❝The Maze Runner❞ || Thomas

WICKED Is Good

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"Lynn," the man began to speak.

My stomach was twisted into knots, my chest tightening until it was hard to breathe. Everything around me blurred together with odd sensations, colors, and muted sounds.

"You know this is for a good cause...."

Unease crawled through my skin, almost as if I had already witnessed this man's shortcomings. I knew I couldn't trust him.

"Remember," he added softly, folding his hands together. "WICKED is good."

Nausea rolled through me.

This was wrong. Whatever I knew, my body was rejecting it.

"You know you are going in there tomorrow, right?" the man questioned with a sense of false comfort, as if I was supposed to be at peace with this decision.

I knew I had no choice.

"Will I remember anything?" I finally muttered, my hands trembling at my sides.

"What we will let you remember."

A sharp ache spread across my chest, my vision dancing in different directions, his face distorted and unrecognizable.

The man had signaled for me to take my leave, and I did exactly that. I turned my figure away from the marbled desk, looking down at my feet as each step carried me farther from the room.

The door was shut behind me before I noticed frantic footsteps echoing down the hall. I felt someone's hands grip my shoulders, their presence feeling all too familiar, yet comforting.

"What did he say?" Thomas spat, his eyes narrowing into mine. "What happened?"

I studied his face. It was less of a blur this time--the curvature of his lips, the speckles of green hidden in his brown eyes, the structured features of his face.

"Lynn, what happened in there?"

His right hand was now placed on the back of my neck, pulling me in closer, our faces only inches apart.

"They're putting me in the Maze."

My eyes flew open, inhaling a quick breath as I pushed myself upright.

All I could do was sit there, reminiscing on the memory that once again made itself known. This was the third time I had gone through this exact memory. Subconsiously, I studied every little detail each time, hoping to see more or find something I hadn't witnessed the previous time around.

We were all an experiment of something, for some elaborate cause, created by WICKED.

Two years and ten months in the Glade, and I still didn't have all the answers. None of us did.

But we kept moving forward.

There were nearly fifty of us now. Newt's leg had healed, though the limp never fully disappeared. Gally had somehow managed to get a proper hospital set up for the Med-Jacks, with Clint and Jeff running the place like they actually knew what they were doing.

Minho, Dean, and I had added five more runners to the team—Michael, Leo, Kai, Logan, and Ben. The Map Room was fuller than it had ever been, notes scattered across nearly every inch of space. Weapons lined the walls in organized rows, ready for whatever might come.