Quickly slipping into the pants of my WICKED uniform and buttoning them up, I walk to the wooden-framed floor mirror in the corner of my assigned bedroom, examining myself in the glass that has a spider-web-like crack spreading from the bottom left corner and up to about a third of the mirror itself.
Looking myself up and down in my tank top and the pants, I scoff softly as I examine the WICKED label. "Shucking wicked alright..." I mutter to myself before reaching to the bed to my left to grab the uniform's jacket; however, in the corner of my eye, I notice my tank top slide up slightly in the mirror, exposing my mid-drift just enough to unveil the discolored skin on my right side, causing me to stop in my tracks.
Slowly letting go of the coat, leaving it on top of the bedding, I look back into the mirror, lifting the bottom of my shirt a little more to scan my eyes over the strange, faded scarring on my right side.
It had always been there to my knowledge. When I came up in the Maze, I already had the huge, ugly patch of discoloration there, stretching from just below one of my upper right ribs all the way down to my right hip. Of course, it's faded over the years, but, even then, it was fairly faded. Fairly old.
It's like discovering a bruise that you never knew was there, but it's a hundred times stranger because it had to have been a pretty bad injury to make such a massive patch of damaged tissue on my body, and yet, no matter how hard I try, how far I dig into the crevices of my brain, the memories of the incident will never return, all thanks to WICKED taking my shucking memories and throwing me into a Maze for science.
However, as I examine the odd pigmentation of my flesh, I feel something that I have never felt before: the scarring gives me a sensation of familiarity. Of resemblance. Not in the obvious manner of how I've seen the scar there for years, but in the manner of which it reminds me of something else, but I can't put my finger on it.
Tilting my head to the side curiously, I stare at my reflection with puzzlement. I then glance down directly at my side to get a better look.
Biting my lip as I examine the scarring, I'm broken from my daze with a jolt when there is a knock at the door.
"(y/n), are you about ready to go?" I hear Newt's muffled accent from outside the door.
"Yeah, just..." my voice trails off as I look back at my reflection, pulling the bottom of my tank top back down. "I'll be out in a second."
I hear the doorknob turn with a squeak just before the door itself is slowly pushed open, revealing Newt in his red and black WICKED uniform. He stands in the doorway, holding his mask in his right hand. "Is something wrong?"
"No, no." I say reassuringly, shaking my head as I turn to him. "I'm fine."
Pursing his lips together, his eyes reading me in suspicion, he asks, "Are you sure?"
Turning to my bed, I pick up the WICKED jacket and slide my arms into the navy blue uniform. "Just nervous, I guess. That's all." Which isn't necessarily a lie.
Nodding understandingly, Newt limps to my side. "I have something that might help with that."
As I turn to look at Newt, I can see that his skin has gotten paler than it normally is, and there seems to be black circles forming under his eyes. "And what's that?" I ask.
With his free hand, Newt reaches into the pocket of his uniform, pulling out a familiar accessory.
"Your red bandanna?" I ask, eyeing the red cloth.
He nods. "I kept it with me ever since I got it, back when we first got things rolling with the Right Arm, whether I was wearing it or it was in my pocket."
Now that he mentions it, I do remember seeing him with it very frequently over the past six months. It'd hang out of his coat pocket or was tied around his thigh or arm or he would wrap it around his face. No wonder I was so quick to recognize it.
He even had it with him the nights he was upset.
Lying in my hammock, I stare at the moon out of the small window of our shelter, listening to the sounds of the beach, the waves softly rising and falling upon the sandy shore, creating a simple, rhythmic lullaby.
However, a shift within the Right Arm shelter, a small stirring motion, interrupts the gentle music of nature. Furrowing my brows together, I quietly lift my head, scanning the moonlit room of sleeping campers suspiciously; however, they all seem to remain sound asleep.
Further stirring breaks the silence, and, this time, I can locate it: the hammock just beside mine.
Carefully rolling onto my stomach, I peek over the fabric of my hammock to see Newt lying in his own, his right arm behind his head as he stares out the window. His face is stone cold, and he clenches his jaw tightly, making his jaw even more distinctive and sharp. Although he maintains his strong stature, the pale moonlight seeping in through the small window unveils his glossy eyes.
