ACT II   SCENE XXXI
ELECTRA

   THE LIGHT swallowed her whole, consuming every inch of her until it felt like her very molecules had disintegrated into a blinding white haze. Then, slowly, her vision refocused and she was standing on parched, cracked earth.

The next assault came from the heat, vaporising every trace of moisture from her throat and eyes. She remembered that the human body was made up of about sixty percent water, and now she felt it all evaporating from her pores. Minho turned to look at her, breathing hard, eyes wide with disbelief. His expression said it all: they'd just landed on an alien freaking planet.

Thomas bumped into her a moment later, coughing as he dropped to a squat and pulled his sheet over his head for cover. Newt emerged right after him, letting out a strangled cry before doubling over as if he'd been punched in the gut.

"You guys alright?" Minho asked after a beat.

Thomas grunted something that sounded vaguely like yes.

"Pretty sure we just arrived in bloody hell," Newt said. "Always thought you'd end up here, Minho, but not me."

"Good that," Minho replied with a snort. "My eyeballs hurt, man, but I think I'm kinda getting used to it."

"Or your nerve endings are just desensitised," Cassandra said.

"Or that."

She turned around slowly, scanning the barren wasteland that stretched out around them. Heat waves shimmered in the distance, curling upward into the sky. The sun gleamed down on the cracked yellow earth, unrelenting. Miles of nothing surrounded them in every direction.

"You're right, Newt," she said. "This is exactly what hell would look like."

Cassandra dared to glance up, trying to get her bearings. There was a literal ball of white fire blazing in the sky, and for a moment, she was certain—this was real. Not a simulation. Not a test. The sun blazed from her right, and dead ahead, she could just make out a thin mountain range behind a cluster of dark buildings due north.

She pointed. "That's where we need to go. Toward the mountains. At least there's something along the way."

"How far do you think those buildings are?" Newt asked.

"Could that be a hundred miles?" Thomas wondered aloud. "It's definitely north. Is that where we're supposed to go?"

"No way, dude," Minho said, shaking his head. "Yeah, we're heading that way—but that's not even close to a hundred miles. Twenty at most. The mountains are maybe sixty or seventy."

"Looks about right," Cassandra agreed, shielding her eyes with one hand.

"Didn't know the both of you could measure distance with nothin' but your bloody eyeballs," Newt muttered, squinting at them.

"We're Runners, shuckface," Minho shot back. "You get a feel for stuff like that in the Maze, even if it was smaller. Don't ya remember?"

"No," the blonde grumbled.

Cassandra kicked at the ground, sending up a small cloud of dust that hung briefly in the air before sinking again under the weight of the heat.

"Looks like a nuclear holocaust out there," Thomas said, grimacing. "Is the whole world like this?"

"Some places are," she replied. "But not the entire world."

"Good." Minho stepped forward. "I'd be happy to see one tree. Maybe a creek."

"I'd settle for a patch of grass," Newt sighed.

They decided to brave the sun towards the dusty buildings on the horizon and called the other Gladers up into the open air. One by one, the Gladers emerged, staggering and gasping as the heat slammed into them. It took time for everyone to adjust, to fall into an organised group—but Cassandra decided this was still better than cowering in the dark with head-eating metal balls of unholiness.

They split the bed sheets among themselves, stuffing their remaining supplies into the leftover halves. Cassandra walked under a shared cover with Minho, trudging across the cracked ground as the sun burned every exposed inch of her skin. They rotated the heavy pack between them every half hour, the effort just enough to keep them going.

"You said you remembered surviving after the Flare," Minho said, his sweat-slicked arm brushing hers with every other step. She'd taken off her jacket too—there was no way she could bear the heat otherwise. "What was it like?"

"A lot of running," she answered. "Through cities, burnt forests, abandoned settlements... hiding from Cranks. Picking up whatever supplies we could find. Always runnin'."

He let out a dry laugh. "No wonder you're so good at it."

She guessed he must be alluding back to their time in the Maze, and something inside her ached. She could picture it—trees and stone walls and long stretches of open sky—but it wasn't real. Not to her. Not like it was for him. The gaps in her memory were a wedge between them that she couldn't shake off, carved deeper with every reminder of a life she should have known.

Minho stayed silent beside her, his jaw clenched like he was biting back thoughts too delicate to speak aloud.

"Tell me something... from the Maze," she said. The words came out quieter than she meant, almost fragile.

Minho glanced at her, his brows drawing together like he wasn't sure how far he was allowed to go. "Like what?"

"Anything," she said quickly, before she could lose her nerve. "Something stupid. I just... I need to know what I lost."

Minho was quiet for a while, the sun shimmering off his skin, his gaze distant like he was walking somewhere far away in his head. When he finally spoke, it was with a small, lopsided smile.

"Okay. Remember Lee?"

Her chest tightened. "I remember."

"Well... your leg was still busted, so you had to stay in the Glade. You hated it. So the both of you rigged the Map Room so that the next time someone opened the door, a bucket of water would fall right on their head. Real classic shuckface move."

She blinked. "That sounds... extremely like something I'd do. Did it work?"

