alby playing big boss and sticking his nose in places where it didn't belong. Whatever the reason, there was always at least one boy at Newt's side, helping him with his work, offering a shoulder to lean on whenever Newt had to hobble over to the next row of plants that needed weeding, and, most importantly, keeping all remotely dangerous tools far, far out of Newt's reach.

Did they honestly think he'd try to kill himself in the middle of the Gardens and force the other boys to clean up after his dead body? Even he, depressed as he was, wouldn't be that cruel.

All day long, Newt sat on the ground and pulled leafy shoot after leafy shoot out of the ground, tossing them into a basket at his side. Half the plants he pulled out probably weren't even weeds, but did he care? No. Did any of the other Track-hoes seem to care? No. So he went on with his sadistic work, uprooting plants until his basket was overflowing with them, and then a Track-hoe would scurry over and exchange his filled basket for an empty one, and then Newt would shuffle on his bum further down the row of plants and continue. Endlessly.

Every minute of every day for the past week, he'd been uprooting plants, and unless his bloody ankle decided to get better soon (which he doubted it would), he would probably be doing this every day for the rest of his time in the Glade.

This was even worse than being a Runner. At least when Newt had been a Runner, he'd had enough to think about every day that he could almost ignore his despair. Here, though, with nothing to for him to hide behind, it pressed in on him from all sides, weighing on his chest, crawling into his mouth, choking him, suffocating him, until he had enough bottled up inside him to want to scream. Somehow he managed to hold it all in until the end of the day, when the Runners (how he envied them now) came back to the Glade, the Gates closed for the night, and everyone got a few hours to themselves to eat, socialize, and fool around before going to sleep. Then, tomorrow, after waking, they'd all get breakfast, the Gates would open, the Runners would run out, and then everyone else would go back to their work for yet another day, and the cycle would repeat endlessly, day after day, week after week, month after year after decade after who even knew how long they'd be stuck in this -

"Newt, buddy, what's with the long face? Did you accidentally eat a pile of manure today or something?"

Newt merely scowled, not even looking up as Minho slid into the seat beside him. "Go away."

From the way that Minho grinned, it seemed almost as though he hadn't heard Newt's scalding comment. "What, you're too good to be with me, now that you're not a Runner anymore? Or maybe it's the other way around - now that I've become the new Keeper, you don't want to hang out with me. Is that the way it is?"

"Leave me alone, shank."

Any further jokes that Minho had prepared died. His smile, originally so jubilant, withered away and vanished. Good. Newt was already tired of his Asian friend's incessable humour.

Minho slapped the table hard enough to make Newt's plate jump. "Okay, that's enough." He grabbed his blond friend by the arm and hauled him to his feet, despite Newt's surprised protests and struggle to escape. "You're coming with me."

Even if Newt had had two properly-functioning legs, he would have barely been able to keep up with Minho's brisk, unsympathetic pace. He dropped the uneaten half of his sandwich on the ground and hopped behind his Asian friend, cursing himself for not being strong enough - not anymore - to break out of his grip.

Where was Minho taking him? They were already halfway to the forest... Inside the forest... In the middle of the forest, but still Minho continued onward.

"Hey!" Newt yelled, shaking his arm. "Where the shuck are we going?" His legs hurt, both of them - one from hopping for so long, the other from the few times he'd accidentally tried to put his weight on it to find his balance.

Minho stopped without a warning, so quickly that Newt almost ran into him and knocked them both over. Luckily he managed to stop himself in time, except by then Minho had released him and spun around to face him, face red with anger.

"Okay, look here," he exclaimed, crossing his arms and glaring at the staggering, limping blond boy in front of him. "I don't know why you decided to jump off that shucking wall - don't even try explaining it to me, I won't listen, I don't care - but you need to stop acting like this. Got it? You're so gloomy, it's contagious. Half the other Track-hoes are starting to look like they want to kill themselves, too, just from hanging around with you all the time."

"If Alby'd-"

"Don't give a klunk what Alby did, what Alby should've done, whatever. Here's the way I see it." He stepped forward and clapped Newt on both shoulders, almost making him fall over from the sudden force. "You're alive now, yeah? Maybe you wanted to die before, but you failed at dying, so you're alive now. So, you're going to stay alive, and you're going to pretend that you want to be alive. Good that?"

No, Newt wanted to say, not good, but he could tell from the look on Minho's face that the Asian boy wasn't going to take no as an answer.

"What the shuck do you want from me?" Newt demanded, a sneer creasing his face. "I've already promised Alby I wouldn't try anything again, isn't that enough for you?"

Minho still didn't let go of him.

"Nope. You gotta promise me now. Swear on... I dunno, swear on the shucking sun, or the Earth, or on your parents, wherever they are - swear on all our parents that you'll never try to kill yourself again. Ever. And that you'll at least pretend that you're not suicidal and dead on the inside."

