The idea to wage war on WICKED was —Thomas thought— a logical reaction to dealing with the organization. The only problem lay in the execution, or rather, the potential execution of him and his friends should they make a wrong move. It was too early to make such a move, and Thomas made the pilot wear headphones while he initiated the first stages of planning.
"Now, let's talk about how we're gonna kill this guy," he said, watching the pilot for any reaction.

Newt looked confused. "I thought we weren't—"

"Just checking if he can hear."

He couldn't unless he was better at acting than he seemed.

"So… We're taking WICKED down. Any ideas on how?" Thomas asked. It wasn't that he had no ideas of his own, but where to start?

"Now we go back to WICKED and cooperate until we get the Cure," Minho said.

"Right. We have to talk to the others as soon as we get there. Then we can cover as much ground as possible," Thomas said.

"You mean for spying on people."

"Yeah. Conversations, conflicts, the general moods of people. But other information, too. Books, maps, questions. Anything that'll give us a clue about what to expect after leaving WICKED."

"Won't it seem suspicious?" Newt asked. "Everyone suddenly interested in the outside world?"

"It's fine as long as we don't act suspicious about it. WICKED only needs us for the Cure, so we'd need to know things anyway, for when they'd let us go."

"So they'll probably cure anyone who needs it and then kick us out once they have the Cure," Minho said. "We'd better make some connections fast, then, if we want to steal it."

"It's not stealing. They wanna make it from Tommy's blood. It's his," Newt pointed out.

"Yeah, and maybe if we tell them that they'll hand it over." Minho rolled his eyes. "We'll need help smuggling it out."

"And a place to hide," Thomas said. "We'll need people to copy the Cure and start producing it as soon as possible."

"Isn't it more important to keep it out of WICKED's hands?" Minho asked.

"It is important, but we can't hide the Cure somewhere until it's all over. If we control where it goes, we can use the Cure to gain support. We'll gather as much as we can and send some people to cities. We'll hand out as many cures as possible and make clear where it came from."

"So when the people throw themselves at our feet asking how they could ever repay us, we tell them all about WICKED."

"We've got to move fast, though. If WICKED gets to the cities before we can start curing people, they'll make it seem like we're the bad guys."

"Where do we mass-produce the Cure? Please tell me you're not planning on going to the Right Arm. Using them in the fight is one thing, but they could turn us or the Cure over to WICKED," Newt said.

"I don' t see another way at the moment. They've got the equipment, and with their plans to find the Cure on their own they must have some skilled scientists on hand. They want to be the ones to produce it at least, by the sound of it. If we produced the Cure in a city, there would be riots to get to it first. We could make the Right Arm some deal they'll like and find a way to have control over what they do with the Cure"

"So we gain support with the Cure and use our new friends for an army?" Minho asked.

"What we need most is someone inside WICKED to take down their defenses, but yes, either way, we need the numbers to make WICKED surrender peacefully."

"I thought we wanted a fight," Newt said. A wildness glinted in his eyes. Thomas couldn't determine if it was the Flare speaking, because part of him agreed. He wanted to destroy WICKED, defeat them, and tear the evil organization to shreds. He regretted that he could not let his anger control him.

"If we have a situation where they're confident enough to fight us, they could win. Our victory would be a bloodbath, and they've shed enough blood already. Besides, it's not like Rat Man or the other higher-ups would be the ones fighting. If we force WICKED to surrender, we can judge all of the employees fairly."

"As if they've ever been fair," Minho grumbled, kicking at something on the floor.

"That's how we prove we're better than them," Thomas said.

"Good that," Newt said, looking as reluctant as Minho. "As long as they get what they deserve."

"They will, " Thomas promised.

"Then, good," Newt said. He looked over at the pilot. "What about him?"

"We've already decided not to kill him, remember?" Minho asked.

"That's not what I meant. We need information about the world…"

"And he's bound to have some," Thomas continued. "Question is, what do we ask him? We can't let him know too much."

"Anything he knows about the people outside. Places. We could mix in some unimportant stuff so he won't learn anything from what we ask," Minho said.

"We can double-check locations back with WICKED, so we'll know if he's lied, but we can't seem too interested in any one place. Even if we decide to work with the Right Arm, it's safer not to let them know where we are." Thomas wasn't sure what kind of hiding place he was hoping to find, but he wanted to hear what the options were before he formed any expectations.

"Look!" Minho exclaimed.