Minho chuckled. "Worked a little too well. Newt came looking for you and opened the door. You and Lee were watching from the corner like a couple of idiots, barely holding it together."

"Newt must've been furious."

"He stood there dripping, muttering something about how he was surrounded by children. Then he stormed off, and you ran after him, yelling that it was meant for Nick."

She laughed softly, but the sound caught in her throat. She could see the pieces—Newt, Lee, a bucket swinging—but it was like trying to hold smoke in her hands. Minho was watching her, like he was waiting for something. A flicker of recognition. A spark. Anything. But there was nothing. Just the echo of something that should have been hers.

"I wish I remembered more," she said finally, voice low and thick. "I try so hard, Minho, but it's like there's a wall inside my head I can't break through. Like they ripped it all out and filled the gaps with lies."

Minho's expression shifted, and he looked like he wanted to say more but didn't know how.

"We'll figure it out," he said quietly. "I'll try harder."

She looked at him then, sweat in his lashes, dirt on his cheek, his gaze steady even as hers wavered. And it hurt. It hurt in a way she couldn't explain, because she knew how much he meant those words. Knew he was trying, really trying, to meet her where she was. But the truth was, he'd already done the hard part. He remembered. She hadn't.

The ache in her chest twisted sharper. She could feel it blooming behind her ribs like something cruel and slow, suffocating her with every breath. Before she could speak again—before she could fall apart—a voice cut across the dry air.

"Hey!" Frypan shouted. Everyone stopped.

He was pointing toward the horizon, squinting through the heat. Two figures were approaching through the shimmering waves of heat, kicking up a trail of dust. Cassandra's grip tightened on her sheet, her body going taut with instinct.

"Pack in tighter," Minho ordered. He reached for his belt, double-checking that his stake was still there. "Get ready to fight the second anything looks off."

The figures sharpened with every step, their forms swaying with exhaustion. They were swathed in tattered layers of mismatched cloth, the fabric clinging to their bodies in threadbare folds. Their faces were completely obscured behind patchworks of frayed material crudely stitched together, with narrow slits cut for eyes and mouths. Only their hands were visible—the skin blistered and peeling, reddened by sun and sand. They stopped ten feet away, panting heavily.

"Who are you?" Minho called out.

They didn't respond. Instead, the strangers split up and began circling them slowly, as if appraising their quarry. Cassandra watched them with growing agitation.

"There are more of us than there are of you," Minho warned. "Start talking. Tell us who you are."

"We're Cranks," the woman said at last, her voice rough. She nodded toward the town behind them.

The man picked up the thread. "Came to see if you're Cranks too. Came to see if you've got the Flare."

"How did you get in the Scorch?" the woman asked. "Where'd you come from? How'd you get here?"

Minho leaned toward Newt. "What do we tell them?"

"The truth? It can't hurt," Thomas offered.

Minho snorted. "The truth? What an idea, Thomas. You're freaking brilliant as usual."

"Stop," Cassandra snapped under her breath. "They wouldn't understand a word of the truth anyway."

She raised her voice. "We came from the tunnels. What's in that town? Are there more Cranks?"

"Not all the Cranks are gone," the man replied. "Not all of us are past the Gone. Different stages, different minds. Best learn quick who to trust and who to run from—or kill."

The two of them returned to the front of the group, backs to the town. "They've divided the city into Zones," he continued. "Watch out for the old man. He's nasty. First one you'll meet on this side of town."

"If you don't have it yet, you will soon," the woman added, voice low. "Same with the other group. The ones meant to kill you."

Cassandra glanced at Thomas. Group B was ahead of them. They were wasting time here, time they didn't have. She turned back toward the strangers, but they were already on the move again, retreating into the haze. Their figures faded into the swirl of dust and sun until they were gone.

   The sun sank further down toward the horizon as they continued to trudge on, turning the sky into a beautiful hue of purples and oranges. Twilight descended all around them within the hour, and Cassandra stopped in her tracks to look upward. Stars burst forth from within the darkness of the night, twinkling all around them in bright pinpricks of faraway light. Her lips parted in awe as she took a reverent breath.

For a brief moment, the fear and exhaustion fell away. The world above them felt vast and untouched, like something sacred that WICKED could never reach. Her chest tightened—not with dread, but with longing. There had been a time, maybe in another life, when she would have lain on the grass staring up at constellations like these for hours. A time when stars meant something more than a reminder of what they'd lost.

Minho stood next to her and followed her gaze. "Oh, wow," he exclaimed softly, and the other Gladers turned to follow suit.

"Shuck, I never knew the sky could look like that," Frypan remarked.

Memories flooded her mind of galaxies and asterisms she had once admired in childlike wonder. She could almost hear a voice beside her—her own, younger and brighter—pointing upward in excitement. "That's Orion," she said, her voice soft but sure, as she lifted a finger. "And that one is Cassiopeia."

"Sure you didn't just make that one up?" Newt laughed jokingly.

"No, it's real," Minho said quietly. "I remember them too... that one over there is Perseus."

