[ he doesn't come easily. even with dust burning his eyes and coating his throat, thomas still struggles against the hands gripping his wrists, guiding him forward toward a light he can barely make out through his hazy vision. it reminds him of the scorch, of waking in the middle of nowhere to a streak of lights in the distance, quickly and steadily approaching, and a storm rolling in overhead.

is that what this is...? thomas' brain feels clouded and jumbled, unable to focus on anything long enough to string together a coherent thought. one word flits through his mind, dances through his subconscious like the point of a knife ghosting across his brain, sharp enough to notice, but not enough to leave a last mark. WCKD.

thomas struggles less once he's out of the dusts. maybe he's tired, maybe he's just waiting to see what comes next, for an opening to take. the shower wakes him up a little, and by the time they flush the dust out of his eyes and he's spit the mud out of his mouth, he feels a little less disoriented, but no less angry as he's shoved into a grey-blue jumpsuit.

his eyes do a quick scan of the others in the room, searching for familiar faces — newt, frypan, brenda, jorge, and yes, even minho —, but he can't catch a glimpse of everyone before he's led out of the room and down the hall into another. he has questions, too many of them, and by the end of the explanation, he's almost certain of one thing.

this has to be WCKD.

thomas types out a quick message on the device directed at those who haven't yet decided if they want to venture out of the room yet. his username simply reads, thomas. ]

Does anyone actually believe any of this? Do you remember what you were doing before you woke up, how you got here? Maybe there are monsters waiting to find us by sound, but what if there aren't? How do we know they aren't just trying to scare us into being quiet so no one else can find us?

I don't trust it.

[ but he isn't really sure what to do about it, either. last time, WCKD tried to fool them into feeling safe by convincing them they'd been rescued, providing actual beds and showers and food to eat. this seems eerily familiar in a way that makes him uneasy and hesitant. it almost seems too convenient, too coincidental to be anything else. ]

[ if thomas had happy memories before waking up in the glade, he doesn't remember them. they were taken along with everything else about his life prior to the maze, leaving him with only the ones he's made in the short time after, of which there are, admittedly, only a few.

he dreams of the glade. a large, green open space, bordered with tall stone walls and home to a handful of boys who, at one point, were just as confused and panicked as he was when they first arrived some months or years ago. he dreams of familiar faces, some of them gone, now, despite his promises to save them. it's seeing their faces again, calm and relaxed, that make this a dream and not a nightmare. he dreams of laughter, too. fire and food and dancing, a party thrown in celebration of his arrival.

on the third night, the dream starts here. it's dark, but the fire is roaring and the gladers are rambunctious, talking and laughing and horsing around as they eat and drink some godawful concoction that could strip the paint from the maze walls if there was ever actually any paint to be stripped.

thomas isn't at the party, though he's not far from it, either, seated in the grass and leaning back against a downed tree trunk with his legs bent and his feet flat, one wrist resting gently over his knee. in his hand is a skewer of some kind of meat ( pork, probably, though he's not really sure ). the festivities carry on behind him, and at the sound of footsteps creeping closer in the grass behind him ( hey, that's you! ), thomas doesn't even look up.

maybe he's expecting someone. ]

[ the first night, he dreams about grievers. about the maze, about alby's death, and chuck's, and gally's too. he dreams about the compound, of ava paige and the dozens of bodies, of children strung up by their torsos with all sorts of tubes and wires coming out of them as WCKD drained them dry. he dreams of running (running, he's always running) through white halls as sirens wail in the corridors, signaling a lockdown because he's figured it out. they aren't as safe as they thought they were. they haven't escaped at all.

until they do. he dreams of lightning, then, and lights in the distance. they need to go, they need to keep running. they never stop running.

it's the low, distant rumble of thunder that wakes him in his dream. or maybe it's the ache in his bones, brought on by the hard-packed earth he has no choice but to sleep on. either way, he wakes in the scorch, his vision blurred. it's dark, but not pitch black, and there are lights in the distance on the horizon. civilization. thomas pushes up onto his hands, blinks hard until his vision clears.

he's alone, this time, save for one person, still sleeping with their back turned to him. thomas reaches back without looking, but doesn't touch them. ]

Hey, [ he says, somewhat under his breath, repeating himself just a little bit louder and with a little more urgency, his eyes yet to leave the lights. his hand connects with the strangers leg with a muted thump, and then he's up on his feet. ] Hey, wake up. I see something.

[ before he has a chance to feel anything even close to relief, lightning strikes somewhere behind him in the distance, close enough to make him flinch, and then again, somewhere in front. they're out in the open. the tallest points in a deserted waste land. lightning rods just waiting to be lit up.

thomas takes a step back, hand reaching behind him for someone almost instinctively, flinching as another flash of lightning bursts up toward the sky.

they've got to run, find shelter, get out of this storm before they wind up dead. thomas turns, crouching and practically hauling this stranger (welcome to the dream) up by their shoulders, regardless of whether or not they're already awake. the wind is picking up, the lightning drawing closer and closer as it strikes around them. ]

Come on, get up, get up. We gotta go. [ his tone is urgent, firm, but with an underlying sliver of panic as he gives your character's shoulders what's supposed to be an encouraging shove, but is really just a nicer way of saying move your ass without actually saying it. ] Go, run.

[ and if they don't listen, thomas grabs them by the wrist, and runs. he'll drag them along if he has to. he isn't leaving anyone behind. ]

[ the dream starts in an underground tunnel, the walls tagged with graffiti and covered in spindly black vines. it's eerily silent and pitch black, save for wherever you've aimed your flashlight.

it's likely that your character hasn't bee here before, but thomas has, which is exactly why he puts his arm out in an attempt to keep your character from walking any further, murmuring a near-silent wait under his breath. he knows what comes next, and it's not good.

... but it's too late. there's a smaller tunnel to his right, and as expected, a harmless rat tumbles out of it, skittering past his feet over the thick, black vines that spread across the floor. like an idiot (because he is, sometimes, the biggest idiot of all), he tracks it with his flashlight, following it to a thicker tangle of vines that have grown over part of the tunnel wall.

and then, an arm darts out of the vines, ripping free of them, and something snatches up the rat. something alive, something that was once human, but is nothing more than an infected shell of a person now, ripping away from the wall. vines tear from its pale skin, and its clouded eyes find the both of you in the beam of light from your flashlights. it screams, screeches. it wakes the others. ]

Shit. [ thomas takes an urgent step back, his forearm colliding with your character's chest, guiding them backwards, too. ] Go, go.

[ they're coming. it's time to run. ]

[ if none of the above works for you, do yo' thang and drop me something else. i'll roll with it to the best of my abilities. ]