Thomas turned around to see Minho holding up a backpack. He hadn't paid any mind to it, nor the other bags loosely tied to the floor behind him. Upon this closer inspection, he realized that it was one of the backpacks they had been given by WICKED. He recalled having brought some of the packs to the Right Arm's second base, though he hadn't noticed where they'd gone. A few seemed to be missing from the pile on the floor, the ones they'd taken with them, no doubt.

"Is there anything in it?" Thomas asked.

There were a few books in it, as it turned out. Books they'd borrowed from WICKED's library.

"What a relief," Minho said, turning a book over in his hand. "Now we don't have to worry about any angry librarians, at least." His grin faded as he looked over at them. "What?" He asked.

Thomas saw then that Newt was frowning.

"You don't think… Would they really be that obvious?"

"Who?"

"WICKED. They planned for us to be here, but they don't want us to figure it out, do they?"

"It's coincidence. They're just books, and not important ones at that going by the state of them," Minho reasoned.

What had once seemed insignificant made Thomas wonder. WICKED had surely led events along more than they let on, but had it been part of the plan for them to end up in the helicopter? They could have had their books put in there on purpose, knowing they would be returned, though it seemed too big an effort for something so minor. It was as Minho had said: they'd found the books rotting in some forgotten library. They wouldn't be falling apart if WICKED cared about their contents. It could be a meaningless joke, or just meaningless. It could also be part of their trial, another gesture to see through. Maybe WICKED intended for them to grow suspicious, and the coming pretense of ignorance would be a two-sided thing, with Thomas and his friends knowing about WICKED's actions and WICKED knowing about their awareness. Would it then be better to bring the knowledge into the light or to take part in some secrecy-game? He should go on as planned. This could well have been a move made to make him overthink the situation, and he should not get caught up in it. They were books and nothing more.

Though if they were, and the situation was this closely controlled, what was to say Luke was a part of the Right Arm and nothing more? He had heard their intentions to stand up to WICKED, and the alliance they were considering. He couldn't let it matter. He had to play by the rules of reality to win, and the reality was that their privacy could no be guaranteed as long as WICKED existed. He couldn't let it matter whether or not there was somebody listening. He had to be unpredictable. Think much and say little, even around those he trusted. He had to create a mess of confusion and wade through it. That was what it would take to defeat this enemy.

The first thing they asked Luke about was the situation behind the suspicious cargo. According to him, they were part of the last load of supplies. He had been helping John carry things inside the Right Arm's new residence when Vince had shown up demanding they leave for the old base. Minho checked a few of the other bags and found they had —indeed— been stuffed with supplies. Granola bars and canned vegetables were passed around as they continued their questioning.

Their pilot stated early on that he knew fairly little of the goings-on outside of the Right Arm, but it became evident that the things he considered common knowledge were anything but for the Gladers. The Sun Flares had wreaked havoc, destroying and killing many. Settlements had arisen in various places. Luke had traveled from place to place with his family in search of a safe home and had observed that there were efforts to rebuild many cities, though only a few succeeded. Smaller settlements in villages or out in the forest had been common and generally had fewer conflicts as the inhabitants were more strongly connected. Those places rose and fell depending on their ability to find food and how well they could hold off bands of thieves. That had been before the last flare. The Flare. The virus had upended the order of things before people could even get used to the new life. Some of the more prominent forest-settlements had been struck first, and the fleeing people spread it around. Luke had been living in one of the rebuilt cities when a large group of infected had gotten inside. They had seemed peaceful at first, but they soon grew violent and people were getting sick. He decided to leave but was separated from his wife and oldest son on the way out. With his other son to protect, he'd had to accept the rest of his family as lost and get away. He had met the Right Arm not long after that. The organization was pushing for better defenses and quarantine zones but held little authority to act on their policies. The rivalry with WICKED had started early on in the crisis when both asked for funding from governments and WICKED alone received it. Cities had no choice but to impose restrictions on new arrivals, but the hope of a Cure coming soon had resulted in the minimal amounts of effort being put into stopping the disease's spread early on. In recent times, in the area near them, at least, most people had flocked to cities for protection. Some of the more overpopulated places had grown dangerous, and a few people lived in the wild simply to avoid the risks the cities brought. The majority of the people living outside the cities were made up of infected people. There had been some organized efforts from Cranks to attack settlements, but most infected steered clear of the cities in fear of being killed or taken to a Crank Palace. As the course of the disease had slowed, even some healthy people had stayed away from cities, unsure whether or not they were infected.