"Why?" Newt wanted to know. "Why does it matter if I act suicidal or not? Why do you bloody care if I try to kill myself again? That'd just make things easier for the rest of you - one less person to take care of, one less-"

"One good friend gone, one useful worker gone," Minho cut in, "and I care because we're friends and that's what friends do for each other no matter how much of a shank they are. Now, swear."

Newt couldn't help his slight, spiteful sneer. "What if me killing myself is the only way for you to live? Would you rather I let you die? What if, let's say, everyone in the Glade - nah, everyone in the whole bloody world - would die if I didn't kill myself. Would you still-"

"Yes," Minho snapped - he was losing his temper now, that much was obvious from the fire in his eyes and the sharpness of his voice. "Yes, I would rather you not kill yourself than save the whole shucking world. Do you promise?"

No, I don't. If I ever want to die, I should be allowed to die. it's my life, I get to do whatever I want with it - if you're my friends, why do you want to trap me in this bloody miserable place? Can't you shanks at least have the compassion to let me do what I want?

Why did Minho sound so much like Alby? Both of them blabbering about, Don't kill yourself, Newt, we're friends, don't kill yourself; both of them going on about, Promise me, swear to me, for me, do it for me - why should Newt care about them?

That was the problem, though: as much as he didn't want to care, he did. He cared all too much. Minho and Alby were his only friends in the whole Glade, the only friends he could remember ever having. The only people of any value in his life - even more important, in his mind, than himself.

How could he refuse?

"Fine." His throat felt dry and rough, but he forced himself to repeat himself: "Fine." He swatted at Minho's arms, shoved the Asian away from him, even though he almost fell over in the process. He could feel himself scowling - they'd probably make him stop doing that soon, too - as he snapped, "Promise. Does that make you bloody happy?"

"Yes," Minho replied - Newt cursed himself for how reassuring that word felt to him - and the Asian boy reached out and grabbed his friend's arm, positioning it around his shoulders, supporting him before he could fall over on his one functional leg. "That makes me bloody happy."

It started out as just any other day. He ran through the Maze - section bloody 6, as if it mattered - memorizing every turn and bend, cutting down ivy to mark which routes he'd already taken, noting any changes that had occurred between that day and the previous one.

Eventually, he looked up to the sky and realized the sun was directly overhead. Was it midday already? The hour had come for him to eat his lunch, but he didn't feel the slightest bit of hunger or thirst. Strange. normally he was starving by now, and he was pretty sure he was supposed to be thirty after an entire morning of sweating and running without a single sip of water. He slowed to a jog to take a drink out of his water bottle, but before he'd even twisted the cap off, he was hit by a curious thought: Did it really matter if he drank or not? Not really. Or at least, if it did, he couldn't be bothered to care.

At some point, he realized that he'd stopped running, and was simply standing, motionless, in the middle of a T-intersection. Staring up at the ivy-covered wall before him.

He didn't know what he was thinking. He wasn't thinking much of anything at all. The one and only thought circling in his mind was, "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of this. I hate this, I hate this, I hate it - let it end already."

When the hour came for him to turn around and head back to the Glade, he grabbed a handful of ivy and began climbing.

It hurt. It bloody hurt. When he'd first come up with this harebrained plot he hadn't thought it would hurt so much, and he was screaming and yelling and hollering from the pain, tears in his eyes, streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't care and he wanted to shut up already you're going to attract someone but he couldn't because oh bloody hell when would the pain stop, he'd thought that jumping would make all the pain stop

he'd pay someone, he'd give them his life, if they'd only come and put an end to this misery for him

couldn't someone just come and help him

someone was grabbing him around the chest with familiar strong dark-skinned arms, whispering in his ear, "Newt, Newt, buddy, it'll be okay, I'll get you back, the Med-jacks'll get you better, shuck it all, how'd that happen," and he yelled back "get off me I don't want you here let me go let me die," because Alby wasn't there to end it, wasn't there to put him out of his misery, Alby only wanted to prolong it, Alby was taking him back to the bloody shucking Glade and every time his throbbing leg bumped against a wall, a corner, a rock on the ground, he had to bite his tongue to keep quiet but still a groan of pain would escape and soon his mouth was filled with the salty taste of iron and blood

just end it already slit my throat strangle me let me die kill me KILL ME and he wasn't sure if he was speaking aloud or in his head or if anything he was saying was even comprehensible through his weeping but Alby wasn't listening and he

just

didn't

care

anymore

"Promise."

"Swear."

"For me."

Three months. That was how long it took Newt to start acting like his old self again.

Four months. That was how long it took everyone else to start treating him normally again.

Six months. That was how long it took for Newt to cast off and lock away his old self, the self that had put his happiness and depression above anyone else, the self that had been willing to kill himself and leave Alby and Minho behind, miserable, alone, and alive without him.

Sometimes his old self still resurfaced at night in the form of dark, gloomy thoughts, but he always pushed it back into the back of his mind, where it belonged. It no longer mattered how futile he thought the Gladers' struggle was. All he lived for now were Alby and Minho, his only two friends in the whole entire world, and the promises he'd made to them all those months ago.

