"A test?" Minho repeated, slowly standing up. "This was all a freaking test? You WICKED shanks said if we made it to the Safe Heaven everything'd be finished."
"Please, Minho," Lincoln said. All of a sudden he was calm now. "You have to understand this is all for the brain patterns; we are making a cure."
"No, don't 'Please, Minho' me," Minho snapped. "You wanted me to kill my friends over some dumb test."
"You aren't the only person who had a Third Trial."
Minho rolled his eyes. "I wanna see them now," he demanded. "Show me my friends."
"That is not possible; they are still completing the Third Trial," Lincoln replied. "Now, wait for A. D. Janson to return so you can go have some dinner."
Like I wanna see his rat face again, Minho thought.
But the pair waited. For about ten minutes because the white hallways were endless. Minho wondered about what the others Trial might have been. He was put under a lot of pressure during his but getting punched in the face a few hard times was better than spending forever without his friends. He then thought about how the workers even knew which door is which and where to turn. This place really was like a giant labyrinth.
But eventually, Ratman unlocked the door and appeared. Same long nose, same weasel-like eyes; that greasy hair, combed over an obvious bald spot that took up half his head. Same ridiculous white suit. He looked paler than the last time Minho had seen him when they were walking down the hallway. He was holding a thick folder filled with dozens of crinkled and messily stacked papers in the crook of one elbow.
"Good morning and well done, Minho," he said, taking in the mess the room had become. "Lincoln, you can go."
"With pleasure." Lincoln stood up, and walked out.
"Do you know why you are here?" Ratman asked sitting in the empty chair across from Minho, once Lincoln left - he locked the door. Ratman placed the folder in front of him on the table with the whiteboard, opened it and started flipping through the pages. When he found what he'd been looking for he stopped and rested his hands on top. Then he flashed a pathetic grin, his eyes settling on Minho.
"Why did you want me to kill my bestfriends over a test?"
Not even a flicker of change passed over the man's expression. "I apologize about that, but it needed to happen. You're going to be hearing plenty of positive news today, though. Trust me."
"Yeah, right," Minho replied. "What? 'Congratulations! Not all of your friends are dead! Just most of them are.'"
Ratman remainde silent for several seconds before he responded. "I thought you would be smarter than this, Minho. Have intelligence." He paused and studied Minho before continuing. "Do you think we enjoy all this? You think we enjoy watching you suffer? It's all been for a purpose, and very soon it will make sense to you." The intensity of his voice had built until he'd practically shouted that last word, his face now red.
Minho wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Ratman had spit a bit on him. "Slim it there, you sprinkler. You just shuckin' spit on me."
The man stood from his chair and leaned forward on the desk. The veins in his neck bulged in taut cords. He slowly sat back down, took several deep breaths. "Would you like me to get Lincoln to punch you some more? Because you took quite a beating. Small, arrogant child."
"Well, then what's this positive news, huh?" Minho asked, ignoring Ratman's comment. He already knew someone was watching. "I'm not crazy? Don't have the Flare, never did, never will?" Minho felt his anger rise, but he didn't lower it. He smacked the table with an open palm. "You promised a cure after the Scorch. I knew it was a lie; everything is now. But what's gonna be next? Throw me out of a shuck plane with no parachute? Climb Mount Everest in one day?"
Ratman was just staring at Minho with blank eyes as he went through his rant. Like the doctor had already done this thousands of ties with other people. "Finished now?"
"I want true answers and I want them now."
"Minho," Ratman said quietly, as if delivering sad news to a small child. "We didn't lie to you; you do have the Flare."
Minho was taken back. He opened his mouth to replied with another sarcastic comment, but came up lost. Was Ratman lying now? he wondered. Still? "Then how come I don't look like those freaks out in the Scorch?" he asked. He knew, while in the Scorch, running along with the Cranks he would catch the virus. But he still felt okay, still sane.
Ratman sighed. "You don't understand. That's what I came here to tell you and you don't understand."
"And after everything you still think I'm gonna believe you?"
Minho's fists were in balls. He was digging his nails into his hands with heavy breaths. Ratman's stare was cold, his eyes black pits. Regardless of whether this man was lying to him, Minho knew he was going to have to hear him out if he ever wanted to leave this room. He forced his breathing to slow just a bit. He waited.
After several seconds of silence, his visitor continued. "I know we've lied to you. Often. We've done some awful things to you and your friends-"
Minho interrupted with a hacking cough. It was fake, of course, but he wanted to prove a point.
