ACT II   SCENE XLII
LICYMNIUS

   WHEN DAWN broke over the thin horizon, it brought the heat with it. Sunbeams crept across her skin, and sweat soaked her body, making the stitch in her leg itch something awful. Her hatred for the sun could rival the depths of its own fiery core.

WICKED had come to patch her up, but they took Thomas with them. It had probably been three hours since they left the rocky outcrop. The black speck on the horizon had grown larger. She was starting to believe it really was a building. The thought of actual shelter made her pick up her pace, even if only slightly. An hour later, Minho called for a break before they pressed on again.

They walked in shared silence, conserving whatever was left of their energy and water. The quiet was practical, but it made the journey feel dull and endless. A couple more hours passed, and the mountains loomed ever closer. Then Archie started shouting hoarsely behind them, and they turned to him questioningly.

"A shack!" he called out, pointing ahead. "It's a shuckin' shack!"

Cassandra turned and squinted into the wavering heat. Sure enough, the shape had taken form—an old wooden hut, rough and crooked, like it had been thrown together with oversized matchsticks. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the group.

Half an hour later, they reached it. Cassandra stepped forward and gently pushed the door open, half-expecting it to crumble to dust beneath her fingers. Inside, it was bare but spacious. There was just enough room for all thirteen of them to lie down and rest.

Minho glanced back at the others with a smirk. "Welcome to my humble abode," he said, stepping inside like he owned the place.

Cassandra dropped onto the sandy floorboards and watched as the boys filtered in, their voices more relaxed now that they could finally rest. She noticed Jorge and Brenda sitting on the farthest side of the shack, keeping to themselves. A quiet reminder tugged at her, telling her they were still part of WICKED.

Minho sat beside her and handed over a canteen. She took a long drink, then passed it back without a word. Across the room, Newt pulled out his bag of nuts and started munching. Exhaustion had taken away her appetite.

"Just in time for midday," Newt said through a mouthful. "I'd hate to be out there with the sun beating down on us like dogs."

"I wonder what's happening to Thomas," Frypan said, glancing around at them. "He's with WICKED, right? What do you think they're doing to him?"

"Maybe he's got a comfy bed," Cassandra offered. "Maybe Rat Man brought him some eggs and bacon."

The boys groaned in unison at the mention of food. "Thanks, Cassie," Minho muttered. "That's all I'm gonna dream about now."

"I could use some bacon right now." Archie leaned against the wall, rubbing his stomach. "Or some of Fry's nasty casserole. Man, that used to hit the spot."

"If my casserole's so nasty, you wouldn't be asking for seconds every time!" Frypan shot back, tossing a nut at him. The blonde Runner caught it easily in his mouth.

Their laughter faded when Jorge's voice cut through the moment. "You kids should rest up," he said. "It won't be long now until we reach the mountains."

There was something in his tone that made Cassandra frown—as if he was bracing for trouble. The Gladers exchanged grim looks. Minho nodded and urged them to get some more sleep. They'd make it to the mountains by sunset.

   Cassandra turned onto her side and opened her eyes. The shack was hot and stifling, cramped with bodies pressed close around her. They had shelter, but the oppressive heat was inescapable. Something pressed against her thigh.

She slipped her hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a sleek black capsule. Frowning in confusion, she rolled it between her fingers. Embossed on the side was a single word: PROPHECY. Once again, WICKED had to think they were clever with their references. She slipped the capsule back into her pocket and tilted her head, listening carefully.

A familiar sound snapped her attention; the sharp whirring of metal blades and the heavy hum of machinery filled the air. A Berg. Heart pounding, she scrambled up and yanked the door open. The bright white light from outside made her wince, and a few boys behind her stirred. Minho blinked awake, peering up at her through heavy lids.

"What's happening?" he asked hoarsely.

"It's Thomas." Cassandra's eyes widened. "They're bringing him back!"

The Berg drew closer, a long line lowering a small bundle that dangled in the air. The litter swung precariously just above the ground. Cassandra stepped outside into the blazing sun, and Minho quickly followed. One by one, the other Gladers stirred awake, rousing from their restless sleep inside the shack. Groggy voices murmured questions as they shuffled outside, blinking against the harsh light.

They gathered beneath the hovering Berg as it carefully lowered Thomas to the cracked earth. He was strapped tightly to the litter, his eyes fluttering open as if he were only just waking. The boys swarmed around him the moment he touched down, some reaching out to steady him, others staring in stunned silence.

"Welcome back," Cassandra said with a wolfish grin.

"What was that all about?"

"Are you okay?"

"What'd they do to you?"

"Have fun in the Berg?"

"How's your shoulder?"

Thomas ignored the barrage, his eyes glassy and unfocused, a semi-dazed look of bewilderment on his face. He tried to push himself up, but the ropes held him tight against the canvas litter. His gaze darted around the group until it landed on Minho, then flicked to Cassandra standing right beside him.

"A little help here?" Thomas asked quietly.

The boys stepped closer, drawing knives to cut through the ropes one by one. Cassandra had hoped the litter would contain supplies, but it was empty except for Thomas.