Don't kill yourself.

Promise you'll never try to kill yourself again.

At least pretend that you're not suicidal and dead on the inside. Please.

For me.

He did it for them, and only for them; for no one, and nothing, else.

CHAPTER ONE

Newt liked Tommy.

Sure, he'd only known the Greenie for less than two days, but he could already tell that the two of them would get along. Tommy was...not like the other Gladers. Unlike most (read: every) Greenies before him, he wasn't panicking and crying for his mommy. He wasn't docile and passive, obeying all the rules that he was told without being explained why they were important, not opening his mouth for fear of being reprimanded. Sure, he was scared and confused, but who wouldn't be in that situation? And, most importantly, he wasn't letting his fear control him. He was asking questions that no Greenie had ever asked before, exploring the Glade with flat-out curiosity and what almost seemed like a death wish.

Maybe that was part of the reason Newt liked him so much: neither of them really cared if they ended up dead. Or maybe he was just reading too much into Tommy's actions. He probably was.

In any case, suicidalness aside, something about Tommy made Newt want to talk to him, to get close to him, to know him better, to become friends with him. When was the last time Newt had made a new friend? Heck, when was the last time when he'd made a friend, period? It must've been two years ago, when he'd met Alby and Minho upon his arrival in the Glade.

What made Tommy so special? The only explanation that Newt could come up with was that the boy was...different. Somehow, Newt got the impression that this odd, curious, bold, tactless, dark-haired boy, with his new ideas and fearless attitude, would be the one to finally get them all out of the Maze. And whether Newt's guess ended up being right or not, he still wanted to become friends with the Greenie.

Imagine that. A new friend. Alby and Minho would be proud of him.

And then, of course, Tommy had to ruin it all by running into the Maze to join the two of them in certain death.

Losing three friends in one go - no, losing your only three friends in one go. How many people in the world had to suffer through that? Not many, Newt was willing to bet. Maybe no one(none) at all.

How was he supposed to deal with it?

He could tell that all the other Gladers were almost as worried and grief-stricken as he was by Tommy, Minho, and Alby's disappearances. As the new leader of the Glade, Newt should've probably been going around, comforting them, but he couldn't be bothered to move. Let someone else be the bloody leader - he sure as hell didn't want to be.

He sat on a grassy hillside, clutching a sandwich of some sort in his numb, stiff fingers, staring vacantly at the Gate with a lump in his throat. He could hear other Gladers murmuring around him, and he was sure that the older boys, those who'd been around when he'd tried to kill himself, were watching him with undisguised worry. Maybe they thought he was going to try to kill himself again. If he'd been in their shoes, he would've thought the same.

Alby and Minho were gone. The only two reasons that Newt had forced himself to keep living, to become second-in-bloody-command in this shucked up place, to maintain some semblance of sanity, had vanished. What reason did he have left to live? What reason did he have to not go back into the bloody shucking Maze and throw himself off one of its walls again, and hopefully be more successful this time than the last?

The problem was, he did have a reason. Two of them, in fact: He'd promised Alby he wouldn't try to kill himself again, and he'd promised Minho that, no matter what happened, no matter how grim or difficult or hellish his life became, he'd endure.

Why did those matter anymore? Alby and Minho were dead. They wouldn't be around to know, or care, if he broke his promises.

Why did it matter anymore? He didn't know. But, for some reason, it did.

So he forced himself to his feet. He forced himself to turn around and limp toward the gaggle of anxious Gladers behind him.

He would become the bloody leader of this bloody hellhole because Alby was gone, and because there was no one else to replace him. He'd force himself to smile, to laugh, to lie; he'd comfort the youngest and wimpiest boys, discipline the oldest and most abhorrent ones.

All for the sake of those bloody, shucking promises.

They were alive. Minho, Alby and stupid, idiotic, moronic Greenie Thomas - somehow they'd all managed to survive their night in the Maze. Thank God. Newt wasn't sure what he would've done if they'd truly turned out dead.

(He'd told himself that he'd already accepted their deaths, but in truth, he'd still held on to a faint sliver of hope. Who wouldn't? Who would be able to resist?)

And not only that, but it had been Tommy who'd saved them all, Tommy who'd saved Alby from certain death by Griever, Tommy who'd figured out a way to kill the evil buggers, Tommy who...

Newt no longer had any doubt about it: Tommy was the person whom Newt had been waiting for, this past year and a half.

Tommy was the one who would save them all from this hell of a Maze.

"Alby! Get back here!"

But the dark-skinned boy wasn't listening, nor did he slow down. If anything, he gained speed, and Newt could only watch in horror as Alby dove straight into the cluster of Grievers.

Didn't he see their claws, their glinting blades? Didn't he know what they would do to him?

"ALBY!"

