ACT I SCENE XXIV
SYNDEIPNOI

   RED BEAMS shone through the thicket of ivy consuming the Maze walls, beetle blades flickering in all directions—watching, studying. They ran at breakneck speed, but some of the Gladers were beginning to fall behind, panting heavily as they dropped to the back of the group. For most of them, this was their first time navigating the Maze's twisting corridors.

Minho was in the lead now, and Cassandra ran beside him, keeping in stride. Her mind wandered as her feet pounded against the hard stone floor. Did fate exist? It was a silly notion, something for hopeless romantics or starry-eyed idealists. Yet still, she wondered. She clung to that fragile thread of hope—the idea that something greater had bound them together despite everything they'd endured.

It was you, wasn't it?

The boy from her memories—the one she had met in the chaos after the sun flares. Two children in a sea of terrified survivors, lost and starving in a world already beginning to rot. Somehow, they had found each other in the middle of it. Shared scraps of food. Watched each other's backs. Never spoke of the screaming or the smoke or the smell of death—just surviving, one day at a time.

Then WICKED came. Cold rooms. Strange tests. Questions that never had answers. She remembered the restraints. The needles. The way the scientists watched her like she was raw data instead of a person. She remembered him—the boy. Fighting them. Being dragged down the corridor as she screamed for him, powerless to stop it.

She never forgot. Not through the isolation, the experiments, the pain. Every day she endured was one step closer to him—or to death. It still felt unreal that they were both here now, older, changed, still running for their lives.

Surviving a barren world that had gone mad, surviving WICKED, and now the Maze. Will they ever catch a break?

A sudden stop broke through her thoughts. They skidded to a halt, and Cassandra took the opportunity to catch her breath, dragging in air through her nose and letting it burn through her chest. Minho raised a hand to signal the others, and one by one, the Gladers gathered behind him. He turned, jaw tight, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered.

"No," Cassandra said, narrowing her eyes. "But I smell it."

Minho crept toward the corner—the last turn before the Cliff—and peered around it. He immediately recoiled, his face twisting in pain. "Oh, no," he moaned. "Oh, shucking, no."

"What?" Newt asked.

"There're at least a dozen of 'em. Maybe fifteen. All waiting for us."

"Maybe they've taken a kid back at the Glade," Thomas said quickly. "Maybe we can get past—"

A shriek pierced the air, cutting him off. It came from the direction they'd just come from. Grievers skittered down the corridor, claws scraping across stone, leaving deep indents behind them. Metal glinted as their spikes slashed the air.

From the opposite end, another swarm emerged, climbing up the corridor walls. The Gladers tightened into formation. Cassandra stepped back until she could see over her shoulder—the open intersection leading to the Cliff. There, a third group of Grievers waited, their bloated bodies whirring and pulsing with mechanical anticipation. They were surrounded.

She tightened her grip on her spear, eyes wide and locked on the monstrosities. At every exit, they'd stopped—waiting.

"Any ideas?" Thomas asked after a tense pause.

"No," Newt replied, voice low. "What are they bloody waiting for?"

"We shouldn't have come," Alby murmured. His voice was hollow, vacant. He didn't look like the boy she'd once despised so fiercely—just an empty shell of the leader they used to follow. "Maybe... maybe I should..."

He took a step forward, toward the corridor that led to the Cliff.

Cassandra's eyes widened. "Alby—" she started, just as Newt called his name. But Alby didn't hear them. Or maybe he couldn't. He just took off—running headlong into the swarm of Grievers.

"ALBY!" Newt screamed beside her.

Cassandra couldn't process it, couldn't comprehend that he was racing to his own death. Alby was swallowed whole by metal pincers and writhing limbs, torn apart in seconds—his body ripped limb from limb until nothing remained but a smear of blood on the stone. Just like that, he was gone. And she didn't know how to feel. Anger, fear, grief—they were all there, somewhere—but dulled by the numbness that seeped into her bones.

