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Minho: The floor is lava!!
Thomas: [lays on ground] Good.

-✼-

I should have known. I should have known. I should have known.

The new mantra reverberated in my eardrums until I almost felt sick. It drove guilt deeper and deeper into my chest. Why had I just stood there like an idiot while Newt was being carried away? Why had I let him be taken?

The more rational part of me tried to reason that even if I did save Newt, the team of people would have called for backup anyways. We would have had to find a new place to hide. But the side that was stocked up with grief was winning.

I clutched the note he had left in one hand, the other slightly outstretched with my fingers awkwardly splayed out. I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't know what to do with my entire body. One second I was standing and the next I had sunk against the wall of the Berg and to the floor. I didn't remember beginning to cry, but soon the sobs were uncontrollable. I was choking on them. Tears poured from my eyes with reckless abandon; it felt like I was being torn up from the inside.

Somehow, even through impaired vision, I managed to read Newt's message.

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

It's for the best. Thanks for being my friends and take care of Dylan.

Goodbye.

Goodbye. That word hit me the hardest. It couldn't be goodbye. That word suggested it was indefinite, that we truly would never see each other again. I refused for that to be the truth.

But even then, as I sat crumpled to the ground, I began to question it. When would Thomas and the others get back? Would they, or was I stuck in the Berg forever? Would the people come back for me?

Another vital piece of information stabbed at me. I was immune. My brain had successfully kept the Flare out somehow, preventing it from rooting itself there. So much information was hitting me at once that I felt an overwhelming sense of agony crash into me. I cried out, a gasping, helpless sound that I didn't even know I could make.

I hated feeling useless, and I had never felt like it more than at that moment.

Hours passed. Maybe it was minutes. There was nothing to tell me how much time had passed in the Berg. I just knew it was long enough for the skin under my eyes to become sensitive and there were no more tears left in me. I was making hiccuping noises instead of sobs. I had never seemed so lost, so alone.

Alone. I flinched just thinking about the word, so I tried not to dwell on it too much. It would only throw my emotions into even more turmoil than they already were. Maybe even another panic attack could ensue, and without anyone to calm me down...

My hands shook violently. Somewhere along the line, I had crumbled the note into my fist. I opened it and let the ball of paper fall to the floor. Then, with my other hand, I reached up to my left ear and felt for the hearing aid. My fingers fumbled for the dial on the side until they felt the ridges on it and I could mute the volume. There was no need for it right now. What was there to hear?

Still trembling, my body moved on its own as I curled into a ball on the floor. My exhausted eyes began to close before I knew it. And I was out like a light.

"Wait, hold on. You said you remember?"

"That is what I said, yes."

The wide-eyed, fourteen-year-old Minho sitting in front of me blinked in shock. He was about six months older than me, making me thirteen. My back hunched against the vent, one of our favorite hiding spots in the W.I.C.K.E.D facility. It was the only place without security cameras.

Minho and I were the only ones who knew about that particular place. The usual tunnels were too small to stay in for very long, but once you got to a certain spot, they opened up to a square just barely big enough for two people to sit in. It was easier for me. Minho just kept growing, and it was getting harder for him to arrange his long limbs comfortably.

"I remember everything," I elaborated. "They tried to make me forget Thomas, but I could never, so they just left me here. I pretended they wiped my memories of the rest. I can picture my mom's face as if I saw her yesterday. But my dad--" I sucked in a breath at that sensitive memory. "I can't remember him before the Flare."

Minho shook his head in disbelief. "That's crazy. I mean, I barely recall stuff. The faces...they're blurry. Unfocused."

"I think that's their goal. Try and make us forget the outside world so we have nothing to go back to."

During the day, you would never guess Minho and I talked about personal things with each other. Our friendship was mainly joking insults and eye rolls, along with many bad puns that always made Thomas groan. But there, in the dead of night and with us both sitting in the vent, things were different. We could share things we were too scared to tell anyone else. And it was one of the only places where our voices wouldn't be recorded.

"I just want to get out of this hell-hole," Minho grumbled. His eyebrows were pinched together in thought, creating lines on his forehead that made him appear older than he actually was. The past few years here had taken a toll on all of us. Fourteen-year-olds should still have some innocence to them, but one look at MInho and you'd know he didn't have a shred of that left. W.I.C.K.E.D had already started their Trials on him.

"The earth is on fire," I pointed out blankly.

He shrugged. "Not all of it. It can't be. Because then why would W.I.C.K.E.D be looking for a cure if there was nothing to save? If we were the only ones left?" He dropped his voice even lower, causing me the need to strain in order to hear him. "Listen, I heard of this place that's free of Cranks."

That spiked my curiosity. "Where?"

"Denver," Minho replied. "I have no idea where the hell we are right now, but if we're close, maybe we can make it."

"Minho," I sighed, shaking my head. "You know we never could."