Bloody moron, what does he think he's DOING, get back here before -

But it was too late for further warnings. The Grievers had cut Alby to shreds, Newt could see him lying dead on the ground, so why was he still trying to run forward to Alby's side?

"Let go!" he screamed at Thomas, pounding at the dark-haired boy's arms, struggling to wrench free from his powerful grip. Thomas was screaming something back, but Newt wasn't listening, Newt didn't care what he was being told, all he could do was stare as the Grievers descended upon Alby in a vicious storm of glinting metal and whirling blades, and all he could think was Tommy let go of me, let me go, let me go to him, I want to help him, I want -

Let go of me! Let me die, I want to die, let me bloody die, Alby!

"There's nothing you can do!" Thomas was shouting in his ear, but it wasn't until a few more Grievers swelled forward, blocking Alby from sight, that Newt was able to give in, to stagger back, and allow Thomas to pull him away.

Why does he get to die? Why does only he get to die -

"Promise me, Newt, that you won't try to kill yourself again; promise, for me-"

Hypocrite, bloody hypocrite, always thinking of himself - why would he do such a stupid thing, why -

Minho and Thomas were talking amongst themselves, and from the quick, furtive glances that Minho kept sending his way, Newt got the distinct impression that he was supposed to be part of the conversation too. What were they even talking about? Alby's noble sacrifice and Thomas, get in the Hole with Teresa and Chuck, do your thing - hadn't they noticed that Alby was bloody DEAD?

"How can you guys be so heartless?"

Even before it popped out of his mouth, Newt knew it was a stupid thing to say. They weren't being heartless - he knew that. They were just... Putting the grief away. Hiding it. Waiting until they had the opportunity to deal with it properly.

Just like the way that Newt had been dealing with his own depression for the past two years.

Hypocrite hypocrite hypocrite hypocrite

I thought you wanted me to live for you

If you're dead what's the point of that promise

Why are you dead

Why do you get to die when I don't

Selfish bloody piece of

Minho was yammering on about "it was a sacrifice, we shouldn't be wasting it", and Newt squeezed his eyes shut, as though closing his eyes would also help him lock his angry words inside his chest. Was this Minho's way of rationalizing it? Of permitting it? If Newt had had an equally "noble" reason eighteen months ago, would Alby and Minho have let him get away with his suicide?

Hypocrite

The next few minutes passed in a blur. Tommy, Teresa, and Chuck went ahead on their valiant mission of glory, while the rest of the Gladers fought the Grievers and died in giant swathes. Newt was among the fighters, screaming just as fiercely as all the rest, stabbing Grievers left and right, wading deeper and deeper into the chaotic battlefield as though, if he went far enough, if he screamed loudly enough, he'd become one of the ones lucky enough to die at a Griever's hand.

Why...

But before he could be hit, the Grievers all froze and shut down, and just like that, the battle was over. Half the boys were lying diced up and dead on the ground, while the other half, somehow still alive, was lining up to jump into the Griever hole and finally leave the Maze.

Newt followed numbly behind Minho. He should've been ecstatic right now - finally, he was escaping the place that had been the bane of his existence for the past two years - but he simply couldn't bring himself to feel any joy.

Why do you get to die? Why do you get to kill yourself?

Tommy was asking something about "where are the rest of the boys?" Couldn't the bloody Greenie figure it out already?

"Half of us," Newt managed to force out. "Dead." He should have been among them - he wanted to be among them. So why wasn't he?

Why am I still alive?

He felt like a corpse on two feet, mindlessly following the others as they went down some disgusting, demented slide; as some weird people stared at the surviving group of Gladers, writing gibberish down on their clipboards; as Gally reappeared, shot Chuck, got beaten to a pulp by a weeping, hysterical Tommy.

He watched without emotion, as though observing a dream, while strangers dressed in filthy clothes flooded the odd observation room, shooting and killing the people in the white lab coats, ushering the confused Gladers onto a bus, and then speeding them all away to an unknown place. They drove for hours and hours, and for all that time, Newt sat, lifeless, thoughtless, unable to do anything except breathe.

Why am I left behind?

It took him a while to get over Alby's death. To be perfectly honest, he might never have been able to do it, if it hadn't been for two important, insignificant things:

Tommy and Minho. They were his only two remaining friends in the world, now that Alby was gone; but more importantly, Newt was their friend. That meant that, no matter how hurt he was from the shock of losing Alby, no matter how much he wanted to join Alby in death or lie down and weep himself to sleep, he had to live on. For the sake of his last two friends, he would live on.

And also: those bloody, shucking promises. He'd sworn to Alby that he would never try to commit suicide again; he'd sworn to Minho that, no matter what happened, he would never again succumb to his depression.

For his two surviving friends, and for the promises he'd made to his friends long ago, Newt would force himself to live on.

CHAPTER TWO

When Tommy disappeared after the ceiling collapse of the Cranks' food hoard, Newt lost his mind for a while, as did almost all of the surviving Gladers.