Newt lunged forward, but Thomas grabbed him, holding tight to keep him from going after his friend and dying the same horrific death. Newt fought him for a moment, then collapsed to the ground, staring in stunned silence at the bloodstained corridor where Alby had vanished.

"I... I can't believe..." he murmured, his voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.

She didn't have words—not really. Only the bitter sting of remorse as she looked into his eyes and saw nothing but loss. They helped Newt back to his feet, and Minho squeezed his shoulder in a rare gesture of comfort.

"We can't waste what he did," Minho said grimly. "We fight if we have to. Clear a path for Thomas and Teresa. You two get into the Hole and do your thing—we'll hold the Grievers off until you scream for us to follow."

Thomas nodded, jaw clenched. "Hopefully they'll go dormant for a while. It should only take a minute to punch in the code."

Newt rounded on them suddenly, his voice bitter with grief. "How can you be so heartless?"

"What do you want, Newt?" Minho snapped. "Should we all dress up and have a funeral?"

"I... I'm sorry, Newt," Cassandra said quietly, voice thick. It was all she could offer.

Minho's expression didn't soften. "Alby didn't want to go back to his old life. He made a choice. He bought us time. And the Grievers aren't attacking yet, so maybe it worked."

He turned toward the others, his voice rising to rally them. "Okay, listen up! Priority one is protecting Thomas and Teresa. Get them to the Cliff and—"

A low mechanical growl cut him off. The sound of revving engines rose like a death knell, echoing around them from every direction. The Grievers stirred, twitching and clicking. Their metal appendages unfurled, whirring with bloodthirst. Their bodies rolled and oozed forward in unison, claws scraping against the stone floor, shrieks ricocheting through the Maze walls. They were coming.

"It didn't work!" Cassandra yelled. "Brace yourselves!"

Thomas clutched her arm, eyes wide with panic. "We need to go through that!" he cried, pointing at the churning mass ahead. His gaze darted to Minho. "There's no other way!"

"They're coming!" Teresa screamed, voice shrill. "We have to move, now!"

"You lead," Newt whispered urgently to Minho. "Cut a bloody path for 'em. Do it."

Minho nodded once. His eyes flicked to Cassandra—and she saw it, the same fire in his face that burned in her own. He lifted his club with grim resolve.

"Make for the Cliff!" he bellowed. "Fight through the middle! Push the shuckin' things to the walls—and remember, get Thomas and Teresa to the Hole!"

Cassandra could only pray the others heard him over the chaos. She adjusted the strap of her pack, secured her bow, and gripped her spear with both hands, knuckles whitening.

"Ready!" Minho roared beside her.

Cassandra shut her eyes for one second. Just one. She forced a deep breath into her lungs, pushing past the shaking in her arms, the knot in her stomach, the thunder of her heart.

"Now!"

Her eyes snapped open and she charged, hearing the roar of Gladers behind her stepping up to take on the impossible challenge. Cassandra met the first Griever head-on with a metallic clang, screaming as she ducked under a whirring sawblade. She drove her spear forward with all her strength, ramming the creature off-course.

Boys rushed past in a blur of steel and wood, shouting war cries and curses. The Maze filled with the stench of sweat, oil, and burning metal. Cassandra darted to the side, released one hand from her spear, and drew her knife. She jammed it into the Griever's top plating with a grunt. The thing shrieked—a metallic wail that rattled her bones—and she yanked her weapon free.

Her spear struck again, piercing grey flesh and sinking into soft blubber. The Griever bucked wildly. A burst of thick yellow goo exploded in her face. Cassandra recoiled, gagging, wiping it away with her sleeve just as the creature reared up above her, shrieking. She ducked aside—and spotted it. A handle. Embedded deep in the wound she'd just made.

Acting on instinct, she lunged forward and yanked hard.

