Chaotic Good

Lying It Was, Then

Panic rose within Thomas. The agent couldn't possibly have the authorisation to do that... right?

He really really didn't want to find out.

He nearly stammered out a, 'You—you couldn't' but caught himself before he could. Never show weakness to the enemy.

But it was no use. Cothran slowly smirked (and how Thomas wished he could punch that off the shuckhead's face) as he took his stunned silence as a victory.

"That's right. I can and I will separate you from your friends if you don't answer the questions I ask honestly." Cothran announced, smugness laced in his words.

He considered it, he really did (and he just knew that he would beat himself up about that later), but then he searched through his memories (and wasn't that a weird feeling) and memories of being shoved into lockers, swirlies, wedgies, slushies being thrown at his face, getting beat up in shady corners simply because he was a little shit, a spaz, and a bench warmer, all came back to him.

Then he thought of the Gladers, with their 'weird' language and absent memories, and knew that there was no way they would go through high school (hell, maybe even uni and jobs after that) without some sort of pain if everyone knew what they've done.

And like hell, he would actively put his Newt and the rest of the Gladers in pain after what they've been through. All he ever wanted was for them to be happy.

It was the least they deserved.

Then he realised how stupid he was, and nearly slammed his head on the table. The banishings, the murders of the W.C.K.D members, shuck, they were lucky if they got out of the facility if the FBI knew everything they did.

With his way of words and knowledge of all the loopholes and cracks in the legal system, Thomas was pretty sure he could argue that it was justifiable homicide, but their story would probably be all over the newspaper, and their permanent record, and it would be next to impossible to be accepted in college or hired in any job.

Lying it was, then. He was good at that. He's lied before, he's had practice. He's lied to his dad 'since he learnt how to talk' and the lies only got stronger as he got more involved with the supernatural.

Oh, who was he kidding? This was the FBI he was talking about, not the ex-drunk sheriff of an out-of-the-way-town.

There was no way he could he weave a lie as intricate as to cover more than 2 years of missing boys and girls, more than half of them dead. Any lie he'd make up would sure to be unravelled, which would only lead to consequences that Thomas absolutely hated.

He didn't think he could be separated from the Gladers again. He just might lose his mind (again). So he had to tell the truth. There was no other way.

A sudden memory flashed in his mind. The Gladers, laughing around a bonfire, drinking Gally's signature concoction.

More memories came up. Alby, framed in (fake) moonlight, laughing a deep stomach-aching, hands-on-knees laugh at something Minho cracked, a smiling Newt, gazing up at Thomas as if he were the moon and stars themselves, Chuck playing a prank on an unsuspecting Gl—

Chuck.

Shucking Chuck.

What would he think? What would he say? Thomas snorted internally. Probably something stupid, then say something stupider just to get a laugh out of him.

How could he let Chuck's, and countless other's, deaths go in vain? They died so that the Gladers could be free, could live a normal life. Thomas could at least try to make that dream come true, no matter the consequences.