Chapter 46. The Cure.

Thomas wondered when he would start to forget. The transvice's effect on those already dead was unclear, but that guard had been alive, and he knew that shooting someone living was supposed to mess with memories. Now it was fresh in his mind, but it should start to slip away soon. He knew the effect had been proven somehow, that somebody had been shot and he didn't remember. Would he even know when he'd forgotten? This unfortunate family would disappear from living memory, all they had accomplished gone with them.

Minho was the first to examine the broken barrier. The destructive beam had drawn an irregular line, similar in appearance to a heartbeat. Minho kicked at a jagged piece that stuck up, and small cracks formed along the edges. He'd taken it down soon, the piece clattering to the floor, more like plastic than the glass it had looked like. It was easy to open a rift wide enough to pass through.

Thomas realized that he would finally have his answer about how much cure or poison was needed to take effect because now he had the three glasses to examine. The one found in the left compartment still had poison inside it. Half of it had been drunk, judging by the faint ring inside the cup's brim. The second cup of poison had spilled, but all indicated it had held about as much as the first one. It was definitely the same potion —blueish and smelling of flowers— but each glass had the approximate amount of poison remaining as one of the test tubes. What was the point of wasting potent poison? He vaguely understood upon seeing the third glass, the one the cure had been in. The markings on the inside of it suggested all three cups had held the same amount of liquid from the beginning, but not a drop of cure remained. All of it had been needed. The pang of horror was quickly replaced by indignation. Even if he'd left the test tubes alone, there still wouldn't be a dose that big, unless his estimations were completely wrong. Any amount smaller than that which had been in this cup couldn't have the cure's full effect, because while wasting the poison was justifiable through fulfilling some pattern, WICKED would never waste the cure they needed so desperately. The guard would have been given neither more nor less than was required. Of course, this meant there was no intention of curing Newt through this trial.

He allowed himself five seconds and one deep breath to let that sink in before he had to start thinking. The question was what a too small dose would do. Would it have a reduced effect? Something able to scratch at the virus' surface before dissipating? It could be to keep them in line; Newt would get a temporary relief from the virus, but they would have to stick around in exchange for the whole thing. It would affect the planned uprising against WICKED, at least in the initial strategy. How would it look if they played along nicely after finding out they had been deceived and were being blackmailed? People would get suspicious unless they raged about it, and that would make their time of research and inquiry more difficult. Could that have been the point? To distance them from the staff that could have given important information away? Or maybe it was to test them, provoke or measure something.

The theories didn't go on for long. Minho pulled Thomas aside, to where the transvice lay discarded. "Alright, shuckface, it's about time you tell me what happened here. Slintheads don't go around vanishing walls and people without reason."

The story sounded unreal as he told it, as if he hadn't been part of it. There hadn't been time for reflection while events unfolded, but the weight of it sunk in now. His friend had felt his control slipping away, and he'd been so horrified of losing himself to the virus that he would have chosen death even while there was still some time and hope left. He looked over at Newt, to ensure he was still there, over by the empty compartments.

Minho followed his gaze worriedly. "Do you think he would have gone through with it? Or that he'd… try again?"

"The reason he wanted to use the transvice was that it would make us forget. He thought it would be less painful for everyone."

"We'll hide it, then."

The transvice was the biggest threat at the moment, but it was not the real problem. Not even the Flare was the whole problem. The older boy was too indifferent about his death —too willing to part with life. The Flare seemed to twist thoughts and create horrors, but Newt had't been infected in the Maze. Then it had been the frustration and anger at the unsolvable maze, or the loss, or something else. Thomas didn't know if he would ever truly understand, but he hoped he understood enough to help. He knew they had all suffered during WICKED's variables, in different ways, because they were different people. However, they shared the Maze, and WICKED. If there was anything that would help them move on, it was each other, all bonded through their experiences. Together they would heal, and forget, and maybe even be happy. Thomas couldn't let Newt make a terrible mistake at this point of weakness, not with the possibility of a brighter future. There wouldn't be another gunshot, another Paradise without his friend in it. Endure. Get revenge. Move on.

