TMR - Thomas x X-reader fanfiction

Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Threshold

The chamber was unlike anything they had seen before. The walls were smooth, seamless, their faint glow casting eerie reflections on the group's faces. A single door stood at the far end, its surface engraved with the same symbol from Y/N's visions.

"That's it," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah, and what's waiting on the other side?" Minho muttered, eyeing the door with suspicion.

Thomas approached cautiously, his hand hovering over the symbol. He glanced back at Y/N, seeking silent confirmation.

She nodded. "It's the only way forward."

Thomas pressed the symbol, and the door slid open with a hiss, revealing a narrow corridor bathed in sterile white light. The air inside felt different—warmer, heavier, as if it had been untouched by the Maze's chill.

The group hesitated at the threshold, the stark contrast unsettling.

"Well," Newt said, his tone dry, "guess we're walking into WICKED's living room now."

Thomas stepped through first, his movements deliberate. The others followed, their footsteps echoing in the pristine space.

The corridor led to a circular room filled with screens, each displaying live feeds of the Maze. They showed runners navigating familiar paths, unaware of the cameras tracking their every move.

"What the shuck is this?" Minho asked, his voice low.

"Surveillance," Thomas said, his jaw tight.

Y/N moved closer to one of the screens, her eyes narrowing as she recognized the Glade. The image shifted, focusing on a group of Gladers near the Bloodhouse. Gally stood among them, his expression hard, his gestures animated.

"He's rallying them," she said, her voice grim.

Thomas clenched his fists. "He's planning something."

"Probably blaming us for whatever's wrong," Minho added bitterly.

The room fell silent as the implications sank in.

Y/N's gaze shifted to another screen, its display focused on a series of files. The text scrolled quickly, but one word stood out, flashing red at the top of the page: Subject B-13.

"That's me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The others turned to look, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion.

"Why are you listed?" Newt asked.

Y/N approached the console beneath the screen, her hands shaking. She tapped the controls, freezing the text. The file expanded, revealing a detailed profile: her name, her supposed age, her "condition."

"Condition?" she murmured, scrolling down.

The words felt like a punch to the gut:

"Subject exhibits unique neural patterns indicative of advanced compatibility with Phase Two protocols. Primary objective: initiate synaptic integration for advanced Maze simulations."

"What the hell does that mean?" Thomas asked, his voice sharp.

Y/N shook her head, her vision blurring with tears. "I don't know," she said. "But it's not good."

Minho slammed a fist against the console, his anger boiling over. "They're using us. All of us. Like lab rats."

Newt placed a hand on Y/N's shoulder, his expression softening. "We'll figure this out," he said. "Together."

But Y/N's mind was racing, fragments of her visions colliding with the stark reality before her. The grievers, the symbols, the whispers of memories—they were all connected, part of a plan she couldn't fully understand.

"We need to keep moving," Thomas said, his voice steady. "Whatever this is, it's just the beginning."

The group nodded, their resolve hardening as they prepared to face whatever lay ahead.