girl in the maze // {the maze runner, thomas}

chapter 12

I walk briskly through the sterile hallways, avoiding glancing through any windows.

I don't like seeing the prisoners, much less the ones who don't realize they are captives to this ruthless organization.

Instead, I point my lasered focus onto the only door at the end of the hallway, the one labeled WICKED LAB. Its place within the building is almost metaphorical; this room is the answer to all my problems—the light at the end of the tunnel, the door at the end of the hallway. I lift my badge up to the scanner as I approach, and the door opens followed by a muted buzzing noise. I step through the metal door, my lab coat flowing behind me as I walk directly towards my station.

I go through the decontamination procedures. I wash my hands thoroughly with warm water and soap, despite the drought. I wipe down my work bench and table with disinfectant wipes, even though they are scarcely available in stores anymore. I crack open my old laptop, which is one of the only devices left on the continent with any remaining softwear capabilities.

No price is too high for WICKED.

My state-of-the-line lab is just one of the many, many examples of that.

I review the data I've been taking the last couple of months. The boys are not meeting the cognitive thresholds Ava Paige has set forth for the Trials, not even by a long shot. I'm getting nervous. The conditions are growing more extreme and I'm worried that if she doesn't get her desired results, she'll continue to push them.

I glance at the medical textbook lying haphazardly across the right side of my desk. I've been studying it ever since the first of their deaths, noticing that my scientific knowledge often coincides with the information displayed in the book. If all else fails...it might be needed once they come back.

I shake my head to clear my spiraling thoughts.

"Focus on the numbers," I mutter to myself.

The numbers suck, to be point blank, but I've always relied on the facts—the information. If they can't help...I don't know what will.

And my research, well, it's not looking very promising.

"Elizabeth," a shrill voice carries across the room, the door swinging closed behind a woman with a severe bun and an even more severe face. "Give me good news."

I give Ava Paige, the chancellor of WICKED, a curt nod, to address her out of politeness, and flip the tab back to what I'm supposed to be looking at, scrambling to hide the medical textbook in one of the drawers.

"I think I'm getting closer," I begin, ruffling through some papers on my desk. "But I'm missing something. And I just can't figure out what could be different between the two, why one works for the variation but not the original."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," her tone implies that there will be repercussions if I don't.

"If I could just talk to Thomas, run some practical tests instead of the torture chamber you mean to send him to—"

"Elizabeth, no. He is our most prized variable. I will not let you mess with the experiment because you have childish and immature feelings for him."

"Mom, you know that's not—"

"This is a professional capacity, Elizabeth. You know my feelings about you referring to me as anything other than Chancellor Paige while we are at work. Do not embarrass me."