What're we gonna do without him? they demanded, running to Newt, Minho, and their few surviving friends for comfort in the form of answers. Where is he? Are we gonna find him again anytime soon?

Why were they asking him? Newt wanted to shout every time they ran to him. Did they think he knew the answers? Did they really think that he and Minho - because they were the ones that were constantly being asked - weren't just as worried about Tommy as they were? Although, granted: if Minho was worried, he was doing a remarkable job of hiding it. Newt could only hope that he was doing just as well.

For the first day of Tommy's disappearance, Newt's mind was filled with pure panic. It had been, what - a week? Less? - less than a week since Alby had died, and now it seemed like Newt had lost yet another one of his friends to the unknown. There was only Minho left now: Minho, and the other Gladers that Newt didn't even know that well.

By the end of the first day, though, most of the boys had stopped discussing Tommy and Brenda, that Crank girl that Jorge seemed so worried about. Instead, they began worrying about how they'd make it through the day; whether they'd encounter any other hostile Cranks; how long it would take them to reach the safe haven; whether or not the rest of the Cranks in Jorge's group would realize they'd been left behind, and what they'd do when they did.

And by the end of the first day, Newt, too, had stopped thinking about Tommy's disappearance, focusing instead on how to make it through the next day. Just like he had every day back in the Glade.

That wasn't to say, of course, that he didn't still miss Tommy. He did, horribly - he was pretty sure he always would. Just like he'd always miss having stubborn, foul-mouthed, arrogant Alby around to boss the Gladers around. Tommy, curious, brave, daring, would remain in Newt's memories forever, regardless of if they ever met again. If they didn't, so be it; Alby's death had taught Newt how to deal with loss.

But if they did, wouldn't that be so much nicer?

All the Gladers were surprised when Frypan told them that he'd seen Thomas - and, oh, yes, the Crank girl had been there, too - being held at gunpoint and led somewhere by three unknown, clearly psychotic Cranks.

Everyone barraged him with questions: Was he sure it had been them? Had the Cranks tried to hurt them, or maybe even kill them? Did he know where they'd been taken? Was he sure it had been them?

Frypan's replies were: Yes, they waved the gun around a bit but didn't actually use it, yes, yes already, now could they stop shucking standing around like shanks and start planning some sort of ambush to get Thomas and the Crank-girl back? And none of the Gladers had any questions for that.

So they began their planning. The hours flew by until, before they knew it, the ambush was finished, all the Cranks - mostly conked out by the time the Gladers arrived, thank the shucking Maze - had either run away or been rounded up and subdued, and there was Minho back from a quick exploration of the upper floor, leading Tommy and the Crank-girl right along behind him.

Newt smiled in relief at the sight of Tommy clearly still alive and well. Many of the other boys were hollering welcome-backs to him, and Newt waited for some of the commotion to die down before he went up to him and said, "Glad you're not bloody dead. I'm really, really glad."

"You too," Tommy replied, grinning back. And then it was straight back to business: How many of the Gladers were left? Had any of the Cranks escaped? Which ones? It was almost as though Tommy had never left in the first place, which was just fine by Newt. After all, he was back now, wasn't he? That was all that mattered.

Until he got shot, that is.

Was Tommy going to die? Newt hoped not. That would... Well, to say it would suck would be a gross understatement. If Tommy actually died, it would be so much worse than just sucky. It would be... It would be like Alby dying. All over again.

Bloody hell, Tommy, you'd better not die.

Tommy was back, alive and well, thank the bloody shucking Maze or whatever else there was for Newt to pray to. Certainly not WICKED, although they were probably most deserving of thanks, considering that they were the ones who'd fixed Tommy's bloody shoulder. At the same time, though, they were the ones who were responsible for Alby's death. If it hadn't been for that, then their goodwill toward Tommy might've been enough to make Newt forgive them for all they'd done.

He still couldn't quite believe it, though.

They'd saved Tommy.

That was almost, almost, enough for Newt to stop hating them.

CHAPTER THREE

Kill me, please. If you've ever been my friend, kill me.

Newt wondered what had happened to that hastily-scrawled note that he'd shoved into Tommy's hand so, so long ago. Did his friend still have it? Had he opened the envelope and read it yet? If he had, Newt would've killed to see Tommy's reaction - the look on his face must've been priceless.

Back to serious business, though:

Could Newt trust Tommy to do as the note said? Because if Tommy didn't, then Newt was stuck. He'd be trapped as a Crank for the rest of his probably short life, until he got torn apart by another Crank, or a non-Crank killed him out of hatred, or self-protection, or - did it bloody matter how he'd die? All that mattered was that he would die, eventually, and unless Tommy managed to do the job that Newt had entrusted him with, he'd die alone, without his friends beside him.

When Newt had first discovered that he actually had the Flare and wasn't immune to it like all his other friends were, he'd been... Shocked, but not entirely unhappy. At the time, it had seemed like the answer to his problems: it gave him yet another reason to want to shove WICKED into hell, and yet another reason to end his life - it even gave him an excuse for why he would.