"You know how the Flare is," he'd said. "It can take a long time to get any symptoms and you don't want to get to the gates just to find out you're sick. And the Crank Palaces… I've never been, of course, but if half the things I've heard are true… Well, I wouldn't get close to one if I were you."

"Trust us, we know," Newt had said grimly.

Thomas' stomach turned at the thought of that horrible place of destruction and decay he had visited in the simulation, and the knowledge that there were more of them across the country made it worse. He wanted the Cure more than ever if only to get rid of those miserable places.

In the way of setting up their own base after leaving WICKED, there seemed to be two alternatives. One was to find a city big enough for everyone to slip through without drawing attention as a flock of immunes, and the other would be to find an abandoned settlement that could be fortified. There were many ghost towns around, by the sound of it.

They didn't get much about how the outside world saw WICKED. As far as Luke knew, some people were waiting for the happy day a cure would be found, while others believed WICKED was long dead or even a myth. No particular hostility or loyalty on a larger scale. This meant people would side with whoever talked to them first. This could be a problem; they would have to wait until they could hand out cures to people, while WICKED could spread their lies as soon as they realized the Cure had been stolen from them. They would have to communicate with some strategic places before they could offer the Cure. If they gave their side of the WICKED story and promised to provide a cure to the Flare soon, people's hope and sympathy might make them unreceptive towards WICKED's attempts at recruiting. This meant contacting people who would spread the news, and more importantly: finding a good hiding place. People with the Flare were not only desperate but likely to be unreasonable, and if their location was easy to find they would get torn apart before they could help anyone.

Thomas half-listened to his friends asking about trivial stuff and the pilot answering, all the while thinking about what problems they would encounter and how to remedy them. It was frustrating; their lack of knowledge —though slightly lessened— was an evident problem. He didn't know who to get into contact with, or how to do it, or how to get whatever supplies were needed for the Cure once they had a working formula. They needed somebody to trust, but how would they know who to put their trust in? And plotting destruction sure was tiring. The helicopter may have been a bit cramped, but it was warm and safe. He'd done all he could, so surely he deserved some rest. He let his eyes close and his head fall… onto something that moved. He sat up straight, somewhat alert, and embarrassed

"It's okay. You really should get some sleep," Newt said.

Thomas didn't know what he would have done had he not been so tired. He was tired, though. He let his head fall back onto his friend's shoulder. He really did have nice shoulders

He was back in the Maze, running through the ivy-covered passages on his way back to the Glade. Alby ran beside him. It was getting late, but he knew they were close to home. He went through the door, triumphant until he looked to his side to see that Alby was missing. He turned to see the older boy inside the Maze, motionless on the ground and bleeding. He rushed to help, but his legs moved as if through water. The doors shut abruptly with a deafening thud of stone hitting stone.

Thomas woke to a darkening sky and the sound of Minho's voice. His friend had been reading one of the books and had found some pages about his namesake in it. The man turned out to be the one responsible for the strange business that was telepathy. It seemed odd that Minho had not been the one to develop a telepathic connection, though his friend wasn't complaining.

"Doesn't have a date of death," Minho noted. "You think the shank is still alive?"

"That book looks pretty old," Thomas said.

"You. Pilot! Ever heard of this guy?" Minho asked.

"I don't think so. Sorry."

"You'd think I'd be named after somebody cool and well known," Minho joked. "But no, I got the guy who invented Thomas and Teresa's weird mind-reading trick."

They arrived at the place they had agreed the Gladers would be dropped off.

Luke showed them on the map where WICKED was. While they were at it, Thomas asked to look around the area for the cities he had been told about. There were several cities on the map, though he was told that the rendering was outdated by five years. He studied the map carefully to burn it into his memory. After that, they said their goodbyes. The Gladers each took a pack, taking with them the books as well as water bottles, a compass, and food. Luke nodded respectfully at them as they got out of the helicopter. They stood back to watch the vehicle take flight before beginning their own journey.

They ran through the cold afternoon. It shouldn't even take two hours at this pace.

Unfortunately for them, things had been going too well and the balance needed to be restored.

They stumbled upon a few huts built sloppily upon a small cliff. The caution they took approaching the settlement was as careful as could be. The problem was not the huts, though. Their enemy hid in the woods around them.

"Who are you?" Asked a tall woman, stepping out from behind a large bush. She was dressed in a coat of animal furs. As she got closer, Thomas realized that some of the grime covering her clothes was, in fact, blood. Whether from the skinned animals or something else mattered little; the issue of the dagger she was pointing at them was more pressing.

"Well?" She demanded.