The Griever sputtered violently, convulsed, then crashed to the ground with a mechanical groan. Cassandra staggered back, the plastic handle still clutched in her hand. For a second, she just stared in stunned silence. Then she was waving her arms, yelling over the roar of battle.

"There's a handle that shuts them down—in their butts!"

"In their what?!" Newt shouted back.

Cassandra didn't stop to answer. She grabbed her bow, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. It sank into the neck of a Griever lunging at Winston. The creature shrieked, reared back, and Winston dove out of the way just in time. She turned. Minho had seen what she'd done—his Griever collapsed seconds later. They locked eyes across the chaos, shared a grim, breathless grin.

"Grab those shuck handles in their butts!" Minho yelled, sprinting off again.

"In their what?!" Lee echoed somewhere nearby.

Cassandra didn't have time to laugh. She kept firing—arrow after arrow—dodging, parrying, turning wherever someone screamed for help. The Maze was war now: shrieking metal, scorched oil, blood and smoke.

Suddenly something slammed into her from the side and she felt the wind knocked out of her. She looked up in shock and saw a face sneering down—Andy. His eyes were filled with hatred and maybe madness.

"You planned this, didn't you?" he hissed. "I knew it was you!"

His hands clawed at her skin. Something inside her snapped. Fury exploded in her chest, sharp and scorching. She couldn't believe it—not just the attack, but the sheer audacity. There were Grievers everywhere, people screaming and dying around them, and he was still obsessed with her? Still clinging to whatever twisted fantasy he'd built in that rotted head of his?

"Are you shucking kidding me right now, you slinthead?!" she shouted, voice shrill with disbelief. "There are Grievers everywhere and this—this—is when you decide to jump me?!"

She shouldn't have given him the benefit of the doubt. Not after the threats, the stares, the way he always made her skin crawl. She'd told herself he was just scared—just broken, like the rest of them. But this wasn't fear. This was hate. Obsession. Delusion.

Andy sneered down at her, eyes gleaming with accusation and delirium. "Where's your boyfriend to save you now?" he spat. "Always so guarded, so special—but you won't fool me. You never did!"

It was infuriating. Pathetic. She could taste the disgust on her tongue like ash. Every inch of her wanted to lash out—not just to protect herself, but to finally shut him up for good.

"I don't need protecting, you jerk," she growled and smashed her elbow into the side of his head as hard as she could.

The boy swayed to the side from the blow and she kicked him off her, throwing his body to the side with a loud grunt. He scrambled to his feet, glaring at her with so much malice she didn't think was actually possible. Then a Griever swooped down on him, a blade slashing through his back, and picked him up with its pincers like a rag doll before flinging him to the side. She saw his head crack against the wall but there wasn't any time to gape as the creature chose her as its next victim.

She rolled away, picking up a blade from the ground and lunged forwards again. They met with a loud clang and she knocked its knife-arm away, then rolling again to the side to avoid another with an axe. She threw a knife, aiming for one of its motors where it jammed itself between the gears. There was a sputter and taking the opportunity, she jabbed her blade into its abdomen, twisting it to the side before pulling out.

She didn't wait—bolting without looking back.

Up ahead, Archie had a Griever pinned to the wall with his spear, crouched low to stay beneath its flailing limbs. Cassandra surged forward, driving her own spear into the creature's backside, ripping through the fleshy hide. She plunged her arm into the open wound, groping blindly until her fingers closed around the familiar shape of a plastic handle. She yanked hard. The Griever sputtered with a series of harsh mechanical clicks, convulsing as it powered down.

"Hey, Cass," Archie called breathlessly, flashing her a wild grin. "Thanks."

She staggered back from the twitching body, leaning hard against the stone wall. Her lungs clawed for air. Every muscle screamed in protest as she reached weakly for her bow—but her arms were leaden, her strength gone. Clint's voice cut through the chaos from somewhere nearby. Frypan was still swinging his cleaver, hacking straight through a Griever's skull.

"When the hell... is the freaking code going to work?" she ground out, panting.