My eyes catch a glimpse of small movement, flickering to his left hand as he fidgets with his red bandanna, playing with the soft material between his fingers.
"Newt?" I whisper softly.
He takes in a deep breath through his nose, snapping out of his daze and propping himself up on his elbows in his hammock, shifting his brown eyes to me. "(y/n)?" He clears his throat, creasing his eyebrows together. "What are you doing up?"
I shrug slightly. "Can't sleep. What are you doing up?"
"I can't sleep either." He mumbles, huffing a sigh as he lies back again, staring at the ceiling.
I frown slightly. "Are you alright?"

He props his head up with his right arm behind it again. "Hm?" He hums, somewhat numb in his tone.
"I asked if you're alright?" I whisper, sitting upright in my hammock and kicking my legs over the side.
"Oh, yeah..." he nods. "Yeah, I'm fine."
Staring at Newt, I look him up and down suspiciously. I don't believe that. Not one bit.
Drawing his brows together as he stares back at me, he manages to laugh weakly. "What?"
"You're thinking about Minho," I whisper, "aren't you?"
His weak smile slowly fades, and, sighing heavily, he sits upright, kicking his feet over the side of his hammock. "Yeah, I am..." he whispers, rubbing the back of his neck. Staring at the floor, he exhales somberly.
Frowning sympathetically, I quietly rise to my feet and walk to his hammock. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"
Newt lifts his head to look up at me with his big, brown eyes, seeming to be partially taken aback. Nodding slightly as he presses his lips tightly together, he scoots over a little.
Sighing softly, I take a seat beside him, gently resting a hand on his back and rubbing it consolingly.
A few moments of silence pass.
"I just," Newt pauses just after speaking up, struggling to find the right words to explain his thoughts, "I can't stop thinking about what WICKED might be doing to him right this moment..."
"Minho is strong, Newt." I whisper reassuringly. "I know he'll be able to pull through. Besides, we've started creating a plan, and it seems to be without loopholes at the moment, so I think we'll be able to get him soon."
"But how soon is that?" He mumbles, lifting his eyes to me. "We're here, safe on a beach, while they've got Minho locked up, probably getting tortured." He sighs heavily, running his fingers through his hair.
I purse my lips together, continuing to rub his back gently. He does have a point.
A second long stretch of silence passes.
Frowning, Newt looks down as his fumbles with his bandanna in his hands. "You don't have to comfort me, you know." He forces a pathetic laugh, turning his head to me. "I mean, they've got Sonya and Aris, too. If anything, I should be comforting you."
I shake my head. "You have every right to be upset, too, Newt. Besides, you have consoled me when I've allowed my worries of Sonya and Aris to swallow me whole. Several times." I whisper softly, looking into his brown eyes. "He's one of your best friends."
"And Sonya's one of yours."
"That doesn't mean you don't deserve consolation."
Pursing his lips together, Newt mumbles, "You should really get some sleep."
"Not happening." I say stubbornly, shaking my head. "You had said in the Scorch something along the lines of, 'I'm staying up until you fall asleep, and I don't care if I'm up all bloody night'. Well, that's my mindset right this moment."
Newt opens his mouth slightly to protest, but he slowly closes his lips within a second, deciding against it. He stares into my eyes, not saying a word. I can see the gears turning in his head as he ponders on what to say next. "(y/n)?" He mumbles softly.
"Hm?"
"I've been meaning to tell you something, but I..." No further words come, his voice trailing off. It's almost as if the words them self are choking him.
I draw my brows together. "What is it, Newt?"
Sighing heavily in a manner of defeat, he shakes his head, looking back down at his hands with a forced laugh. "Never mind..."
"What?" I frown in concern, leaning a little closer to him. "What is it?"
"It's nothing..." he manages to laugh weakly as he balls the bandanna up and squeezes it tightly in his right hand.
I frown. "Newt-"
"It's nothing." He repeats, shifting his eyes to mine. "Trust me."
"It became my lucky bandanna in a way. It's bloody childish, I know." Newt chuckles softly, offering it to me. "I think you should hold onto it."
