ACT II   SCENE XXXIII
BELLEROPHON

   CASSANDRA COULD not remember anything.

It felt like a switch had been flipped in her brain, resetting everything once again. The last thing she could recall was chasing after Teresa, her voice echoing inside Cassandra's mind. Then—nothing. She had woken up on the ground with familiar faces looming over her, drawn with worry and relief. Guilt pooled in her stomach. She didn't know what was wrong with her. She didn't know why WICKED kept locking her memories away behind impenetrable walls of mystery.

She felt hollow and helpless. Like her entire world was spiralling into an abyss, unable to break free from a cycle of endless despair and lost memories. She buried her face in the crook of Minho's shoulder, letting the tears slip past her closed lids, soaking quietly into the fabric of his shirt.

"What did you mean about Nick?" Newt asked gently. "You said he was... alive?"

"How could he be alive?" Frypan questioned with disbelief. "We dragged the half-shank out of the Box Hole. We all saw what happened to him."

Cassandra shook her head, her voice soft and muffled. "I don't know... I can't remember."

Minho's arms wrapped tighter around her. "Look, it doesn't matter," he said. "WICKED likes to shuck with our heads. The only thing we need to focus on right now is getting to that shucking safe haven."

"He's right," Thomas added quietly. "The Rat Man said not to trust what we see... or even what we think."

Newt looked like he had something to say but Minho cut him off. "We should've stopped a couple hours ago to get some sleep. But thanks to Mr. Desert Runner here—" He gave Thomas a light smack on the back of the head. "—we ran ourselves ragged till the freaking sun came back up. I still think we need to rest for a while. Do it under the sheets, whatever, but let's try."

Caught within the tempest of her inner turmoil and exhaustion, Cassandra fell easily into a restless sleep. Her body gave in, but her mind never truly settled. She woke several times during the few hours Minho allowed them to rest, each time pulled from sleep by the echoes of dreams she couldn't fully remember. Swirls of chaos and confusion churned through her unconscious mind.

She was always running from something she couldn't name, a coil of dread tightening in her gut. Outstretched hands reached for her, only to vanish like smoke the moment she grasped at them. Voices hissed from the darkness, familiar and threatening all at once.

They had a quick breakfast before resuming their march. The Gladers remained sullen and quiet throughout the journey. Food and water had dwindled, and more packs were repurposed to shield them from the sun. Fewer Gladers had to walk in pairs now, but Cassandra still shared a sheet with Minho. She didn't mind. His company was a welcome distraction. She didn't want to be left alone with the thoughts in her head.

The sun beat down on them relentlessly, and her throat was as parched as the earth. She dropped the sheet to fumble with her pack. Minho raised the sheet higher above them, protecting her from the worst of the heat.

"Thanks," she mumbled, before gulping down some water. The coolness soothed her cracked lips and dry throat. She sighed softly, tying the bag securely so it wouldn't leak.

Minho watched her for a moment, his gaze lingering with quiet concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice low.

"I think so," she replied, wetting her lips again. The words felt hollow, like a reflex. Something inside her twisted, like she was supposed to say more, but she didn't know what. "I keep wondering... why... why do they keep taking my memories away..."

What was behind the locked door in her mind that WICKED was so desperate to keep hidden? The thought nagged at her constantly, a thorn she couldn't pull free. It gnawed at her, a frustration deeper than she dared show. Not knowing anything was unbearable. Minho reached out, his fingers brushing her arm with the barest touch.

"We'll figure it out," he said gently.

His calm presence was more comforting than she gave him credit for. Like a balm she hadn't realised she needed, his presence soothed her frayed nerves. Her tense muscles slowly began to uncoil. She exhaled a breath that was caught in her chest and gave him a small, grateful smile.

But even then, the guilt remained.

The sun dragged itself down the horizon at a maddeningly slow pace, bleeding out into the sky as if reluctant to leave. As nightfall approached, the wind picked up, bringing a slight chill. Minho finally called for them to stop around midnight. The city, now eerily alive with flickering fires in the distance, had loomed closer and closer throughout the day, like a living thing waiting for them to arrive.

Cassandra lay down, but sleep refused to come easily. Every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts spun in restless circles. When she did fall asleep, it was shallow and unsteady, her dreams blurring into nightmares before she could tell the difference.