He pushed himself to his feet and stretched slowly, still ignoring the flood of questions coming from every direction. Glancing down at himself, he noticed the fresh clothes they'd given him. Testing his shoulder carefully, he rotated it with a small wince. Then he turned back to Minho.

"What are you all doing out in the open? You're going to bake in this sun!" Thomas exclaimed.

Minho pointed toward the shack. "We were all nice and snug in there before you came along, slinthead."

Thomas just nodded and started walking toward it, the others following close behind. "Okay, look—I'll answer all your questions once we're settled inside."

"But what happened?" Newt asked eagerly. "What did they do to you?"

Thomas sighed. "I'll tell you once we're inside."

Minho pushed open the shack door, and they filtered in, grateful for the cool shade. Once everyone had settled, Minho pointed to an empty spot on the floor. "Thomas, you sit there, get comfy, and start telling us all about your adventures with the aliens in their big bad spaceship."

"You sure about this?" Thomas asked, worry flickering in his eyes. "How many days do we have left to get over those mountains to the safe haven?"

"Five days, dude," Minho said. "But you know we can't just trudge through this sun without any cover. You're gonna talk, then we're gonna crash again, and then we'll bust our humps walking all night. So get on with it."

Thomas nodded slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Save all your questions for the end, children," he said with a faint smile. "I kept passing out while I was there... but WICKED took me to some doctors who managed to patch me up. I overheard them talking—said it wasn't supposed to happen. The gunshot was a complication they hadn't expected. The bullet caused a nasty infection deep inside me, and I guess they decided it wasn't my time to die just yet."

"Well, that really clears things up," Minho said with a smirk. "Must explain all those signs in the city about you being the real leader."

"Glad to know you're genuinely thrilled to see me alive," Thomas shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, if you want to be the leader, no skin off my back. But I am happy to see you alive," Minho replied, a genuine smile breaking through.

"No thanks. You keep it," Thomas said with a grin.

"Thank the gods!" Cassandra exclaimed in relief.

Newt rubbed his chin, his brow furrowed. "So, we're all possible candidates for something. Maybe all the buggin' klunk we've been through is just to weed out those who don't qualify. But for some reason, the whole gun and rusty bullet thing wasn't part of the normal tests... or Variables, whatever you want to call it. If Thomas was going to croak, it wasn't supposed to be from a bloody infection."

Thomas nodded in agreement with the summary.

"What this means is they're watching us," Minho said, scanning the area. "Just like they did back in the Maze. Has anyone spotted a beetle blade around here?"

They all shook their heads. Something like a beetle blade would be too obvious to spot out in the open.

"What the hell's a beetle blade?" Jorge asked.

Thomas explained, "Little mechanical centipede things with cameras that spied on us in the Maze."

"Of course. Sorry I asked," the man said, rolling his eyes.

Aris spoke up, "The Maze was definitely some kind of indoor facility. But there's no way we're inside anything like that anymore. They could be using satellites or long-range cameras, though, I guess."

Jorge cleared his throat. "What is it about Thomas that makes him so special? Those signs in the city calling him the real leader, and then them swooping in to save his butt when he got sick. I'm not trying to be mean, muchacho—I'm just curious. What makes you better than the rest of your buddies?"

"You're from WICKED. You tell us," Minho grunted.

Jorge shrugged, replying dryly, "I'm just a pilot."

Thomas frowned, a hint of frustration in his voice. "I'm not special. They saved Cass too. It wasn't about me—it was the bullet that messed things up."

Jorge crossed his arms, nodding firmly. "Yeah, well, I'm sticking close to you two from here on out."

The Gladers kept talking quietly until Minho finally told them to get some rest. It was already two in the afternoon, and they only had a few hours to recharge before they had to push themselves again. Cassandra lay down, closing her eyes, but then she heard Thomas's voice inside her mind.

"Did anything else happen?"

She hesitated for a moment, the memory still raw and painful. "I'm losing my mind, Thomas. Whatever WICKED did to me... it's affecting me faster than the others."

"The Flare?" His voice cracked with panic.

"Yeah. I keep getting blackouts and losing massive chunks of my memories. I can't tell reality apart from my dreams anymore either. For a moment, I couldn't even recognise Minho."

He was silent for a long moment, probably trying to process what she'd just said. Finally, he whispered, "Cass... I—I'm sorry. But it'll be okay."

Her face suddenly felt burning hot as she realized she'd been holding back tears. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, fighting the weight of doubt gnawing at her from the inside.

"They'll give us a cure. They have to."

But his words felt hollow—like a thin thread stretched too tight, ready to snap. She wanted to believe Thomas, desperately, but a part of her whispered that maybe this time, the sickness wasn't something anyone could fix.

"We'll make it to the safe haven," Thomas's voice reassured her gently.

She sniffled, imagining her telepathic voice trembling. "Okay."

"We'll get through this," he said again.

The tears slipped free, warm and steady, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. She turned her face toward the wall, hiding the vulnerability she couldn't escape from.

"Okay."

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