They went to the kitchen, their unofficial lab.

"What if it's a pattern?" Minho asked, having just measured the glass of poison in comparison to the test tubes. "Three cups, one with the cure. The poison missing in this one is the exact amount as is in the test tubes right now. We've already got three, five, and seven marked out for us."

"The exact amount of poison, but only half the cure." Thomas looked over at Newt to see if he was listening. He hadn't mentioned to him that there wasn't enough of the cure. Not that he was actively keeping it from him, or maybe he was -it wasn't exactly good news. But Newt leaned against the window with his eyes closed, as he had for the last thirty minutes. If he was listening, he wasn't letting on.

"It's not about getting the full cure, it's about finding the right test tube. Maybe it doesn't even have the cure in it. It could just be water," Minho said.

"No, Rat Man said it was the cure. WICKED is all about tricking us, but I think they're doing something sneakier than simply lying this time. It is the cure, even if it's only half of it."

"What happens if he drinks half the cure? You don't think it's dangerous, do you?"

"Why would it be?"

"It's not enough to get rid of the Flare, but it won't disappear because of that. It'll attack the virus. You know, the one in his brain, where all the being-alive-stuff is controlled."

"And what? You think it'd cause some sort of brain damage?"

"Your words, not mine."

"The question is if WICKED would do that." Thomas looked around, at where hidden cameras might be watching, and said loudly: "They know we won't help them if they kill one of us."

"They haven't had a problem with killing people in the past. Or now. They poisoned those women, and it's their fault that guard was there."

"Why do we still remember them? Shouldn't we have forgotten by now?" Thomas asked, his suspicions rising.

"Probably."

"So then the transvice is faulty?"

Minho shook his head. "When I held it, I remembered using it. I couldn't remember who or why, but that means it worked. Rat Man showed us, right? And then we forgot immediately."

"But it didn't work this one time?"
"Not yet, or maybe there's something blocking the effect."

They hadn't had many memories to erase, not more than those of whoever Minho had shot, and he knew they'd all forgotten that as soon as they'd seen, so they should, by all means, have forgotten already. But what would be blocking the effect?

Oh. Could it be? The look on Rat Man's face when Newt had talked about Alby's blood not being real. He did remember seeing a list of Flare-symptoms, come to think of it, and that it had warned about auditory hallucinations. Nothing about seeing things. Newt had 'heard' Alby, but hadn't seen him. If he only heard things that weren't there, how could he have seen Rat Man?

"Maybe it's because this isn't real," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't Rat Man say your third trial happened before the simulation? What if the transvice doesn't work unless it's used on real people, in the real world?"

"You think we're back in a simulation?"

Newt's eyes snapped open. "It's not real. Nothing's real." Then he giggled as if it was all very amusing.

"Yeah, he's saying it, so it must be true," Minho said.

"He's saying it because that's what Rat Man told him."

"The same Rat Man we couldn't see or hear?"

"I remember seeing a list of symptoms, and visual hallucinations weren't on it. Of course, we wouldn't question it. Things were as they were with him, and it would look like another part of the Flare."

"He said that nothing is real. He said that we aren't real. I don't know about you, but I feel pretty real."

"What if Rat Man exaggerated? He had to make it look convincing. So he gave us the clue, but made it look like Newt was being paranoid."

"And then agitated him enough to make him attack, make him look unhinged."

"So you get it now?"

"Maybe. But what would be the point?"

"You said too little of the cure could be dangerous. What if it's meant to be? Remember how we got out of the last simulation."

"Dying? But what about you and me? Are we supposed to stay here?"

"One faulty cure, two poisons. They put our attention on three test tubes. All we have to do is figure out which one is which and drink."