My face falls, taken aback slightly. "What? Why?" I ask, shaking my head. "No, I can't take that from you. It's obviously special to you-"
"I wouldn't trust anyone else with it, (y/n)." He says confidently, a small smile tugging on the left corner of his lips. "I want you to hold onto it. Then, you'll have nothing to be nervous about." He holds it out to me again. "Take it."
Sighing softly, I take the bandanna and put it away safely in my back pant pocket.
"Besides," he says, "you'll basically have a part of me with you if we get separated."
"Yeah, but that's not going to happen." I say quickly.
He nods reassuringly, though I do not feel any reassurance. "Come on, they're waiting for us."
Zipping up the jacket of my navy blue and black WICKED uniform, I quickly turn to grab my black gloves off of the bed, sliding them on as I follow Newt out of the room.
We rush downstairs to the others as they stand around the table where we had interrogated Teresa, Brenda and Fry bundled up in their coats with their arms folded, Gally and Thomas in their uniforms, and Teresa sitting in a chair between Gally and Thomas.
"About time you two shanks got here. How long does it take to dress into disguises?" Gally says, standing taller as we stride to the table, squeezing into the huddle. "Alright, so here's what we're doing: I will be taking Teresa through the front, northern entrance of the facility. Newt and (y/n), you two will come in through the south doors. Thomas, we'll need you going in from below." He explains, handing Newt and Thomas each a map with a different route scribbled on each one. "Brenda, Fry, you two have your routes and locations plotted out, yes?"
Smirking, Brenda nods.
"We're ready." Fry grins.
"Good that." Gally nods, pulling his mask over his face. "Let's show those shanks what we're shucking made of."
• • •
Tucking my hair into the black fabric mask that Gally had given me, I then place the WICKED helmet on my head, swinging my Launcher by it's strap to my front side and holding it securely.
Newt, his mask not yet on, looks back at me after peeking around the corner of the alleyway beside our hideout, the blue lights of the city dimly illuminating the alley we stand in. "Ready?" He whispers.
I nod, gripping tightly to my weapon. "Shuck yes."
He manages to smile with rising excitement, pulling his helmet over his face and holding his launcher tightly, marching out into the passing crowds on the street.
Following behind swiftly, I march to Newt's side, feeling pure adrenaline swelling up inside me. Now is the time to take WICKED down and take back what is ours.
We make our way down the first block, the ocean of healthy faces passing us, some covering their mouths and noses with surgical masks. I can't help but shudder at the sight.
The people in front of us glance back at us over their shoulders. They begin parting ways on the sidewalk, making a path for us 'WICKED officers' to strut past, as if we deserve treatment of respect.
Newt and I exchange a masked, yet knowing, glance before nodding at the people ahead of us in thanks and striding through the open path along the concrete sidewalk.
As we make our way towards the end of the block, the crowds bustle about the city, every individual walking tall as if they are on missions of their own, rushing to any last-minute destinations before curfew.
We approach the first road, stopping at the edge of the sidewalk with a huddle of people, waiting for the sign indicating to cross to light up.
"Did you hear the rumors?" A voice whispers from somewhere in the group, causing Newt and I to exchange an anxious glance before looking ahead again.
"What rumors?" Another replies.
"I heard the Flare might be mutating. That it might have gone airborne."
Gulping, I slowly turn to look at Newt again, who stands tall, staring ahead. I can just imagine his stone-cold expression beneath.
"That's ridiculous. If that was the issue, it would be all over the news. WICKED would have said something."
"I'm not kidding." The first voice protests. "Haven't you noticed that some people have been placed into quarantine that were healthy only a matter of days ago? I mean, people are beginning to wear flu masks around in public to take precautions."
"They're taking precautions over something that is not even an issue. Besides, the virus is different with some people. The people who were in these walls that were already infected got someone else sick, and then that person got another person sick, and so on. Those people placed into quarantine probably hung around someone who was Infected."
The sign switches from 'Stop' to 'Walk', and the group of people waiting begin to cross, Newt and I marching across the road.
"But I saw three different people get taken in just yesterday with my own eyes! That's half of what I would see in a typical week."
It takes a moment for the second voice to respond, as if they're hesitant to reply. "WICKED would have said something." They repeat confidently.
That is the end of the conversation for Newt and I as we reach the sidewalk on the other side and stride down the concrete, leaving behind the two conversing individuals as they turn off right.
