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Newt could feel his strength fading as Thomas dragged him through the train station, dimly aware of buildings crumbling around him. He desperately wished that he could hold himself up, or even draw the power to push Tommy away—it was clear Newt wasn't coming out of this, and he didn't want Tommy to have to see him like this.
He'd known this would happen for months now. There was no coming back from it, and Newt came to terms with that the same day he'd noticed that itching on his forearm.
That itching that was pressing in on the corners of his mind, all over his body—finally reaching into his eyes—sapping his energy, his happiness—making everything go dark as Teresa's voice rang throughout the city, that traitor—
Thomas grunted as he crumbled to the ground with Newt's limp body, the pained sound enough to make Newt's heart break a little more.
He should have gone with Minho and Gally.
But Tommy never cared much about should, did he?
"…I need you to listen to me," Teresa's voice echoed over the speakers, "I know you have no reason to trust me, but I need you to come back. Thomas, you can still save Newt. There's still time to save him."
No.
Tommy couldn't go back to her. Teresa had told nothing but lies; Newt knew he was going to die, he'd felt it for weeks, from the moment he'd decided to stop Tommy from leaving the Right Arm alone. But Tommy was always going to make it back. Newt needed him to.
His mind cleared, and Newt somehow found the strength to spring back to his feet. Adrenaline powered his movements, making the action easy. He turned to face Thomas, only to freeze at his expression.
"Tommy?" he asked softly.
"Newt?" the boy said, his posture tense.
"You can't listen to her—" Newt started.
"Newt," Thomas repeated, his voice beginning to shake.
"What?" he asked, his eyebrows furrowing. "You know she's lying."
Newt didn't get a response. He stepped a bit closer, trying to read Thomas's face, figure out what was wrong with it.
Tommy wasn't looking at Newt. He was looking past him, through him.
Most people would avoid eye contact if they were uncomfortable, if they were feeling shame or wanting to avoid confrontation. Tommy had never been like that; despite how guarded as he could be, how he kept his thoughts close to his chest, he always poured his feelings into his stare. Newt often wondered, if he held that gaze for long enough, if their souls would merge from the force of it.
The back of his neck prickled with discomfort—why wasn't Tommy meeting his eyes—as he took a small step away from Newt.
Newt opened his mouth, but the air was pulled from his lungs before he could speak, goosebumps spreading over his skin with the feeling of wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong as a tall shape launched itself through him, past his body, sinking under his skin before going further.
Barely registering the feeling of his knees hitting the ground, how painless it was, Newt stared down at his hands, drawing gasping breaths.
He could see the ground through his flesh.
"Newt! Newt, it's me, it's me!"
His head snapped up towards Tommy's strangled cry, seeing the boy dodge a Crank attack.
There weren't supposed to be any Cranks in the Last City.
Black veins crawled up its neck, dark blood spilling from its mouth, its eyes were no longer white, pupils blown wider than should be physically possible, blond hair tangled and dirty.
That was him.
Newt was attacking Thomas.
It was too late. He had reached the Gone.
He'd felt separated from himself in the past, distant and dissociated from the physical world, especially the year before Tommy came up. But it was never like this.
He forced himself to stand and run towards himself, as the real-Newt tackled Tommy, rolling them across the ground. Tommy scrambled away and got back up as Newt reached and grabbed his own shoulder, and then—
A sickening taste filled his mouth as he snapped back into place, the pain returning tenfold.
He spat the blood out onto the ground, trying to regain control of his own muscles and looked back at Tommy, his lips curling in a snarl.
No. No. Newt wasn't angry. That was the Flare. It wasn't him.
"Tommy, kill me!" he begged, holding back sobs as Tommy stared back at him.
"Newt, I'm here," Tommy said, his voice pleading. God, didn't he know that Newt couldn't stop this?
The rush of air returned, and his body launched himself at Tommy, leaving Newt's sanity there on the ground, an unheard scream ripping from his throat.
"Newt, please!" Tommy pleaded as he was tackled, forcing Newt to push himself back into motion.
He couldn't sit there and watch himself kill his…
Couldn't watch himself kill Tommy. Tommy wasn't allowed to die, not now, not ever.
Another reach for his skin. Another rush of vertigo as he snapped back into place, suddenly finding himself straddling Tommy, quickly pulling his arms back as they tried to reach for his throat.