Cassandra turned to look at him, meeting his gaze beneath the starlight. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, a familiar ache blooming from the center of her chest. Something fragile stirred inside her—something unspoken and desperately missed. His eyes softened, watching her carefully as fragments of memories tried to piece themselves back together in her fractured mind. A tree, or maybe it was a hill. The sound of a stream. Or maybe the wind rustling through tall grass. She wasn't sure where, but she was sure it had happened. She was sure they had been there together.

Her hand twitched, as if reaching for something that wasn't there.

"Huh, didn't know both of you were astronauts," Thomas commented, breaking the moment.

"It's astronomer, genius," Archie corrected.

Minho rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Look, since the sun's down now, let's make use of the sheets again. I'm tired of carrying around all these klunk."

"All this 'klunk' is what's keeping you alive, slinthead," Frypan said crossly as they crouched down to rearrange their supplies.

"Looks like we're getting closer to the town too," Thomas observed.

Once they were done knotting their sheets around themselves, they started off toward the town in the near distance, rising like a looming shadow. Cassandra could hear noises coming from its direction—a ringing sound that grew louder the closer they approached the derelict buildings. She could finally make out some details: they were tall, some even reaching ten floors. It must have been a vestige of a larger city before, and that made her worry. More room meant more people.

Her feet ground to a halt and she looked around in alarm. The ringing wasn't ringing at all—but someone screaming. A girl, by the pitch of it, wailing into the dusky night as if trying to shred through her own vocal cords. It was a haunting sound that set her teeth on edge.

"Know what that reminds me of?" Minho asked, his voice barely above a whisper and tinged with concern.

"Ben. Alby. Me? Screaming after a Griever sting?" Thomas guessed.

"Bingo."

"Oh, no," Frypan moaned behind them. "Don't tell me those suckers are out here too? I can't take it!"

"Doubt it," Newt said. "Remember how moist and gooey their skin was? They'd turn into big balls of dust if they rolled around here."

"It's not Grievers we have to be worried about out here," Cassandra told them nervously. "I've never been stung but from what I've heard and seen... it's kinda like the Flare. It's agonising and it slowly drives you insane."

"I feel fine though," Thomas said, and she looked at him as if a thought had just occurred to her.

"Damn, Thomas, you're weird." She frowned, and he gave her an exasperated look in return.

"Anyway, Grievers aren't all WICKED could probably create," he said. "That rat guy said things were finally going to get tough."

"Once again, Thomas gives us an encouraging pep talk," Frypan proclaimed.

"Just saying it how it is."

"I think we should take a break first," Minho said. "Fill our little tummies and drink up. Then book it for as long as we can while the sun's still down. Maybe get a couple hours' sleep before dawn."

Frypan cocked his head in the direction of the sound. "What about the psycho screaming lady?"

"She's plenty busy with her own troubles," Minho responded.

Then, as if in silent agreement, everyone sat down and started to unpack their things. Cassandra glanced at her watch, keeping an eye on the time, already calculating how long they could rest before needing to move again. There was no room for comfort, not out here. Not when danger could be lurking just beyond the next dune. She pressed her lips together and waited, stomach turning not from hunger but from unease.

Her thoughts returned to the question that had been clawing at her since they stepped foot in the Scorch. Group B. Teresa.

Teresa must be among them, wherever they were now. That alone sent a spike of tension through Cassandra's spine. The idea that WICKED had pitted them against each other—forced them into this sick game—was maddening. But worse was the uncertainty. If Group B had been told to kill Thomas... would she actually go through with it? Had they gotten to her? Had they twisted the girl she remembered into something unrecognisable too?

She hugged her knees to her chest, gaze unfocused as dust whispered across the cracked earth. There were too many questions with no answers, and every single one felt like a stone weighing her down. Was Teresa really a traitor? Or just another pawn like the rest of them?

Minho suddenly stepped in front of her, and she looked back with a raised brow. He gave her a sheepish smile, boyish and completely out of place in the bleakness of the night.

"Potty break," he announced.

She groaned in dismay, flopping her head back for a second before muttering under her breath. It was times like these that she hated being the only girl among them. She'd been perfectly fine until he brought it up, had managed to suppress all thoughts of other bodily functions and stay focused on survival. But now...

Cassandra turned away, scanning the barren landscape for cover, any conveniently placed bush or rock that could grant her a sliver of privacy. That was when her eyes caught on a shape in the distance.

A square building. Small, worn down, and wholly out of place in the forsaken wasteland.

"What's that over there?" Thomas asked, noticing it too.

And then, the screaming girl fell silent. The abruptness of it made Cassandra's skin crawl, as if a switch had been flipped, silencing her not with mercy, but with something far worse.

Movement flickered near the building. Cassandra's breath hitched. She turned her attention back toward it, eyes narrowing as a figure stepped from the shadows. Long, dark hair swayed in a sudden, inexplicable breeze. There was something unnatural in the way the air shifted, as if the land itself had gone still in fear. The moonlight caught the figure's face, illuminating a pair of eyes that locked with Cassandra's across the distance.

Blue eyes that burned with a vibrant, cold flame.

Votes and comments for more Cassienopeia <3