But Tommy - Tommy had seemed so devastated. Newt could still remember the look in his new, dearest, dark-haired friend's eyes. It had only been after Newt had seen that haunted expression that he'd realized how truly shucked he was.

The Flare was going to eat away at his brain until he became as much of a monster as all the Cranks they'd met in the Scorch. No; he'd be even worse than them, because they hadn't even been Gone yet. Once Newt passed that threshold, what would he be like? Would he even realize how insane he'd become, or would he be oblivious?

What if he, someday, in the throes of his illness, inadvertently ended up hurting one of his friends?

The problem wasn't that it might someday happen, it was that it already had. How many times had his sanity already slipped away from him and caused him to scream with unwarranted rage at his friends? He knew he'd already done it once to both Tommy and Minho during their escape from WICKED, but he'd only recognized his lapse in sanity when Minho had criticized him for it. What if he'd done it more than that once, but hadn't been sane enough to realize it? He couldn't bear the thought.

That was the reason he'd written Tommy the note. That was the reason he'd chosen to stay behind in the Berg while the others went into Denver and went to search for Dr. whatever-his-bloody-name-was. As much as Newt wanted to stay with his friends for as long as possible, while he was still sane enough to appreciate their company, it wasn't worth the risk.

That was also one of the reasons he didn't struggle when the bounty hunters (bounty hunters? Crank hunters? Head hunters? He had no idea what they were called, and he didn't much care) found him. By that point, he'd already had a few too many lapses in sanity. The gravity of his situation had finally begun to sink in: When he was Gone, he was going to be gone. Forever. There was no turning back for him now, no hope of salvation - only the hope that, the next time he and Tommy met, Tommy would obey Newt's final request to him.

There were three different guns aimed at Newt's head while he wrote his farewell note to all his friends:

They got inside somehow. They're taking me to live with the other Cranks.

It's for the best.

(He only added that part because he knew that, if he didn't, his friends would never believe it.)

Thanks for being my friends.

(What an understatement. Mere words would never be able to communicate his gratitude to them, for giving his life some meaning at the times when he couldn't find any. Thank you, thank you, thank you; he'd write it a million times if he could, but he had neither the time nor space for that.)

Goodbye.

(I hope we meet again.)

(Tommy, read the note. Please - before we meet again, read the note. And no matter how much it hurts you, do as it says.)

(Kill me.)

In the dark, nightmarish confines of the Crank Palace, the only thing that stopped Newt from shooting himself in the head, or entering a brawl with a past-Gone Crank and letting himself loose, or jumping off a building, or just taking his own life in any way possible, was the thought of his friends. Every time his mind slipped and he lost himself in madness, screaming at everyone around him, beating up any weakling around him that he could take his anger out on; every time the haze of rage cleared from his mind and he felt the urge to bash his diseased brain to pieces on any hard surface around him, he clung to the memories of Minho's sarcasm and bitter humour, of Tommy's unyielding stubbornness and almost foolish bravery. When he got into a fight that ended with him battered and bruised all over, and the other fighter dead, his first thought was, What would they think of me?

His friends were all he lived for now. Had it not been for them, he would've long since lost the will to carry on, and either given in to the madness or let himself die.

And yet, a guard came up to him one day and told him that a couple of guys - one Asian, one dark-haired, another older man - that claimed to be his friends wanted to talk to him, his response was, Tell them to get lost.

He didn't want them to see him like this - perpetually angry, worn out from countless brawls and constant sleeplessness, defeat obvious in his eyes - but at the same time, it took all his remaining willpower to stop himself from calling out after the guard and saying, I've changed my mind, take me to them, I want to talk to them. Regardless of how insane he'd become, couldn't he see his friends one last time? Couldn't he grant himself that one luxury?

Couldn't he go see Tommy, and have his most desperate wish - his wish for death - fulfilled?

When his friends came after him anyway, he was at once elated and furious. Couldn't those bloody shanks ever listen? He wasn't the same Newt as he'd been before - he wasn't the same person they'd known, that had been their friend. They hadn't been with him those past few days - they hadn't seen the things he'd done. He was a Crank now, fully and completely, and if they wanted to save him, they would have to kill him. Specifically, Tommy would have to kill him.

But no matter how much Newt tried to provoke him, Tommy wouldn't bloody do it. Why not?

...It couldn't be that he hadn't read the note yet. Could it?

Bloody moron. Newt should've hated him for it, but he couldn't bring himself to.

If they weren't there to kill him, then regardless of how much he missed them and wanted to be with them again, he didn't want them there.

So he made them leave. He forced them. Pointed a Launcher at them, threatened to shoot; yelled at them, screamed, felt the insanity returning as a wave of rage engulfed him in its depths.

And when they finally did leave, he felt simultaneously relieved and dismayed.