She was back in WICKED. The same four white walls surrounded her, cold and suffocating. The air smelled of antiseptic and recycled oxygen. Machines beeped around her, synced unnervingly with the rhythm of her heartbeat. Monitors blinked to life, and on the screens she saw the Gladers living their lives inside the Maze, as if she were watching memories that didn't belong to her. Runners darted through the corridors, following familiar paths like clockwork, day in and day out. The precision of it all was clinical.

Her eyes scanned the screens automatically, darting across brain scans, analysing results, tracing neural pathways and chemical fluctuations like she'd done it a hundred times before. The information came to her easily. Numbers, spikes in cortisol, patterns of fear responses. It felt like second nature to her.

Someone spoke beside her, but she couldn't see who it belonged to.

"Promise you won't forget me," the voice said softly. "Even if I don't end up going with you."

"I would never," she replied without hesitation. "Even if they make me forget, I'll always remember you."

Then someone grabbed her arm. She turned, heart leaping in her chest, and found herself staring into a pair of hauntingly familiar green eyes. His face hovered inches from hers, and she instinctively flinched, bracing for his hands to close around her throat. But they didn't. Instead, his fingers gripped her shoulders with urgency, not violence but desperation, like he needed her to hear something. Like there wasn't enough time.

"This isn't real. Wake up, Cassandra. Wake up!"

   Cassandra shot up from the ground, her eyes flying open just in time to catch her sheet before it could float away. Gales of wind howled around them, the sky hanging dark and heavy overhead. She looked around in bewilderment, momentarily overtaken by blind panic, and realised she was the only one awake. Her hair whipped across her face, twisting wildly in the air.

Dust and loose dirt billowed like smoke, swirling in thick clouds that stung her eyes. She squinted and raised an arm to shield her face. Her heart pounded in her chest as a distant memory surfaced—something about desert storms and flash floods. She immediately leaned over and shook Minho awake.

His eyes snapped open, alarmed, and he blinked up at her. A thin layer of grime coated one side of his face, which he wiped away with his sleeve. Sitting up, he scanned the area with the same disoriented expression she'd worn moments earlier, then turned toward the distant town.

The squall seemed to intensify the moment they moved, as if it had been lying in wait. Cassandra gripped the sheet tighter, knuckles white, struggling to keep it from tearing out of her hands. The wind screamed in her ears, drowning out almost everything else.

"I think we need to go!" she shouted, barely hearing herself.

Minho nodded. "Let's get them up!" he yelled back. "Have something quick to eat!"

Cassandra stood and tied the sheet tightly around her waist before digging into her pack. She had asked Frypan to rearrange their supplies earlier, and most of the quick perishables had already been eaten. Only two apples remained, along with a few granola bars and biscuits.

She handed a bar to Minho and wedged one between her teeth as she jogged over to wake Newt. They moved quickly from person to person, shaking them awake and shoving food into their hands to avoid wasting time shouting instructions.

Thomas was the last to rise, rubbing the dirt from his face with one groggy hand. Minho moved toward him while Cassandra grabbed her sheet and stayed close to Newt, who was finishing his meager breakfast. When everyone was ready, they began their march again, toward the city now looming in full view, finally within reach.

A couple of miles before reaching the first buildings, they spotted an old, withered man wrapped in blankets lying on the ground. Cassandra thought he must be a Crank—sores and scabs decorated his dark, cracked skin. But he was staring emptily up at the sky, as if waiting for some kind of deliverance.

"Hey! Old man!" Minho shouted once they got close enough. "What're you doing out here?"

It didn't seem like the man had heard him, or even noticed the group's approach. He lay eerily still beneath the sun-bleached blankets, eyes fixed skyward, unmoving except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Cassandra frowned, unease crawling up her spine. The wind tugged at her hair as she stepped closer. "You think this is the old man the Cranks were warning us about earlier?" she asked, eyeing his frail, scab-covered body. "Doesn't look that mean to me."

Thomas nudged past them and dropped to his knees beside the man. He waved a hand in front of the guy's face. For a moment, there was nothing. Then a slow blink. Languid. Disconnected.