"There's a Griever going into the Hole!" Newt shouted, eyes wide. "And another one!"

"Thomas and Teresa!" Cassandra lurched forward, but her legs gave out. She crashed to her knees, pain flaring up her spine. "Where's Minho?!"

She saw Lee on the opposite side of the corridor, battling a Griever with furious tenacity. He ducked and swatted back its arms with fluid movements, as if he did it for a living. Then he thrust his knife into its middle with a flourish, slashing a large jagged gash across and the Griever shrieked as it crumpled down in a flood of yellow liquid.

"It's taking too bloody long!" Newt yelled. "Maybe we should—"

A collective beep resounded all around them at once and in unison, the Grievers froze. The shrieks and screams, the revving engines, the clang of steel—everything, fell into a dead silence. For one breathless second, no one moved. They looked around with wide-eyed hope, waiting to make sure that the Grievers had actually shut down.

Had it worked? Had Thomas and Teresa done it?

Then a movement caught Cassandra's eye; the Griever that Lee had just killed was still twitching uncontrollably. She yelled for him to watch out but he had his back turned and a large blade sunk itself through the middle of his torso. His eyes widened in surprise and he coughed up blood.

"Lee!" she screamed, scrambling forwards on all fours across the width of the corridor. The Griever finally halted and the boy dropped to his knees, half of the giant blade sliding out of his chest. "No, no, no," she cried as she reached him and pressed her hands against the wound as he collapsed to the ground.

"C-Cass..." His voice trembled, thick with pain. Blood bubbled at his lips, spilling in a slow trickle down his chin. "Just... go. It's fine."

"No. Don't say that," she begged, her voice cracking as she shook her head violently. "Don't you dare say that. You're gonna be okay. I've got you—I've got you—"

Her hands pressed harder against the gaping hole in his chest, but the blood kept coming, warm and endless.

"Look after... them," he whispered, eyes fluttering, unfocused. "Look after... Minho..."

A long, shuddering breath left his body—and didn't return. His eyes went still.

"No. No!" she choked out, clutching him tighter, her fingers trembling. "Lee, come back! Please—please—you can't—not you too!"

She let out a strangled scream, her sobs tearing from her throat as she pounded her fists against his chest, willing his heart to start again. "Wake up! Do you hear me?!"

But he didn't move. Someone's arms wrapped around her from behind, dragging her away from his body as she kicked and fought against them.

"Cassie. Cassie." a voice softly. "It's over. Cassie, it's over."

She sobbed, her entire body shaking as she squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't look. She wouldn't—not at the blood pooling on the floor, not at the still bodies of boys she'd lived beside, laughed with. The weight of it all pressed down like it would crush her. If she opened her eyes, she was sure she'd fall apart completely.

The arms around her tightened, cradling her body against a warm chest.

She clung to them instinctively, breath hitching as if her lungs had forgotten how to work. Her hand trembled as she reached up, fingers brushing a familiar cheek. She felt the curve of his jaw. Minho.

She forced her eyes open. He was right there—bruised, bloodied, his shirt torn and skin scraped—but breathing. Alive. The sight of him hit her like a tidal wave and the sob that escaped her was raw, broken. She collapsed into him, clutching at him like he was the only real thing left in the world.

"Cassie, we have to go," he whispered gently. "Into the Hole. We need to find the others. We can't stay here."

She nodded shakily. Her body moved on instinct as he pulled her to her feet, but her mind lagged behind, still caught in the echo of screams and Lee's final words. Her legs wobbled beneath her like they no longer belonged to her. She kept her eyes forward—anything to avoid looking at the carnage behind them.

The Cliff loomed ahead, the jagged ledge opening into a void that looked more like a wound in the world than an escape. Vines dangled over the edge, swaying gently in the airless silence. They disappeared into nothing, like the sky itself had swallowed them.

Fear crawled back in—slow and cold. It slithered under her skin, into her ribs, wrapping around her spine like a coil. She didn't want to go. She didn't want to know what was on the other side of that darkness.