"We're just passing by," Thomas said. "Sorry if we intruded on your land or something."

"You're WICKED's little brats, aren't ya?" A second woman asked, appearing from behind and brandishing a cleaver.

Thomas gestured for his friends to follow as he ran. He was sure they could outrun the women and whatever friends of theirs were hiding nearby. This little idea was quickly crushed as more people made themselves known by blocking their path. They were soon surrounded by a dozen people carrying weapons.

"We're not here to hurt you, so if you would please let us be on our way," Minho tried.

"I don't think so," the first woman said. "Stupid little Munies, thinking you're so much better than the rest of us. Maybe the Flare won't get you, but we will."

"We're not immunes," Newt said.

The woman stepped closer, looking at them in turn. "You, boy, I believe. I can see it burning in you. Not your friends. Why protect them? They would watch you die like they would all of us."

"They won't. They're trying to find the Cure."

"And we can't do that unless you let us go," Minho said.

A knife was thrown in front of his feet. "Shut up, Munie!" Somebody shouted.

"Maybe they can be our cure," the woman said. "In their blood, or their heads. There must be something. We will find it."

The circle tightened around them.

She pointed at Newt. "We won't kill you, boy. You're like us. We will let you stay with us."

There was something hungry on her face as she eyed his friend.

A brief look of distaste flashed over his face before his features smoothed over.

"Thank you. They were never my friends, but you could be," he said as he walked away from Thomas and Minho, who exchanged a look of surprise.

He was pretending, playing a game to get them out of this. Even then, the words stung.

Newt smiled at the woman. "I know where to strike to get at the Cure," he said. "Here, I'll show you." He held out his hand and the woman gave him the dagger, all the while looking at Thomas and Minho smugly. Newt, too, was looking at them. Or rather, he was glaring. This was surprising. Surprising and unnerving; he was just faking, wasn't he? He had to be. He wouldn't turn on them like this. Thomas knew it, but that glare…

His friend got closer, the people surrounding them following his lead. His cold smile was even worse than the glare.

"Newt, what are you doing?" Thomas asked carefully.

The smile dropped. Newt spun around, slashing with the dagger and drawing blood. The tall woman fell to the ground. He took on the woman next to him as Thomas lunged for another, taking his knife and stabbing down. He didn't hesitate. The last time he'd hesitated, one of his friends had died.

Four bodies lay in the moss. The rest had scattered. Thomas ran to help Newt with the man he was fighting, the last foe standing before them. He got to his friend's side as the man collapsed to the ground, dead. Thomas began to say something, but before he could utter a second syllable, Newt turned, swinging the dagger in a wide arc. Thomas backed away, narrowly avoiding the blade.

"Careful," he said with a nervous laugh. He must have seemed like another one of their enemies

"You thought I'd actually do it," Newt snarled. "That I'd betray you just like that."

"No, of course not. I knew—"

Newt lashed out with the dagger. Thomas stumbled backward.

Minho rushed to them. "Put the knife down. We need to go," he said.

Newt pointed the weapon at him threateningly before returning to Thomas.

"You think I'm crazy. You're scared of me."

"Yes, this thing right now is a bit scary. Now, will you put the dagger away?" Thomas asked.

"Yes, you're right. Maybe you should be scared."

Thomas and Minho backed away, anticipating the newest attack. Their friend slashed at the air once more. He stared at them for a second before he swore and threw the dagger down hard enough for it to lodge into the ground upright

"Let's go," Minho said, relief plain on his face.

A blur of movement caught them all off guard. Minho was thrown to the ground as one of the escapees returned for a rematch. Thomas moved to help him, but another person grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He kicked out at his attacker, who let go of him. He took in the people around him. The ones who'd gone into the forest had returned. Newt was throwing punches at one of them, but where was Minho? He heard a terrible cry of panic just as he watched two figures go down the cliff. Another shout from below. It hadn't been a tall cliff, but it was still a long way to fall. He rushed to the edge to see that Minho was alive and moving. The other person was not. Having seen all he needed, he moved away from the edge as the fight continued. He punched, kicked, and stabbed. People went down and new ones rushed at him. Far too many. He made a mistake. There was a burst of pain in his head and he could feel the damp moss against his cheek. He was too confused to understand why or how or what would happen next.

He woke up to sunlight warming his face. He was lying on something soft. He felt good; well-rested and content. He opened his eyes, blinked through the sunlight, realized. This bed. This room. He recognized them all too well. He was in the Homestead. He was back in the Glade.