They were gone. They wouldn't have to watch him as he lost all his sanity; they weren't there, at his side, when he needed them most.

Tommy hadn't killed him.

The madness came and went in waves, in flares. Sometimes he couldn't remember what he'd doing for the past few minutes; sometimes, he lost full hours. His hands grew scabbed and numb from punching, scratching, fighting in general, while his throat grew hoarse from endless screaming. He learned to fear the temptation to laugh because it meant that another period of insanity was coming upon him.

In his brief moments of lucidity, he wanted to kill himself - but he couldn't, because of that bloody shucking promise he'd made to Alby.

In his longer bouts of psychosis, he didn't much care about anyone or anything.

He was covered in blood all over from ripping apart humans and other Cranks. Every inch of his body hurt from new injuries, cuts, and bruises, but the pain existed only as a dull throb in the back of his mind, overshadowed by his rage and hurt.

I trusted you, Tommy. I trusted you, he would whisper in his mind, over and over, whenever he was able to think straight.

And then he'd lose his mind yet again.

"I hate you, Tommy! I hate you I hate you I hate you! After all the freaking klunk I went through in the bloody Maze, you can't do the one and only thing I've ever asked you to do!"

He was screaming so loudly that there was spit flying from his mouth but he didn't care. He advanced upon Tommy, and the sick part of his mind relished the panic growing on his friend's face.

Tommy was trying to argue with him, as usual. Tommy, the smart one. The brave one. The one who always knew what was right. Who believed that anything was possible, anything could be achieved, if he just tried hard enough. In a way, he was almost more arrogant - more sickening - than Alby had ever been.

Newt didn't give a bloody klunk what Tommy thought anymore. Because this time, Tommy was wrong.

Coward.

All this time, I thought you were the bravest of all the Gladers, but you're just a coward, like all the bloody rest.

He sprinted forward and tackled his friend to the ground. Behind him, he heard the crackling of a Launcher grenade just barely miss him as he crawled on top of Tommy - just like Alby had crawled on top of him, over a year and a half ago - and snarled, "I should rip your eyes out. Teach you a lesson in stupidity." The words were tumbling, unbidden from his mouth; he didn't know or care what he said, only that it hurt Tommy as much as it possibly could, because Tommy deserved to be hurt for betraying his trust. It was long past time that Tommy realized how tortured Newt had felt for the past, the only, two years of his life.

If Newt hurt him enough, would he finally let go of his bloody morals and give him the end he wanted?

"Why'd you come over here? You expected a bloody hug? Huh? A nice sit-down to talk about the good times in the Glade?"

Tommy was shaking his head, and Newt could see the fear on his face. It filled him with an awful, repulsive, euphoric glee.

"You wanna know why I have this limp, Tommy? Did I ever tell you? No, I don't think I did."

He didn't know what had prompted him to say that, to bring this up. Why now, when he was about to die?

Because Tommy reminded him of Alby. Because Newt still missed Alby, even though he thought he'd long since gotten over his death. Because after a year and a half of cooping it up inside him, of no one wanting to be reminded of that horrible incident, he wanted to finally let it out. Maybe, unlike the other Gladers, who hadn't wanted to listen, Tommy would.

"I tried to kill myself in the Maze. Climbed halfway up one of those bloody walls and jumped right off. Alby -"

Stupid Alby, loathsome Alby, irreplaceable Alby.

"- found me and dragged me back to the Glade right before the Doors closed."

Against Newt's will; against Newt's deepest desires. He still felt betrayed, just as betrayed as he felt now by Tommy's cowardice.

"I hated the place, Tommy. I hated every second of every day."

His breath was coming faster now, in short, rapid puffs. I hated every second of every day. He still did. He'd never stopped, ever - he'd just tolerated it, for the sake of his friends. But he was done with living for other people's sakes. He no longer gave a bloody klunk about what other people wanted - he would do what he wanted to do, and what he wanted to do was to die.

Kill me, Tommy.

He found himself sitting with Tommy's gun pointed at his forehead. His fingers were wrapped tightly around Tommy's own - when had they gotten there? When had Tommy pulled out his gun? Newt couldn't remember anything that had happened in the last few seconds. He really was becoming a Crank now, a full-fledged, fully-Gone Crank.

The trigger was right there, close enough for him to reach it and pull. His fingers itched with the temptation - but, no, he couldn't. Tommy was the one who had to do it. Tommy was the only one who could.

"Promise me you won't kill yourself."

"Shut up, Alby, shut up, shut UP SHUT UP SHUT YOUR BLOODY MOUTH FOR ONCE AND FOR ALL!"

"Kill me before I become one of those cannibal monsters! Kill me! I trusted you with the note! No one else. Now do it!"

Tommy was still being a coward, still trying to resist, but Newt wouldn't let him. Just like Alby hadn't let him kill himself a year and a half ago, Newt wouldn't let Tommy leave him alive.

"I can't, Newt, I can't."

Bloody chicken.