Ratman continued. "But. It was all part of a plan. We've had to take it all a little farther than we'd hoped in the beginning - there's no doubt about that. However, everything has stayed true to the spirit of what the Creators envisioned."
"This speech is beautiful, I must say, but you didn't answer my question. How can you possible expect me to believe anything you or anyone says anymore?" Minho knew that Thomas and that trader Teresa worked for WICKED, but he trusted them.
"Because, Minho, there's no value in keeping you in the dark," Ratman said. "Not anymore."
Minho leaned back in his chair. Was this a lie, too, now? "Why have me in the dark to start with?"
Ratman kept talking, but his tone changed; it became less detached and clinical and more professorial. "You know that already: it was part of the Trials. You are obviously well aware that we have a horrible disease eating the minds of humans worldwide. Everything we've done up till now has been calculated for one purpose and one purpose only: to analyze your brain patterns and build a blueprint from them. The goal is to use this blueprint to develop a cure for the Flare. The lives lost, the pain and suffering—you knew the stakes when this began. We all did. It was all done to ensure the survival of the human race. And we're very close. Very, very close."
Minho remembered when Thomas stung himself just to remember. He said he was a part of this - helped make WICKED, well, WICKED. And yet he trusted Thomas. Why was that, Minho doesn't know. Thomas created this whole mess. He built the Maze, then threw everyone inside of it. Maybe, who knew, maybe Thomas was still in on it. Nah, Minho thought, we came to far for him to just all be lying.
"So what is your point here?" Minho asked. No, he didn't trust Ratman, but he wanted to see what the man would say.
The Rat Man might have smiled, but it looked more like he was sneering - just like when Minho was being locked in the white room. He started to collect his papers as if to go but didn't move. "I'm here to tell you that everything is set and our data is almost complete. We're on the cusp of something great. Once we have the blueprint, you can go boo-hoo with your friends all you want about how unfair we've been."
A voice deep inside was telling Minho that everything was a lie and he should just take this man out and run. That small voice had kept him alive so far. He stood up. "So you're gonna watch us die for a cure?"
"Yes." Ratman sighed - he'd told Minho so many times already but Minho still was unsure about it all. "But, in the meantime, there's something you need to know - it might even bring you back to your senses."
Minho rolled his eyes. "And what could that possibly be?" He had drearily thoughts about Ratman's words: In the meantime.
His visitor stood up, smoothed the wrinkles out of his pants and adjusted his coat. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and looked Minho straight in the eyes. "The Flare virus lives in every part of your body, yet it has no effect on you, nor will it ever. You're a member of an extremely rare group of people. You're immune to the Flare."
Minho sat back down, now intrigued. "Immune."
"On the outside, in the streets, they call people like you Munies," Ratman continued, looking down at Minho now. "And they really, really hate you."
At first, Minho wanted to stand up again and punch Ratman in the face, yelling, Well I really, really hate you, shuck-face! But his words washed over Minho again and he didn't think it was a lie. It made the most sense. He, and probably the other Gladers and everyone in Group B, was immune to the Flare. Which was why they'd been chosen for the Trials. Everything done to them - every cruel trick played, every deceit, every monster placed in their paths - it all had been part of an elaborate experiment. And somehow it was leading WICKED to a cure.
"I can see that you believe me this time, Minho," Ratman finally said, breaking the long silence. "Once we'd discovered there were people like you - with the virus rooted inside, yet showing no symptoms - we sought out the best and the brightest among you. This is how WICKED was born. Of course, some in your trial group are not immune, and were chosen as control subjects. When running an experiment you need a control group. It keeps all the data in context."
"But why would you-" Minho started. "Who isn't-" he tried again.
"Who isn't immune?" Ratman finished, eyebrows raised. "Oh, I think they should find out before you, don't you? A list will be read in a few weeks." Ratman then picked up his file and cocked his head as if asking, Any more questions?
Minho accepted the offer. "Why was the Save Haven a shuckin' stick?" he asked.
"Well, we can't just have our base out in the out, now, can we?" Ratman replied.
Minho nodded. "Fair enough. Why did you lie that there'd be a cure at the safe haven, though?"
Ratman shrugged. "I don't think it was a lie at all. By completing the Trials, by arriving at the safe haven, you helped us collect more data. And because of that there will be a cure. Eventually. For everyone."
"And why are you telling me all this now after you cleared my memory? Why was a test being forced to kill my friends?" Minho touched his face once more. He then motioned to the whiteboard. "Why did you make Teresa a shuck-trader and beat Thomas with wood? What could possibly be the point? Why? Is? Everything? White?"