"This guy's a bloody gold mine if we can get him to tell us anything about the city," Newt said loudly as he crouched down beside Thomas. "Looks harmless. Probably knows what to expect when we go in there."

"Yeah, but he doesn't seem to be able to hear us," Thomas replied, gesturing at the man's vacant expression. "Much less hold a conversation."

"Keep trying," Minho told him. "You're officially our foreign ambassador, Thomas. Get the dude to open up and tell us about the good ol' days."

Thomas leaned in, lowering his voice but keeping it firm. "Sir? We really need your help. We need to know if it's safe to go into the city. We can carry you if you need help yourself. Sir? Sir!"

Still no movement. The man looked more like a relic than someone living, his skin pulled taut over sharp cheekbones, the whites of his eyes turned dull and yellowed.

Then, slowly, his gaze shifted to the side. Cassandra froze, her breath catching. They weren't just unfocused anymore—they were looking directly at Thomas. Soulless pits, clouded and glassy, locked onto his face with eerie purpose. The man opened his mouth, and a small, dry cough grated out like a hinge rusted from disuse.

Thomas straightened slightly, a flicker of hope lighting his features. "My name is Thomas! These are my friends," he said quickly. "We've been walking through the desert for a couple of days now, and we need water and food. What do you—"

The old man's eyes began to flick back and forth between them, the movement sharp and jerky, as if seeing them for the first time. Panic sparked within the glassy depths.

"It's okay, we won't hurt you," Thomas said hastily, softening his tone. "We're the good guys. But we'd really appreciate it if—"

Suddenly, a withered hand shot out from beneath the blankets, skeletal fingers wrapping around Thomas's arm like a steel trap.

"Hey! Let go of me!" Thomas shouted, startled, jerking back. But the man's grip didn't budge. His fingers dug in like an iron brace, belying the fragility of his appearance.

Cassandra gasped and instinctively stepped forward, hand reaching for the knife at her belt, but Minho caught her wrist before she could act. Thomas struggled again, gritting his teeth. The man's mouth opened, and a hoarse rasp escaped—like sandpaper scraping together in the back of his throat—as he tried to speak.

"What'd you say?" Thomas shouted, leaning in, trying to make sense of the sound. The old man wheezed again, straining harder. "One more time!"

Then, the man suddenly shot upright, his eyes flaring open with wide, dilated pupils. His body began to sway back and forth like he was possessed, and he screamed a single word over and over with terrifying, frenzied intensity.

"Storm! Storm! Storm!"

And then the air bellowed around them, sending unsuspecting sheets and debris soaring into the black sky. Cassandra's heart thundered in her chest. She took a step closer to Minho, her fingers reaching out to curl tightly around his arm.

All around them, the storm roared louder, building in ferocity with every second. They had to lean into the wind just to stay upright, their feet dragging against the ground as the gale fought to lift them off it. Minho waved his arms and pointed toward the city. They clustered together, huddling in the whirlwind.

"Let's go!" he yelled, barely audible above the chaos, before charging forward in search of shelter.

Behind them, Cassandra heard the old man wail again—an eerie, broken sound that rose toward the sky—only to cut off abruptly, swallowed by the wind.

Dust and grit tore at her skin, stinging like pinpricks as it blasted across her face and arms. The storm was all around them now, a suffocating hurricane of noise and movement. Even squinting did nothing to shield her eyes from the burning irritation of swirling sand. The haze wrapped around them like a shroud, making it nearly impossible to distinguish anything more than vague, shifting shadows and the occasional flicker of flame deeper within the city.

Her heart jumped up to her throat when a rat suddenly flew past her and smacked into a wall on her right. Then a piece of paper hit her in the face before being whisked away by the howling wind once more. She held her arm up and swatted at another stray piece of parchment picked up by the storm.

A crack split the air above them and a blinding flash of lightning streaked across the sky. It was far too close. The bolt scorched the earth nearby, throwing up a cloud of dirt and leaving behind a smoking crater. Minho gripped her hand tighter and pulled her along, urging her to move faster.

Ahead of them, Thomas was already dragging Newt to his feet after the blonde stumbled, and Frypan a few seconds after that. The thunder was relentless, booming in her ears, each crash louder than the last. The wind shrieked through the air, and the hammering noise of lightning strikes made her ears ring painfully.