"This seems like a risky theory. If we're not back in a simulation, we'll die for real."

"Taking risks is part of the trial, but we have to find this cure before we can do anything."

"And how do we find it? We've narrowed it down, but there's no way to tell the cure apart from the poison unless we try drinking them like we planned to."

"Didn't you say it looked like a pattern, just now? We've looked for physical differences for two days without finding anything, but what if there aren't supposed to be any?"

"Maybe, but what kind of pattern would that be?"

"I hadn't gotten that far yet… We've got the numbers on the test tubes, so I guess it's the one that sticks out the most. Oh, I've got something! The tattoos. You're A7, and Newt's A5."

"You're A2," Minho pointed out. "If that's what they were going for, why would they have a three instead?"

So much for that theory.

They thought about the sections of the Maze, labeled one through eight. If they included the Glade as a ninth section, they would have all the same numbers as the shelf in the council room. Was it a coincidence that they couldn't see the south door? The section by the door was number six, but it had seven and five on either side. Maybe it set apart those sections, or maybe it was pointing at the sixth section. Thomas' assigned number —two— times the number of the test tube —three— was six. He was almost willing to go with it, until he set their focus closer, at the Homestead itself. It had been deliberately modified; doors missing, windows that had seamlessly become part of the wall, significant somehow, for sure.

"There are two doors that work," Thomas said.

"But they split the room into three parts: infirmary, bathroom, and then the rest of it. And there are three windows."

"Three windows for three of the Maze's doors. Three people, three more to demonstrate. Having one person drink poison was more than enough, so why waste it on a second person unless they were sending a message, or giving us a clue?"

"Three days, three hourglasses…"

"Nine test tubes, three times three. Three horizontally, vertically, and diagonally."

There was nothing else to add, so they let it sink in for a while, considering any cracks in their theory.

"Is this our solution?" Thomas asked finally. He didn't feel as thrilled as he'd imagined, maybe because he'd realized his friend wouldn't be cured, or because if they were wrong about being inside a simulation they could die.

"What then? Do we drink now?" Minho didn't look happy at the prospect. "We'll get out of here and they can create the cure."

"They might not have it yet. I guess our struggle is over, so they've hopefully got what they need, but it could take time."

"Would you rather be trapped in here or in WICKED's facility with the other Gladers while we wait?"

"It might not be that simple. The Flare in the simulation isn't the same as the real-life one. In the first one, it got really bad, but Newt wasn't near that stage when he woke up."

"And it's worse in here, too? Isn't that a reason to do it now?"

"What I'm getting at is that the virus might slow down in this… whatever-this-is-state. Logically, brain activity should be increased by being here, but it didn't happen last time." What he didn't say was that WICKED might use the cure to control them, and the closer their friend was to the Gone, the more desperate they'd be to cure him, and he didn't want them to be desperate. He didn't want WICKED to have that much power over them. "Of course, it's Newt's choice if he wants to suffer through the Flare like this for the hope that his actual body will endure longer."

"I think he's asleep," Minho said.

Newt didn't open his eyes as he spoke. "I'm not."

"What do you think, then? Do we stay or not?" Thomas asked.

"Huh?"

"Didn't you hear what we were saying?"
"I tried, but… I don't bloody know. Couldn't hear anythin' 'cept buzzing. Say it again?"

Thomas explained his and Minho's conclusion and asked again.

"I don't know, Tommy. You decide."

"If you're fine staying like this for a while, it could be better in the long-run. But you obviously don't have to, and we don't know for sure."

"Fine, let's stay. If you've found the answer, we might as well rest. What time is it, anyway?"

Thomas had sort of forgotten that it was the middle of the night, but a faint ache behind his eyes that he'd ignored before reminded him.

