Leo Short

"You got lucky," the doctor shines the light away from my eye, stepping back. I blink rapidly as I try to adjust to the lighting in this small room. I lean forward, trying to make out the rough metal flooring beneath me.

My hands crinkle the rough white paper which covers the seat beneath me. Even though I know it is there to prevent the patient after me from contracting any diseases which I carry, I can't help but feel like the doctor is trying to sterilize the room from me specifically.

I still feel nauseous, so I try not to think about this doctor's roll in WICKED. How long has he been with the organization? Is he a general practitioner, or primarily a researcher? Perhaps, maybe, he is a mortician. They've got to have at least one of those employed here, given the survival rate.

I try not to calculate it. If I wanted to spend some time thinking about the dead, I'd rather it be at a funeral than in such a clinical way.

Is this doctor responsible for all the deaths? Even though he had no weapon, is his compliance enough? I certainly feel responsible. Does he?

"No concussion," he notes, observing my head, "which is better than anyone else I've seen. I didn't think you'd be able to take a beating, Miss Da Vinci."

So, he has at least some background information on me. Perhaps I once studied underneath this stranger. It would explain why my medical knowledge is better than nothing.

I want to ask him how long he has been watching me, but I don't think I want to know the answer. Instead of letting any question of mine into the sterile air, I slide my dirty clothes off the paper. The doctor doesn't stop me from pulling back the curtains and walking out.

Newt sits on one of the only chairs in the wing. Dawn is gone, even though she was here just a minute ago. I take a step closer to Newt, my feet moving delicately across the ground. He doesn't look up from his hands. They wring tighter and tighter around each other.

I reach next to him, kneeling down. He snaps his head back, staring at me. It takes a second for him to soften.

"You startled me," he offers, his voice low.

I take a hand, placing it on his. In turn, he leans his head against mine, still sitting in my chair. My legs strain to hold myself up, but it doesn't bother me too much. In fact, it's more than worth it.

"Will he be alright?" I ask, even though I know I don't want to know the answer. Because, he probably will be. I mean, he might have such bad damage that his hand is inoperable, but I doubt he'll have a disease, and if he was going to bleed out we would know by now.

"He's resting," Newt offers. "Dawn is in with him."

I teeter against him. He squeezes my hand tighter, holding me to him. I can feel drops of water in my hair. Newt sniffs. I move, looking up to him. With my other hand, I wipe a falling tear off his cheek.

"What are we going to do when we land, Lee?" He asks, his face breaking. "What are we going to bloody do?"

I grab his back, pulling him in closer to me. His body shakes, tears rolling down on my shoulder.

He can't just expect me to lead him through this. I have only known how to follow, and I don't know where I am going without him.

Dawn Short

The blankets, only spotted with blood, cling on to Minho as he sweats. The white bandages, a deep red soaked through, cover the stiches the doctors gave him. All that matters to me is that he is alive. I run my fingers through his air. His eyes flutter open. Klunk, I didn't want to wake him. I just wanted to watch his chest rise and fall. I wanted proof he lived.

"Hey," he manages, exhaling. His unwounded arm slowly lifts, wrapping around my hand. He tries to squeeze it faintly, but there is no energy to the body. I can't tell if his exhaustion is from being pistol-whipped, from the stab wound, from the general deprivation of the Scorch, or some terrible hybrid combination of all three.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, stroking his hand.

"Like klunk," he groans, leaning deeper into the pillows. "At least I know I look worse than you."

I roll my eyes. "I look disgusting. I haven't even changed yet."

He exhales briefly, almost a laugh, but he chokes on it. "I mean, you look like klunk, but good for klunk, you know? Like, really hot klunk? Shuck, I don't know where I'm going with this. I don't know how I ever got lucky enough to stumble my way into dating you."

"I mean, you didn't get that lucky," I begin, eyeing him up.

He scoffs, "slim it. 'Course I did. Who else would wait around for this slinthead to wake up from getting his jaw rattled?"

"Newt is just outside," I remark, looking over. "And, you've only been out like an hour. They kept you unconscious for the surgery. I told them you'd be a baby about it."

He tries to smile, but it breaks. I said the word. Baby. We have really talked about it yet, and I hadn't planned on going into a complex discussion on the issue right now. Instead of talking, his eyes fixate on my face. They move from my eyes, to my nose and then lips, scanning every surface. I can't help but look down, trying to hide my scarlet cheeks.

Let's not talk about the baby.

