Chapter One

The commotion drew Thomas's attention from where he was dumping the contents of his woven basket onto the earth surrounding their tomato plants. He'd been in the Glade for the day, a welcome break from Running the Maze, although it had been intended as a punishment set down by Alby for fighting with Gally.

He looked up, raising one hand to shield his eyes from the dying blaze of the sun, crawling unfailingly towards the horizon. His gaze sought the large group who were collected around the Doors, and as he watched a figure stumbled from the opening before collapsing as the Gladers reached for him, a few helping him upright and heading towards the Homestead. Thomas dropped the basket without conscious thought, the shouting growing in volume, panic amongst the noise. Two more figures stumbled out from the shadows of the forbidding opening, and Thomas recognised Minho's favourite blue shirt as he started an even jog towards everyone.

He was halfway there when he recognised the figure draped over the two Runners, and as the sunlight splintered on the down-turned blonde head, his heart seized up before diving into a scattered rhythm.

Thomas took off at a fierce sprint, his feet moving faster than he remembered them ever doing before. He tore across the grass and through the gathered Gladers, blind to the terrified whispering as his eyes locked on the unconscious older boy. Minho and Ben had handed him off to others, both of them swaying as they tried to get their breath back. They were laying him on the ground, lifting his brown, too-big shirt up as Thomas skidded to a halt beside him, dropping to his knees, oblivious to the sharp jolts of pain and the shouts of the others. His eyes flew over the pale skin, seeking the dark, ugly black and purple blotch that perched just below his right ribcage like a fat toad on a lily pad. Thomas's heart stuttered.

Newt.

"What happened?"

"Is he-"

"Alby! What-"

"Oh God, it's Newt!"

"He's been stung!"

"That's not possible, what-"

The air screamed with their words, but Thomas couldn't tear his eyes from that dangerous purple mass, the blue veins of poison reaching out even as they watched. He opened his mouth to speak, his throat dry and his voice cracking. He barely managed to spit the strangled words out.

"Minho? What happened? Why was he- He wasn't supposed to be-"

His breath hitched and he tore his eyes away, seeking answers from his friend. Minho looked at him worriedly, his eyes full of a dreadful resignation that squeezed Thomas's heart in the worst way. The conclusion struck Thomas full in the face, the whispered fear he'd heard from Chuck in the dead of night. When the younger boy couldn't sleep he would lie and fret, and had soon taken to voicing his fears, whispering them in the dark air between them at night. Thomas had listened, knowing he was helping Chuck by listening to his fears. One that frequented that air between them in the darkness was the Sting. Chuck had arrived the month before Thomas, and although he'd never seen anyone get stung, he knew about it. Knew about the process from the other Gladers and he he'd explained it all to Thomas. He'd told Thomas what the Gladers had to do when one of their own got Stung.

"No."

Minho looked away, his shoulders sagging. Thomas couldn't believe it, he couldn't accept it. The tight group before them parted as Alby strode to the front, looking down at Newt with sad, dark eyes. Gally stood behind him, looking uncharacteristically afraid. He looked to Alby for guidance, his eyes wide and uncertain. Alby swallowed, and then looked around at the others with an air of authority. The Gladers grew quiet, waiting for his orders.

"Minho? What's the meaning of this?"

Thomas looked to Minho just as the others did, and his friend squared his shoulders automatically, standing tall.

"We don't know. He must had gone into the Maze for some reason. We found him on our way out. He's… He's been Stung."

A ripple of panicked whispering kicked off, faces turning to each other, fear splashed in every set of eyes.

Alby kept himself composed, but he couldn't look at the prone form of his second in command. He clenched his fists, and addressed the Gladers again.

"Newt was the second of us to be sent up. We all owe him in one way or another. He's held us together through the bad times. He kept me sane that first month he was here, before we realised you lot were coming every month. He's always been one of the best of us."

The Gladers were nodding, many had tears filling their eyes. A few turned away and walked off, and Thomas's fear grew. An awful inkling was spreading up his back, chilling his stomach, his very soul trembling.

"He'll always be with us in spirit."

A deep booming sound rumbled through the air. The Gladers jumped as one, fearful eyes round as they stared into the Maze. The blare of the alarm sucked away all other sound, every atom vibrating. Thomas felt it in his very core, a familiar fear washing through him.

"Jeff, Ryan. Get him up. Leo, get the Pushers."

Thomas watched as the boys jumped to attention, scurrying to comply. Alby stood, legs firmly planted and his arms crossed. He was the picture of sure authority. Thomas watched, frozen, as the two boys slung Newt's arms over their shoulders and heaved him from the ground. He watched in horror as they began forward, heading for the opening, even as the Doors were beginning to close. Thomas watched until his eyes caught Minho moving away, his shoulders a defeated arc, and that's what broke the alarm's hold on him. He threw himself to his feet, ignoring the shouting it caused.

He didn't think. In one movement he swung back an arm and launched it into Ryan's neck, knocking the boy down. Using his momentum to his advantage, he swung Newt around with an arm around his chest, dragging him from Jeff. He pushed for what was left, tumbling and tripping as he forced their bodies forwards, away from the dreaded closing Doors. He couldn't let them throw Newt out. He couldn't allow them to abandon him to the Maze, to the Grievers.