They went upstairs; things would be clearer in the day. They might have been even more clear had Thomas not lain awake for most of the night. All his worries floated around in his head, too many and too interconnected for his tired thoughts to fixate on anything specific for long. It was a kind of half-slumbering endlessness where everything felt impossible and he wondered how he'd ever get through it. How had he made it through everything else? No, before they had moved toward set goals. Get out of the Maze. Go to that place. Even tricking the Right Arm had been done to get back to the trial. In the simulation, they had been directed and given tasks to complete. Now he was trying to outwit WICKED, the organization built by master manipulators. He didn't know if he could talk to his friends without being overheard, and what was there to say, in any case? He didn't know what was going on and had no way of finding out at the moment. He was getting ready to fly into a spiderweb of secrecy and scheming to kill the spider with its own poison, and he chose to go on. The quiet evening was the calm in an unknown storm. How was he supposed to rest as he felt the whipping winds blow nearer?

The trial's third day was spent in anticipation of the evening. They had decided to wait until then, right before the time ran out. If they were wrong, they'd die, and if not, they were about to be presented with a fresh batch of bad news and deceit. The three moved listlessly downstairs to the kitchen, and then to the council room, and then back up the stairs without much reason, drifting around like ghosts. Thomas caught between his thoughts and sleep, Minho pacing back and forth or staring out the windows, his own worries swirling through his mind, and Newt doing what he could to alleviate his headaches. They suffered separately, but not alone.

A fistful of sand was all that was left in the hourglass. The sun had moved across the sky, soon to disappear.

"I think it's time," Thomas said, nodding at the test tubes in their shelf.

"You hear that, shuckfaces?" Minho called out. "We found your stupid cure!"

Thomas didn't point out that WICKED definitely knew already.

A creak —loud and unmistakable— sounded from a distance.

Minho leaned out the doorframe to check on the hallway outside and turned back with a grin. "The door's open!"

Thomas hurriedly took the three test tubes and followed Minho.

The front door was, indeed, open. A breeze, mild and familiar, wafted in through the crack. Thomas pushed the door open all the way and breathed the fresh air in. The dying sun shone on them with summery warmth as they stepped into its path. Memories as old as Thomas had were drifting to the surface, and in this small freedom, they seemed much happier than they would have otherwise. He thought about Chuck. It felt like forever since they'd been walking through the Glade together, but the kid's annoying, endearing words echoed through his ears, and if he closed his eyes he could imagine Chuck right next to him. The other memories —the bad ones— put a sudden damper on his mood. Whatever scraps of happiness they had scavenged from their prison, that time was gone and they still had a mission. The opening of the door was a response to what Minho had said, an acknowledgment that they could proceed with their solution, hopefully. And this third door fit into the pattern, of course.

Thomas ran down to the Box, the other two following closely. They had half an hour left until the liquids all evaporated.

"We're really going through with this, huh," Minho stated. "Not that I'm scared or anything."

Was Thomas scared? It didn't feel like his life was on the line. He was confident both in his theory and WICKED. If he was actually about to die, he expected to be stopped somehow. WICKED liked torturing him too much to let him go. There was a sliver of fear lurking somewhere, from his doubts. He shouldn't rely on WICKED doing what he expected.

"I don't care if it works or not, I just want it to be over," Newt said.

"It will work," Thomas said. He didn't say that he agreed somewhat with what his friend had said. If it worked they'd live to see another day, and if not they would at least be free from WICKED. It wasn't a good way of thinking, and so he let instinctual self-preservation and the primal fear of death chase away the indifference. He remembered something Alby had said back in the Glade: 'If you ain't scared, you ain't human'. Thomas was human, scared for himself and his friends, but that didn't mean he would back down.

What sounded like thunder echoed through the Glade. Thomas almost dropped what he was holding. Then he saw the doors, the impenetrable stone moving apart by increments.

"This is when the doors would close," Minho noted.

No, that may have been true of the earlier days of the Maze Trial, but during those last few days, it had been the time when the Grievers came knocking.