This isn't natural, she thought, panic tightening in her chest. It felt like the storm was chasing them.

A fork of lightning struck the ground just ahead, right in front of Thomas. The blast sent him flying backwards, his body tumbling through the dust. Minho skidded to a halt in front of her.

Cassandra opened her mouth to scream, but inhaled a lungful of dust instead. It burned down her throat, and she doubled over, coughing violently. Her eyes searched frantically through the haze, watering and stinging, but all she could see were shifting shadows and something—something squirming across the ground near the crater.

Suddenly, Minho whirled around and grabbed her face with both hands. He turned her sharply so her back faced the impact site and leaned close, his mouth near her ear. He was shouting something urgently but the roar of the storm drowned everything out. She could barely make out the shape of his lips, let alone the words. At that moment, she was almost sure her eardrums were bleeding.

"Don't look! Whatever happens, just keep your eyes on me!" He leaned back and waited for her to respond. "Cassie? Don't take your eyes off me, okay?"

She wanted to ask why, but the moment never came. The storm gave them no time. They launched into motion again, Minho pausing only to drag Thomas up from where he'd fallen. Cassandra's eyes stayed locked on them, her lungs burning, the scent of copper and smoke thick in the air. Wind slashed at her skin like tiny invisible blades. She caught a glimpse of Newt ahead, his blonde hair a flicker of gold weaving through the thick, dirty fog.

Then the world exploded in a blinding white flash.

A searing heat slammed into her chest, hurling her backwards like a ragdoll. Pain detonated in her body as the breath was punched from her lungs. She crashed onto something solid, the impact driving another wave of agony through her ribs. For a moment, everything spun and her vision doubled. She gasped, choking on the air as she struggled upright, clutching her side. It felt like she'd been hit by a truck.

Red and orange lights flickered wildly in her vision. Her stomach dropped.

Fire. It danced on the ground—alive, writhing—and Thomas was already there, frantically scooping handfuls of dirt to smother the flames. Then she saw him.

It was Minho, his clothes aflame.

Her heart seemed to jolt to a complete stop, then kicked back to life with terrifying force. She sprinted toward him before she could think, her hands flying to her pack. Please, please. There had to be something left. The water bag was loose. She yanked it out, tossed the remaining contents over Minho with a scream that was lost to the thunder overhead.

The flames hissed and sputtered, finally dying.

She collapsed beside him, knees hitting the ground hard, her fingers reaching for his face. His skin was red and blistered, burns spreading across his chest and arms, his clothes blackened and fused with char. He was groaning. Or maybe screaming. It was impossible to tell.

Thomas knelt beside her and hauled Minho upright. "We need to go! Now!" he shouted, the words barely reaching her through the storm's roar. She only understood because she saw his lips move.

Together, they slung Minho's arms over their shoulders and ran again, carrying him with everything they had left. There was no time to think. Lightning lit up the sky like an air raid. The ground shook underfoot. Thunder cracked so violently it felt like it might split the earth open. Shattered debris rained from the buildings above them, falling in deadly bursts. The dust never settled. The clouds were solid black now, thick as ink.

Shapes emerged ahead of her—Newt, Frypan, Aris—already hurtling towards the nearest structure. Her legs burned. Her ribs screamed. Still, she kept going. Then Minho's legs gave out.

He collapsed, and she fell with him, arms locked around his shirt. The landing jarred her ribs so hard she nearly blacked out. Breathing felt like knives. She fumbled to lift him again, but couldn't. Thomas doubled back, grabbing Minho's other side just as another bolt of lightning blasted the ground behind them.

They were almost there—just a hundred meters more. Salvation hung in front of them, cracked and crumbling but still standing.

Aris reached the building first. The door's glass had already shattered, and he kicked away the jagged remnants with his foot. He motioned frantically for the others to get inside. Newt and Frypan passed through, helping drag in a few other boys. Then Aris vanished inside too.

Cassandra and Thomas finally made it to the entrance.

Newt reappeared, grabbed Minho's arm, and helped them drag him into the dark, musty interior. They lowered him gently to the floor beside the nearest wall. Cassandra wrapped her sheet around his burned body and dropped beside him, her legs giving out.

Then the rain started to pour down outside as tears spilt over her cheeks.

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