He smiled, though sadly. The hope in his eyes extinguished. "Yeah. But a boy can dream."

-/-

I lived the next day in a daze. It was like my brain was on autopilot; I ate even though I barely had the strength required for the task, went to the bathroom, and managed to keep myself hydrated. I always returned to that particular spot against the wall, however. None of the comfortable chairs or blankets seemed very inviting to me anymore. 

To be honest, I felt disgusting. I could feel how irritated my skin was from not maintaining my body well enough. It felt dry and papery-thin. My limbs were sore and aching for exercise, but there wasn't much I could force myself to do. 

Panic attacks came and went. There were brief episodes where it really sunk in that I was completely alone in a foreign environment and there was no way of knowing if I'd ever see the others again. The attacks were horrible. I'd be unable to breathe, constricted from even thinking at all. They left me feeling empty; my body was like a hollow shell that I was trapped in.

And then I heard it. There were muffled voices outside. I sucked in a breath and reached a hand to my hearing aid, turning the dial back up to a higher volume than usual. I still couldn't distinguish exact words, but some of the sounds were more recognizable. Jorge. Thomas.

Relief came flooding through me, even more so when the sound of the ramp extending caught my attention. I set the hearing aid back to a normal volume and waited. I didn't have the strength to make a loud enough sound for them to hear me.

"—we'll all sweat till we're nothing but a pile of bones and skin," Jorge's voice declared from another room. I barely noticed the humid temperature anymore after so many days of having to endure it. 

Footsteps got closer to the main room, where I was. I looked toward the door just in time to see Minho appear. His face was struck with worry that melted into relief once he saw me huddled against the far wall, his hair an unkempt mess and scratches littering his face. 

"Dylan, thank God," he breathed as he started toward me. All remnants of our earlier feud were forgotten. He knelt down in front of me and scanned my awful appearance with concern in his eyes. "What happened? Where's Newt?"

In response, I held up my fist, where the note was balled up inside. Minho glanced from my hand to my distraught expression. The fear was back. Carefully, he unclenched my fist and took the severely crumpled note. He managed to smooth it out enough for him to read. 

"He's gone," I finally managed to whisper as he took the words in. My voice was barely there, sounding terribly weak to my own ears. 

Minho's expression fell. His eyes read the message again and again until I was sure he'd be dizzy. Once he couldn't take it anymore, he suddenly flung his arms around me with incredible strength and pulled me to him. It was a rare moment of vulnerability that I knew better than to question. Instead, I soaked in the action of comfort and rested my chin against his shoulder. 

"Dyl—" Thomas' voice abruptly cut itself off, likely because of what he saw. Minho decided that the moment was over and released me. His own eyes were glassy. "What's wrong?"

Minho inhaled shakingly. "Come see for yourself." 

He thrust the note out at Thomas, who appeared weary as he took it. He swallowed before reading it. Then, as he did, his eyebrows pinched together until there was a deep crease in his forehead. 

"Newt," he said simply. The words had more effect than I expected. Nobody had said his name out loud until that point. 

Minho stood. He was obviously trying to pull himself together; Newt was one of his best friends. "Dylan, how long have you been by yourself?"

I shrugged, pulling my lips into a thin line. How long had it been? A day? Two? There weren't any windows in that room; I couldn't see when the sun rose or set. 

"Hey," Thomas said gently, sliding Newt's message into his pocket and crossing the room to sit by me. He put a hand on my shoulder. "We're here now, okay? And we're not leaving you again. I mean, look at you- you've probably lost five pounds since we left!"

He was trying to joke, but I couldn't bring myself to smile. It felt wrong. So, instead, I settled on a comment of my own. "I think you've looked better, too."

And it was true. Thomas' hair was plastered to his forehead, a weird texture that meant it had previously been soaked with sweat. He, too, was sporting some new cuts and bruises. It made me wonder what the hell I had missed while being stuck in the Berg. 

"Hey, they found her!" 

I froze. Thomas and Minho both glanced at each other like a big secret had just revealed itself when they didn't intend it to. I hated those expressions. 

"Guys," I said lowly, eyes flickering between the two boys. "What the hell."

Because who I could see in the doorway was supposed to be dead. I should know; I saw it happen. He had been sucked into the Griever while I was standing a mere five feet away. 

So why was Garret very much alive?

the photo is the note ouch (i died while making it)

-----

ha yup! garret is back and better than ever, my friends. more information on how will be provided soon

i'm sorry for not updating in SIX MONTHS, but an unexpected hiatus for mental health and lack of inspiration really prevented me from writing. and this chapter is pretty short, but i wanted to get it up asap 

questions:

-how do you think garret is alive?

-will dylan tell him what really happened to theo?

-did you see the bts footage from the death cure?

one more thing: i love ki hong lee okay bye

-kristyn