They stayed by the Box, listening tensely to the harsh sound of the doors opening. They only had a few minutes left of their three days, not long enough to make it to the Griever Hole, but what would happen if they went that way? He was almost willing to consider it as a potential solution to the trial when the flash of sun reflecting on metal caught his eye. A metal-limb with a sharpened end was extended from the south door, before it fell to the ground searching for purchase. The Griever rolled into the Glade, using the limb to pull itself forward. It was as grotesque as he remembered; a mix of slug and killer robot. It rolled closer, menacing but patient. Its friends were not far behind, appearing from all four directions. There was nowhere to go. The familiar 'whir-click' was audible from the Box.

"Looks like we don't have a choice," Minho said.

Thomas took the stopper off the test tube. He'd picked number seven, and Minho had five, simply because Minho was A7 and that pattern had been broken. It probably didn't matter, but maybe they'd get extra points for the choice to break the pattern completely. He raised the test tube to his lips, making sure the other two did the same. Whir-click, whir-click. He gulped the poison down quickly. Its flower-like scent was weak compared to the taste. It was a powerful flavor, slightly bitter and spicy. There was a kind of thickness to it, something that spread through him, making his limbs heavy and his mind foggy. Whir-click. If not for the sounds of Grievers and an unpleasant feeling of tightness in his throat, he might have been lulled into believing he was laying down for a nice nap.

He returned to life, disoriented, and immersed in darkness. His immediate impression was that he was not fully awake, but within seconds it became clear that his sluggish movements were not due to any tiredness. Alertness steadily increasing, he recognized the water and knew why he was in it. He'd been right.

What had been an automatic impulse to hold his breath was turning into a battle of wills against lungs screaming for oxygen. His opponents didn't realize that the oxygen in water wouldn't make things better and that he needed to hold out for however long he would be kept in it. WICKED wouldn't let him die in there. They were watching, knew he was awake, and knew that whatever had allowed him to breathe earlier had stopped. They had to know. He tapped on the wall, just to be sure, and to keep his thoughts from spiraling into panic.

A flash of light lit up the dark nothingness, just as Thomas thought he couldn't stand it any longer. The light grew as the wall shrunk away. Water poured out in a steady stream and he turned his face up to get to the surface faster. He let the pull of the water drag him out of his prison, and soon he stood on solid ground, breathing heavily, but still more composed than last time.

People were moving around the room like ants. Thomas became aware of a slight drowsiness that he hadn't felt before, a mild confusion that made the sight hard to take in. He tried to focus. Newt and Minho had been with him, so where were they now? Something was thrust over his shoulders —a towel. The room was cold, so he held onto it. Somebody shoved him out of the way. No, not out of the way. In a direction. He looked behind with greater urgency, but he couldn't locate his friends. He didn't have the strength to resist the person pushing him to the door. He tried, just in case, and he stopped where he was, right in front of the door. It had worked, oddly enough, or so he thought until he saw who stood in front of him, and froze.

"Chancellor?" A voice squeaked behind him.

Chancellor Ava Paige stood in the opening, beaming. "Well done, Thomas!" She put a hand on his shoulder. "I knew you could find the cure to the Flare. We have so much to do, still, but this is the turning point!"

Thomas recoiled. Initially at the surprise of having some stranger put her hand on his shoulder, a stranger who was the leader of WICKED, the embodiment of all the death and suffering of the last two years. And now she was smiling down at him like she regretted nothing. Anger came flooding through him, but it was best not to show it, for the sake of their future escape. He let her think he'd backed away because he was startled and disoriented. He couldn't have kept looking at her face without losing his cool and his control to a fit of homicidal rage, so he looked away.

"The Cure," he said. "You have it? Newt—"

"We will give the cure to him now. The real one, of course."

"Where is he? And Minho? Where are the others?"

"You'll see. Don't look so worried, Thomas, everything's alright now. Remember that WICKED is good."

Maybe they had found the Cure, and maybe his friend would finally be free of the Flare, but WICKED was not good.