Once again the words spilled out, unplanned: "Make amends, repent for what you did! Kill me, you shuck coward. Prove you can do the right thing. Put me out of my misery." I've been waiting a year and a half for this; don't deny me it now.

"Newt, maybe we can -"

"Shut up! Just shut up! I trusted you, now do it!"

"I can't."

You can't? You CAN'T? If I could force myself to keep living for a year and a half when I wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball and die, then you can force yourself to pull the bloody trigger.

"Do it!"

"I can't!"

"Kill me or I'll kill you." For a terrifying moment, Newt actually meant it. What did it matter? If Tommy was dead, then that was one less reason for him to stay alive. "Kill me! Do it!"

"Newt..."

What was with that disgusting tone? That hopelessness, that pleading. What did Tommy think he was pleading for?

Newt was done with listening to his friends' begging. He'd had enough of doing what they wanted him to do.

"Do it! Before I become one of them."

As if he wasn't one of them already.

"I..."

"KILL ME!"

Don't kill yourself. Alby's voice echoed, unwanted, unforgettable, in his head. For me. For Minho.

I'm sorry, Alby. I'm sorry, Minho. I'm sorry, Tommy, so sorry, but...

"Please, Tommy." This was all that he wanted, all that he longed for. "Please."

He saw his friend's eyes close, and he knew: this was the end. This was him, finally getting his deepest wish granted, after a torturous year and a half of waiting.

If Tommy had been watching, he would've seen Newt's lips crease into a gentle smile.

Bang.

...Thank you, Tommy.

A/N: Please leave a comment saying what you thought of the story. Even a single line, or a single word, is better than nothing. If you've got the time to spare, though, I would greatly appreciate constructive criticism. Thanks for reading! But before you go...

One of my betas, who I'm sure is a great person deep, deep, deeeep down inside, sorta-accidentally-sorta-on-purpose inspired me to write a cracky second ending for this fic. Her prompt was: "hello, Alby, I guess I didn't break my promise after all". And I ran free with that and created the total monstrosity that you now see below.

You don't have to read this alternate ending if you don't want to. It's total crack. Bullshit of the highest order. I, myself, cringe when reading it.

But if you do want to read it... Well, here it is. Enjoy. Please.

Crack ending, just 'cuz I can

"Yo, Alby!" Newt grinned and sauntered over to his astonished dark-skinned friend. Both were dressed in T-shirts and jeans that had probably been fashionable back before the sun flares had ravaged the Earth. Newt liked them - they made him feel chill.

"...Newt?" Alby blinked in surprise. "What're you doing here?"

With a wink and a crooked grin, Newt replied, "I kept my promise! I didn't kill myself - I got little Tommy-boy to kill me for me! Genius, eh? I shoulda thought of that long ago!"

Alby's eyes widened, and widened, until Newt had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud.

"What the hell?"

"No, no." Newt thumped his friend on the chest. Alby, unprepared for it, staggered back a step. "We're still in a TMR fanfic. You gotta say, what the Maze? Or, what the Glade? Wait…...actually, come to think of it, James Dashner never came up with a kid-friendly version of that, so go ahead and say whatever you want."

For a moment, a thoughtful expression passed over Newt's face, sending chills down Alby's spine. But just as quickly as it had come, it vanished, replaced by a devious smirk that made Alby's hair stand on end.

"Hey. Hey, hey." Newt grinned and leaned in to Alby. Instinctively, Alby took another step back. "Hey, here's a joke. Which other Glader is here with us right now? Huh? Huh? Take a wild guess."

"A-All the other forty boys who died before the end of the series," Alby managed to force out of his dry mouth. "W... Why?"

"Wrong answer!" With far too much dramatic flourish, Newt threw his arms out (Alby stepped back again) and exclaimed, "Tommy's here!"

Alby's eyes seemed ready to jump out of their sockets. "Wh -"

"'Cause the name of the actor who plays me is Thomas Brody-Sangster. Thomas, see? Ha! Ha! Oh, that was horrible!"

Alby took a third, final step away from his insane friend (he was hesitant to call him his "friend" anymore). "You've shucking gone m-"

His foot encountered empty air.

...What?

He frantically waved his arms, trying to regain his balance, but it was futile; his other foot, too, slipped off the edge of the cliff that he hadn't even noticed behind him, and suddenly he was falling down, down, into what looked like an endless drop.

"Have fun!" Newt shouted after him, gleefully waving as his friend fell through the void. "Man, are Tommy and the others going to be surprised to see you again!"

...Wait, WHAT?

And thus it was that Alby fell back into the ending of the Death Cure. Tommy - the real Tommy, not the actor Tommy - would be surprised when he saw the long-dead boy, whom he'd never been too fond of, land in the middle of his new home in Paradise.

He'd probably end up killing Alby again out of spite.

After which Newt would simply send Alby back into the book, yet again.

Maybe Newt and Tommy could become pen pals, using Alby as their postal delivery service.

La Fin