"I'll go first," Minho said, his voice steady despite everything. She watched as he braced himself on the edge and leapt. One second he was there—then gone.

She stared at the spot he vanished through, her body frozen. Every instinct screamed at her to stay rooted to the solid ground, to cling to the last bit of light and air. A gentle prod at her back startled her. Newt stood behind her now, eyes filled with grim encouragement. She swallowed hard. Her breath trembled. But she moved. One step, another.

Then she flung herself at the Hole. It was like falling through a thin sheet of ice. A shiver cut through her as she passed the threshold, and then she met solid ground. Her feet landed roughly and she staggered forward—

Straight into Minho's waiting arms.

She blinked up at him, her chest tight with something between relief and disbelief. Behind him, she saw Thomas, Teresa, and Chuck huddled together in the shadows.

Cassandra let herself lean back against the wall, her entire body quivering. The tunnel was narrow, the air heavy and stale. It was dark, save for the soft green glow of a nearby computer screen and the muted beam of Teresa's flashlight. Around them, the mangled bodies of dead Grievers littered the path, oily and motionless.

For a second, all she could do was breathe. But even that felt like it hurt.

"Are you guys okay?" Thomas called out, voice echoing sharply in the tunnel. "What about the others?"

"We lost a ton of guys," Minho said sombrely. "It was a bloodbath up there before the Grievers shut down. I still can't believe it actually worked."

There was a thud behind them—Newt collapsing to his knees with a pained grunt. Cassandra spun and caught him before he could fall completely, her hands clutching his arms instinctively. Frypan dropped down next, then Winston, followed slowly by the remaining boys. Half of them.

Only half.

Thomas looked up at the Hole, hopeful. "The rest...?"

Newt's voice was low, raw. "Dead."

Silence pressed down like the weight of the stone ceiling above them. Cassandra didn't want to think about it—didn't want to see their faces in her mind. Not Lee. Not the others. Her limbs itched with the need to run, to claw her way out of this place and never look back. But no one moved. Not even to breathe.

Then Minho stirred.

"Half of us might've died," he said, voice heavy with exhaustion but firm. "But half of us shucking lived. And none of us got stung. Now let's get out of here."

"Right now," Cassandra echoed, her voice shaking as she turned her back to the tunnel behind them.

"Right bloody now," Newt muttered in agreement, dragging himself upright.

"So where do we go?" Minho asked, squinting into the dark.

"I heard a door open that way," Thomas said, pointing toward the far end of the corridor.

"Then that's where we're going." Minho didn't wait—he took off, and Cassandra was right behind him, her hand fisting the back of his shirt as if tethering herself to reality.

Newt motioned for the rest to follow, and Thomas brought up the rear. The tunnel swallowed them whole, every step echoing off the cold, smooth walls. Cassandra could barely see a foot ahead. The only thing keeping her grounded was the feel of Minho's shirt clenched in her grip. The farther they went, the louder the silence became—no more Grievers, no screams, only the rhythm of their breaths and boots against metal.

Then, without warning, Minho pitched forward.

Her hand jerked with him and she let out a startled yelp as she was pulled down, weightless for a moment before they both plunged into darkness. Her scream tore through the tunnel, raw and terrified, until she collided with his back in a wet, choking thud.

"Are you guys okay?!" Newt's voice called faintly from above, tight with panic.

"Yeah—we're fine!" Minho shouted back, groaning.

They sat up in thick, disgusting goo, struggling to wipe it from their skin. Cassandra gagged at the smell and the texture, heart still hammering from the drop.

"Come on down, it's fine!" she yelled back up the shoot.

They jumped out of the way when Newt almost slid into them. Then Frypan, Archie, and the others quickly followed one after the other. Everyone groaned at disgust at the slime that clung to their hair and clothes. Thomas was the last to join them.

Then someone shouted, "Look!"