Newt didn't belong to the Maze. He belonged- He belonged to the Glade. He belonged in the Glade, being second in command and making sure there was peace and harmony amongst the boys who lived there. He belonged leaning against the trellis frames he'd helped to build, the mid-day sun filtering through his hair, lighting each strand up like gold. He belonged sitting against the fallen trees by the campfire, the firelight flickering across his cheekbones as he finally relaxed for the day, his smile easy once the Doors were closed for the night. He didn't belong to the Maze. Thomas couldn't let them send him to it.

He tumbled to the ground, the air thick will the alarm and the cries of the others. Feet rushed his way and he stumbled back to his feet, Newt suddenly heavier in his arms. He began to truly panic, a thick and heavy feeling coating every limb as though trying to drag him down. Her heart hammered painfully.

"Chuck!" he cried desperately, and the younger boy was at his side in a second, hooking one of Newt's arms over his shoulders and pack-peddling hurriedly. Thomas didn't stop to ponder the way that, right or wrong, Chuck followed his unspoken commands wordlessly.

The deafening alarm continued, as the doors inched closer to each other, and Thomas fell under the weight of a body launching itself at him. He struggled, clinging to Newt's arm, his fingers locked in the fabric of his shirt. He could hear Chuck hollering as they dragged the youngest Glader away. The scuffle was briefer than he'd like and as they tore Newt away from him Thomas screamed, a dark and horrid sound, desperate.

"No! You can't do this! He's- No! Alby please!"

The strong arms held him in place as he flailed, twisting and kicking out while he howled, his mind flicking the switch away from logical and rational. He dissolved into a sort of blind and panicked madness. He didn't truly register the ferocious screams that mingled with his own in the air, the devilish snarls and howls that sent fear and panic and screaming through the crowded Gladers. He was lost to the struggle and he struggled for what felt like forever, till he couldn't any more and his screams grew hoarse, and eventually crumbled into sobs. Still they held him down until even the sobs cracked and fell into low moans. His body shuddered with the disbelief that they could do this, and he could do nothing about it.

When he stilled and was finally calm, and rationality had started to creep back into him, they let him go and backed away, giving him space to sit up. Minho knelt by his side, compassionate eyes staring at him patiently as the others left. Thomas hung his head, unable to meet his eye. Without a word, his friend passed him a water bottle. With a defeated sigh, Thomas accepted, flicking him a grateful look. Minho simply nodded, waiting until Thomas had chugged half the bottle before speaking.

"They've put him in the Pit. You caused such a fuss that they missed the Closing."

Thomas couldn't control the seep of relief that weighed him down, making his limbs feel impossibly heavy. When he looked up, Minho's eyes were full of sorrow, but almost bitterly pleased, though he didn't say anything. When he did speak again, his usual dry tone was gone and no trace of his trademark sarcasm remained. He spoke lowly, softly, as though afraid Thomas might break.

"Someone'll have to keep watch all night, make sure he doesn't get loose. We don't know what'll happen, we've never missed the Closing before."

His dark blue eyes held a fear that went unvoiced, and Thomas felt it too. They had no idea what Newt would become over the course of time they had until the next night's Closing. The poison was already working its way through his system, destroying his very being, crumbling the boy they both knew. Thomas swallowed, a misery unlike any other coating his tongue, coldly dripping down his throat.

"What happened?"

Minho looked away, towards the closed Doors. For a moment he didn't say anything, and then he looked back at Thomas.

"I don't know. He must have followed us in, nobody knows why. Nobody saw. We heard him screaming when we were on our way back. Griever must have taken off right after, because we didn't see it. We didn't know what to do, so we brought him back. I mean, we've only ever lost three Gladers to the Griever sting in the whole time i've been here, and i've been here two and a half years."

Thomas groaned, looking down at the dirt beneath him, his eyes tracing the disturbance of his earlier struggles. He closed his eyes as a wave of grief washed over him. Minho sighed.

"They'll put him out at tomorrow's Closing, you must know that. What happens to a Glader who gets stung isn't pretty. What he becomes isn't anything like what he was before. Thomas, he won't be who he was before, not after the poison's in his system. He was my friend too. He won't come back. It's not fair, but we all have to learn to live with it."

Thomas still didn't open his eyes, Minho's words buzzing unpleasantly in his head, round and round, tripping and tangling until he couldn't take it any longer. He pushed to his feet, shrugging off Minho's hand when his friend tried to touch him, whether to help, comfort or hold him back he wasn't sure. He turned to leave.

"I'll take that Watch then. Punishment for…" he trailed off. He'd only gone a few strides before Minho's voice called out a final time.

"He's gone, Thomas. Newt's gone."

He didn't stop, how could he? He kept right on walking, heading for the Pit. He knew he wouldn't sleep tonight anyway. He didn't deserve to. He was going to sit by the Pit that night, to make sure- To keep Watch. And he'd sit there all day tomorrow if he had to too. He refused to think about tomorrow's Closing. He wouldn't entertain the idea until he absolutely had to. His insides squirmed, and he felt just about ready to empty his meagre stomach contents all over his shoes.