Newt was trying to strangle him, and Tommy was just holding onto his forearms, incoherent pleas falling from his lips. He wouldn't fight Newt. Hell, he barely let Winston go, only accepted that handing Winston the gun would be a kinder way to go than letting the Flare eat away his brain. Once Tommy found out there was a way to fix it, he'd never let Brenda or Newt go, not while there was strength left in his body. Not if they were on their knees begging, not ever.
Tommy cared too much for his own good, and it was one of the things that Newt loved about him.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Tommy," he choked out, remembering the gun strapped to Tommy's leg. He tried to find the strength to reach for it.
"It's okay," Tommy whispered back. "It's okay."
Several things struck Newt at that moment.
He didn't want to shoot himself in front of Tommy. He didn't deserve that.
And, staring down at the boy, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears, Newt realized he didn't want to die either.
But Tommy would sooner let himself be ripped apart than do his friends any harm. And somehow, a crazed, senseless, past-Gone Crank was still his best friend.
It was such a Thomas thing to think. Newt couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry, but he didn't have the time to do either of them.
He broke free of Tommy's grip, pulling the gun out of its holster and holding it against his own head, taking a breath before pulling the trigger and—
"No!" Tommy shouted, the gun flying from Newt's hand, himself going with it, in whatever state this was.
He let out a breath, laying on his back, nonphysical hand still on the gun.
"Tommy, please," Newt said, rolling over and lifting himself up on his forearms. He knew Tommy couldn't hear him, but he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. "Work with me here."
When he focused on the grappling pair once more, Newt's heart lurched, seeing an unmistakeable glint of silver in his own hand. He—the Crank—had drawn a knife, and part of Tommy's shirt was ripped.
He tried to dig Tommy's heart out.
Newt watched the Crank swing back towards the boy, desperate and rageful, and he waited.
Tommy wouldn't let him do anything if he could see it coming.
Newt fucking hated that he had to think about this.
He waited.
And then Tommy began to stumble back, trying to avoid the knife headed straight for his ribcage.
Newt leapt forward, gripped his own wrist, didn't wait for the rush to fade and pain to fade. He could only think about pulling his arms back towards himself, towards his chest, didn't stop until the knife was lodged in his own chest, right by his heart.
God, it hurt.
That look on his face.
"Tommy," Newt breathed, the words 'I'm sorry' almost forcing their way out of his mouth as the world dimmed and tilted.
He wanted to get to the Safe Haven. He wanted to meet the other survivors. He wanted to have long conversations with Minho by the campfire, to update each other on all the other Gladers long into the night after everyone else had gone to sleep, like they had in the Glade. He wanted to ask Gally about his projects and listen to the Builder ramble with that spark in his eye.
Newt wanted to sit on the beach, with Tommy leaning on his shoulder, watching the sun rise, teaching each other how to live in peace.
It hurt, Tommy's hands frantically reaching to grab his sides, struggling to set him on the ground gently as Newt's legs gave out, hovering over him.
Newt would have liked more time. Then he'd never have to see the tears finally tracing down Tommy's cheeks, his body frozen, staring, waiting for Newt to move. Maybe… maybe he could have gotten the serum.
But he made this choice weeks ago.
Newt had to make himself comfortable with the darkness.
It could have been an eternity later, or less than an instant, that Newt became aware of a bright light, and the searing pain in his chest from the knife still digging into him.
He let out a shout when he felt a hand grip the hilt of the dagger, ripping it out with practiced precision. When his eyes opened, body tensing and ready to lash out, Newt was greeted by…
A comfortable bed, with beige sheets, and sunlight streaming through a window.
Someone hovering beside him, turning to set the knife delicately on a table.
"What—" Newt rasped, looking at the back of the person's head. He looked strangely familiar
The boy turned around, causing Newt to suck in a breath that, surprisingly, didn't send pain lancing up his body from the wound.
"Winston?"
The Slicer smiled, a mix of fondness and something more solemn on his face. "Hey, Newt. Waking up here's always a bit unpleasant."
His head spun, trying to figure out how this was possible. Everyone heard the gunshot, out in the Scorch. Winston was dead. And if he wasn't, he was a Crank somewhere wandering the desert.
"How—" he started, unsure how to even finish the question.
"Look," Winston said, pointing at Newt's torso. He lifted his head, looking down at himself.
Newt's chest was bare, the veins from the Flare still there, but hardly noticeable. Nothing like what they were before. And what should have been a bleeding stab wound was, instead, a red, raised scar.
It couldn't have healed in half a minute.
"There's no easy way to say this, Newt," Winston started, letting out a small sigh. "We're still figuring it out, honestly, but… well, you and I, we're dead."