Cassandra turned around. And her breath stopped.

They were in a massive, sterile chamber—white walls, humming machines, glass pods. Windows lined the room, and behind them... people. Men and women in lab coats, watching. Observing. Taking notes. Their eyes were sharp, clinical, completely devoid of empathy. Pens scratched across notebooks as if cataloguing specimens in a zoo.

Cassandra stared in mute horror.

Whatever came next... it wasn't freedom. It was another test. Another cage. The entire group recoiled in unison, as though the very sight of those figures burned.

"Who are they?" Chuck whispered, barely audible over the ringing silence.

"The Creators." Minho's voice was pure venom. He slammed his fist into his palm. "I swear, I'm gonna break your shuck faces!"

Then a single, shrill beep sliced through the room. One after another, louder and louder, until it built into a blaring alarm that made Cassandra flinch. A mechanical swish followed. Her head jerked toward the sound just as a set of doors slid open on the far side of the chamber. Two people stepped in.

One was a woman, stern-faced with sharp eyes and a white uniform too pristine to belong to any human who'd lived through what they had. The letters WICKED were emblazoned across her breast pocket. The other figure was a boy—tall, hunched, his hoodie swallowing his frame.

"Welcome back," the woman said, devoid of emotion. "Over two years, and so few dead. Amazing."

Cassandra's blood ran cold.

"Excuse me?" Newt asked venomously.

"Everything has gone according to plan, Mr. Newton." Her gaze swept across them like they were specimens under a microscope. "Though we expected more of you to give up along the way."

Then she reached up and pulled back the boy's hood. A collective gasp filled the chamber. Cassandra's knees nearly buckled.

Gally was back again.

"What's he doing here?!" Minho yelled, stepping forward.

"You're safe now," the woman said smoothly. "Please, be at ease."

"At ease?!" Minho's voice rose heatedly. "Who the shuck are you to tell us that? We want the police—the mayor—the president—whoever's in charge!"

"You have no idea what you're saying, boy," she said coldly. "I expect more maturity from somebody who passed the Maze Trials."

Her gaze hardened. "One day you will understand, and then you will be grateful for what we have done. I can only promise this, and if your minds do not accept this, then it was all a mistake."

Cassandra stared at her. "It was a mistake," she whispered, hollow.

"Gally?" Newt called. "What's going on?"

Gally twitched—just a tremor, but enough to unsettle the air around him. He shook his head once. His hands began to tremble. His mouth opened like he was drowning.

"There is one final Variable, however," the woman said, taking a step back.

"T-they..." Gally's voice rasped like gravel in his throat. "Can control... me... I have to..."

Then his hands flew to his throat, like he was choking on air. He gasped once, eyes wide, and stilled. Cassandra's blood turned to ice at the chilling familiarity. She'd seen this before. Her heart pounded in her ears as the boy's hand moved deliberately behind his back. He brought out a knife. It gleamed under the sterile light—then flew. 

Minho yanked her aside instinctively, but the blade wasn't for her.

The knife cut through the air, missing her entirely by two feet. A shout rang out behind her. Cassandra stood rooted to the spot, her gaze set resolutely in front of her, as someone screamed. The sound tore through the chamber. Icy dread slammed into her, crashing over her in waves. Her breath caught. Her skin prickled.

"Chuck!" She heard Thomas' anguished wail. "No, Chuck! Hang on! Someone get help!"

Then a small cough, filled with blood. "Thomas. Find my... mom. Tell her..."

A laboured wheeze, then silence. Her hands trembled. Someone rushed past, a blur of dark hair and blue, flying into Gally, knocking him to the ground. Her heart hammered. Thomas, punching the living daylights out of him, bone cracking against bone. Her stomach churned. Newt and Minho ran forward a moment later, grabbing him, pulling him away, as he screamed and flailed his fists in the air.

The grief.

"I promised him! I promised I'd take him home!"

The world shattering.

This scene never fails to make me sad ):