Maze runner one shot requests

Scorch---A sort of Winston imagine

TW for death

It had been almost a week in the scorch. You had seen. . .you didn't know if you would even call them people. They seemed to have no sanity left.

You tried to shake off the memory as you kept walking.

You and Winston were walking side by side in the back of the group, when he collapsed. At first, you thought it was nothing. He seemed to shake it off, getting back up, and giving you a small smile.

When he fell the second time, and didn't get up right away, you knew something was wrong. You knelt next to him, ignoring the burning fire that made up the sand.

"Winston? You okay?"

Winston slowly shook his head no.

Winston looked red. Not the sunburned-exhausted-dehydrated red of everyone else, but a sickly, splotchy red.

"What's wrong?"

Winston sighed.

"Well, I guess you have to know now. . ."

Know what?

What is it?

What's wrong?

Your mind buzzed with questions. Winston reached under his shirt, and slowly removed it. You noticed it immediately.

His chest was covered in black veins.

They spiderwebbed and crossed over each other, making a small labyrinth. The others had stopped, and were crowded around Winston now. They were talking, but your vision was fixated on the deadly black strands. You bit your lip to keep the tears back.

"No. . ."

No, no, you would help him. There must be a way, there must be. . .

The creators! WICKED!

The man said, if you get to the haven in time, you'll get the cure.

"Winson! Winston, if we make it, we'll get the cure!"

Winston warily propped his head up on a sand dune.

"You'll make it. I'm sure you will. . . "

Here comes the 'but'

"But, I won't."

You shake your head.

"You can!"

"I can't."

You shrug off your backpack, letting it drop to the sand.

"You can! What will help? Will water help? Will anything help?"

Winston nodded, and your heart seemed suspended in hope that maybe, just maybe, you could help.

"A gun. A gun would help."

What?

You didn't understand what he meant. . .

You looked around at the others.

Newt nodded grimly, and handed Winston one of the guns that some of them had.

Minho gently grabbed your arm, leading you away from Winston.

"Minho, let me go! What's happening?"

Minho had a solemn look on his face, as he answered.

"It's just- you don't want to be there when it happens."

The other gladers had rejoined you, and you turned back to Minho.

You were about to ask 'when what happens?' when the gunshot sounded.

Everything happened in less than a minute.

It hit you what had happened then.

You stopped in your tracks.

You stared fixedly at a spot in the sand.

As the sun beat down, you felt cold.

Ice cold.

Then you couldn't see, your vision fragmented, only pieces showing through.

Pieces of sand, splotches of vision through the blackness.

The things you could still see blurred as tears filled your eyes.

Up until now, you had tried not to cry, but now, now you couldn't help it.

Your breath caught in your throat, as you struggled to inhale.

Flashes of memories crossed your vision.

The places, the sounds, the sights.

They were all different.

The only thing that was the same was that they all had him.

They all had Winston.

Then it all disappeared, and you were left in the now bland and colorless scorch.

It seemed like forever, and eternity, but was really no more than a minute.

Minho, Newt, Thomas, all the gladers huddled around you.

All but Winston.

"Are you okay?"

You plastered on a fake smile, even as tears streamed down your face.

"Yes."

As you walked away robotically, you knew you couldn't look back. If you did, you would never be able to take in another breath.

If you saw the broken form of Winston, you'd be broken yourself.