"Variables," Ratman answered simply. "Everything we've done to you has been carefully calculated by our Psychs and doctors. Done to stimulate responses in the killzone, where the Flare does its damage. To study the patterns of different emotions and reactions and thoughts. See how they work within the confines of the virus that's inside you. We've been trying to understand why in you, there's no debilitating effect. It's all about the killzone patterns, Minho. Mapping your cognitive and physiological responses to build a blueprint for the potential cure. It's about the cure."
"Killzone?"
"The killzone is your brain. It's where the virus settles and takes hold. The more infected the killzone, the more paranoid and violent the behavior of the infected. WICKED is using your brain and those of a few others to help us fix the problem. If you recall, our organization states its purpose right in its name: World in Catastrophe, Killzone Experiment Department." Rat Man looked pleased with himself. Almost happy. "Now come on, let's get you cleaned up. And just so you know, we're being watched. Try anything and there'll be consequences."
Minho just sat there. He was frustrated. All of this information was being thrown at him at once. It was too much after forgetting everything. He was trying to process everything. It felt true. But he didn't want to believe it. "Why is everything white, though?" Minho asked again.
"It's a simple color."
"I don't like it. And I still don't wanna trust you.'
"Come with me, Minho," Ratman said, "so we can get you cleaned up."
Minho shook his head. "I don't want you WICKED freaks near me anymore. I need to process everything."
"That's a shame." Ratman padded Minho's shoulder. "Let's go get your own blood off of you."
That sounded like a great idea to Minho. He didn't like the feel of it, especially because he doesn't like to be the weaker one. "Fine." He stood up, going with Ratman.
They ended up going to a large bathroom lined with lockers and showers. And one of the lockers was open to show fresh clothes and a pair of shoes. Even a watch.
"You have about thirty minutes," Rat Man said. "When you're done, just sit tight - I'll come back for you. Then you'll be reunited with most your friends." He paused, then added: "See you in a half hour." Then he pulled the door open and closed it behind him, leaving Minho alone once more.
Most of my friends? Minho thought.
He stripped his filthy clothes off and stood under the hot water, rinsing away everything. It was like a new start - at the place he hated the most. After he rinsed himself off a few times and felt human again, he chanced into new pair of clothes - T-shirt and jeans, running shoes, just like the ones he'd worn in the Maze, and fresh, soft socks - that he put on after drying off. Minho felt like Minho again, like he was back in the Glade.
Minho stood in front of the mirror. He felt - that little voice inside of him - that there would be an improvement on how things worker now; that he was going to have more control over his body. But as he turned around to walk out, Minho caught a glimpse of the tattoo. The words, The Leader, Group A, Subject A7, would forever remain there.
After changing, Minho walked out and Ratman was waiting for him. "Well, aren't you looking better? Shall we?" Ratman asked.
"Thanks." Minho nodded. "I wouldn't say the same for you, though. You could use-" he was cut off.
"That's enough," Ratman interrupted. "I gave you a complement. Be a gentlemen and return it."
"Thanks," Minho repeated, his lips curled into a smile. "I bet my hair looks as shiny as your bald spot now."
"I don't know why I try with you."
Minho nodded and followed Ratman but only because he was pleased with the shower - and well, his smart remarks. The walk was silent other than when Ratman informed Minho that the other Gladers did go through their own Phase Three - and some are still doing it. Which answered Minho question about why he was only seeing most of his friends. Other than that, Ratman just went on but Minho wasn't listening about the killzones and patterns. He was just ecstatic to see his friends.
The cafeteria when they finally got there wasn't that full. But just like every other room, floor, wall, anything, it was white. Minho got a tray of a slab of ham, mashed potatoes, raw carrots, slice of bread, and water. It wasn't much, but he ate it like it was going out of season.
"What about my beautiful face?" Minho asked as he ate.
"What about it?" Ratman questioned.
Minho pushed his empty tray forward. "It's gonna be bruised?"
"You'll be fine."
Minho was taken back to his white-cell-like room after. Of course, it looked like all the other rooms, but it look a while to walk to. And why would Minho be throw into some other room? Ratman dug inside his pocket for the key and Minho placed his hands on his hips.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said. "Why are we back here?"
"The other Subjects-"
Minho put his figure up. "Do not call us Subjects, shuck-face."
"The others are not finished with their Trials," Ratman replied, popping the door open. "Yours was one of the quickest."
"So how much longer am I supposed to suffer in here, then?" Minho asked, stepping in the room again. He spotted the wooden table, right in the middle of the room where he left it.
"Less than 30 days." Ratman shut and lock the door, leaving Minho out-of-his mind bored once more.