"What happened here?" Minho's fingers gently run along my arm, sketching the red marks. "Who did that?"

I shrug out of his grip, trying to find a way to say this that isn't going to send him into a frenzy. Do I say who did it first, or why?

"WICKED did something to Sheil," I tell Minho.

"Like, did they Gally him?" Minho asks.

I shake my head. "Yes? Not really. I mean, he hasn't gone crazy. He was trying to tell me his subject number, and then couldn't breathe. He grabbed me, and just kept squeezing tighter. Eventually he fainted. The doctors said he's fine."

"Klunk," Minho mutters, looking down. "They just closed off his throat as if it was the click of a button? Whatever the shuck they are doing to our heads needs to stop now."

Yeah, no kidding. I shucking watched Sheil collapse.

"Just be careful," he instructs.

I roll my eyes, moving closer to him. I place a hand in his dark hair, running my fingers through it. "Please, you just got stabbed, and you are telling me to be careful? You need to stop fighting."

"I will not," he sighs, maybe because he is disappointing me, maybe because he is disappointing himself. "Let's just agree not to cause too much trouble until we get the cure."

He grabs my free hand, squeezing it tightly. His eyes are wide as they wait for my answer.

"Okay," I tell him, even though I know I'm going to try and figure out whatever WICKED doesn't want me to know, just like I know I couldn't keep trouble away from this boy no matter how hard I try.

And I love him all the more for it.

Michelle Short

Eventually, I take off my shoes, leaving myself with only thick socks to slide along the metal ground in. The boots are too loud. Every step causes them to clunk off the ground. If I had more experience indoors, I would know how to walk.

Currently, my feet only know wood, grass, stone, sand, and concrete. I mean, that may seem like a lot, but I've never walked on tile, lament, carpet, or metal. Puddles neither, which is more than fine for me. I've been in water long enough to never seek out the substance again.

However, metal is getting to me. When I'm trying to sneak around, without getting caught, it is essential that I can be quiet. Socks have proved a good alternative. Though I've made progress searching these hallways, I still have yet to find what I am looking for.

Where did they put Doug's body?

It's gone missing since I got here. Maybe they dropped it out into the wasteland, but I doubt it. WICKED may try to ignore its crimes, but I doubt that they would go through the hazard of throwing a corpse out of a soaring machine. It's too risky.

However, I'm not just going to let them do what they want with Doug. Not before I get my chance to have my peace with the whole thing. The thing being his death.

There is a hand on my shoulder. I grab it, trying to jerk it around, but the grip is firm on me. There is a footstep up ahead, and the arm pulls me around the corner. It spins me backwards.

Shucking Lott showed up again.

I glare at him, waiting for him to say anything, but he doesn't. Instead, he raises an eyebrow at me, waiting for me to talk.

"What?" I hiss, jerking myself away from his grip.

"What are you doing back here?" He spits, checking over his shoulder and then over mine.

I don't answer him. He grabs my shoulder and pushes me against the wall, holding me in place.

"Relax," I order, glaring at him. He leans down over top of me, waiting for me to continue talking. "I'm looking for Doug."

He doesn't let go for a second, staring into my eyes. Even for Lott, his eyes are more bloodshot than usual.

"You sure you want the body?" He asks.

I nod carefully.

He let's go, recoiling. "I smelt it on my way here."

Without a word, he trails away, moving back the way he must have come. I don't know if he wants me to, but I follow after him. He twists and turns deeper into the metal ship, only turning back once when he hears people coming.

The smell begins to reek through the halls. I can tell what he means. It's putrid, almost burning my nose. At only a waft, I can feel my stomach climbing up to the base of my throat. He stops outside a metal door, looking at before turning back to me. My feet are still on the ground.

I've never smelt this before. This awful reeking, long after a corpse is gone. I've seen a few people die. Dave first, then Jackson, and since then a couple here and there. Falling off of cliffs, stabbed by Gally, creatures I myself have murdered.

After all this time though, I've never seen a body that has let death sink into its skin.

I try not to picture Dave's flesh, torn to shreds. Fresh in my mind though, is Rose's body, sinking into the sand. Newer still is Doug's body, turning cold in my hands as we run through the rain.

I don't want to see him like that. I don't want to see any of them without the life behind their eyes.

Ella short

I wonder if there are bodies around me. It's been years since I've seen the violet girl. She's beginning to slip from my grasp as well. Though I found her, I'm not satisfied. There is more I need to know.

Who has caused Eli's death?

Who is trying to cause mine?