Airborne. That's how Newt managed to get sick.
"It's sad that these people are so bloody blind to the truth about WICKED." I hear Newt mutter from my left as we make our way down the block.
I frown, although no one can see it, and I nod slowly in agreement.
As we stride down the second block, a burst of faint cries breaks out in the distance, in the very direction that we are heading.
The waves of individuals that pass merely glance in the direction of the screams as if they're numb to it; however, I notice a mother quickly grasp her daughter's hand, yanking her behind as she squeezes past people, turning on her heels and rushing in the opposite direction of the cries.
"But, mama, what's wrong with that person?" The little girl asks, maybe four or five, as she struggles to stay on her own feet behind her mother's long strides, her dark, curly hair bouncing about.
"They're sick, baby." The mother mutters anxiously, shoving past between Newt and I and causing the two of us to stop in our tracks completely, watching the mother and daughter run off.
"Like daddy?"
That response triggers a pang of pain in my heart.
"Yes, baby..." I hear her mother respond as she disappears into the crowd. "Like daddy."
Staring at the blur of faces that now block the mother and daughter from our vision, I slowly turn my head to Newt, watching him stare off after the two that are now long gone, deeply impacted by the mere glimpse into someone else's life as they passed.
Clearing my throat, I stand a little taller. "Should we reroute a little?" I ask Newt. "Avoid the infected at the next block or so?"
It takes Newt a few moments to respond, and I watch his chest rise and fall as he takes a deep breath in and out. Turning to look at me, he shakes his head. "No. We've got to get to the facility as quickly as possible, and that's our fastest route."
Nodding slowly, I avert my glance down the crowded concrete ahead, staring at the path that lies between us and the cries that continue to echo from down the road, bouncing off the walls of the tightly compacted buildings. "Are you sure?" I ask, turning my head to Newt.
He nods, looking ahead, though his voice sounds hesitant as he says, "Yeah... Yeah, I'm sure." With that, he begins to walk ahead through the crowd.
Taking in a deep breath, I mutter to myself, "Great... Walking straight into trouble, and we're not even at the facility yet..." Forcing myself to stand taller, I follow after Newt, making my way through the overwhelming abundance of people.
As we approach the end of the block, the 'Walk' sign illuminates, and I notice that a large crowd is crossing in the opposite direction of Newt and I, anxiously mumbling to one another, obviously determined to get far away from the chaotic scene behind them.
I feel my breath hitch in my throat as the person's screams get louder while we step onto the third block, making our way down the sidewalk.
I begin to notice that the path feels less crowded as the cries increase in volume, and, suddenly, a WICKED van comes swerving around the corner from behind us, sirens blaring as it zooms past us down the road. It pulls over to the side of the road about fifty feet away.
Gulping, I have to force myself to keep walking straight ahead, and, eventually, the crowd of people completely disperses, everyone that was nearby now getting as far away as they can, and, along the empty sidewalk, I see a man getting shoved to his knees to the ground on the right side of the cement by an officer, just in front of the doors to a cafe. Four other officers quickly jump out of the van to provide aid.
Even at a few yards away, I can see the man's sunken-in eyes and veiny skin as he screams and lashes, trying to free his arms from the guard's hold behind him. "LET ME GO! LET ME GO! I'M HEALTHY, I TELL YOU! I'M PERFECTLY HEALTHY!"
The sight sends a shiver down my spine, and I defensively tighten my hold on my Launcher as Newt and I slowly walk closer to the man, given that we have to pass him.
One of the officers yanks out a clear hazard mask and forces it over the ill man's head as he screams and shouts, fighting to break free.
"I'M FINE! I'M FINE!" He sobs. "I CAN'T GET ANYONE SICK BECAUSE I'M NOT SICK! I'M NOT!"
Newt, staring at the man in horror, I'm sure, limps to my right side so that he is now closest to the soon-to-be-Crank, and, switching his grip on his Launcher from his left hand to his right, he protectively rests his left hand on my lower back, guiding me alongside him as we pass the Crank.
This minor gesture of protection sends a sensation of slight ease through my body, as it always does.
We swiftly stride past the screaming man and the WICKED patrols.
Once we're out of earshot from the guards and man, I clear my throat. Newt's hand does not leave the