Chapter 59, Indifference

The Gladers sat down at the stranger's table. The man took a mug of coffee without hesitation and downed half of it. He must have been as weary as he looked. His eyes were shaded and lined, though he didn't have an old face, at least Thomas didn't think so. He could have been anywhere between twenty and fifty. It looked like someone had thrown a handful of dust at his pale hair, but as he looked up, his pupils were quick and clear.

"Welcome to the city of Sunhaven," he said. "I'm Gabriel." He held a hand out to Thomas and then Newt. "As I understand it, you, Newt, are among the first to have been cured of the Flare. Am I right?"

Newt looked him up and down, suspicious, but he must have seen Minho nodding next to him, too. "Could be."

"In that case, you are the first person that I congratulate on recovering. I had expected to meet another of your recovered friends within the next few days, but you made it here first. Of course, you could just be another immune, pretending. If there are ways to test for the difference, we don't have them here."

"I didn't say you had to believe it," Newt said.

"I do believe it. I wanted to address the lack of proof, however, as a demonstration. See, your situation, which extends to all the rest of us, is both complicated and difficult to verify, so I will take you at your word. Hopefully, that will be encouraging enough for you to share the truth with me. I think that strategy has worked well so far, or what do you say, Minho?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I'm sorry," Thomas said, "but you still haven't explained why we should tell you anything in the first place."

"From the beginning, then. I'd like to believe that my awareness of local affairs is the most extensive in this town. If untrue, my rivals are very impressive. I know that groups of infected settle beyond the walls every so often. The watchers at the gate report their status as best they can. We only engage when necessary."

"Engage how?" Newt asked.

"If they become a threat, or pass the Gone… well, we end their misery before the tragedy expands."

"Fair enough."

"So we tell ourselves."

"Who's 'we'?" Thomas asked.

"I do appreciate curiosity."

"The government. He's the mayor," Minho explained.

The man frowned. "In simple terms, I am something approaching a mayor. We saw the need to change that form of governance many years ago, though. Think of me as an unidentified executive. The best match of polls on public opinion, and instantly replaceable with the second closest."

"He doesn't like to be compared to other mayors," Minho said.

"The investment and influence that comes with public image has proven detrimental this last decade. Infected politicians cause chaos by staying and upheaval by leaving. Here, we get tested as we go into work every morning. I have seen colleagues in integral positions be escorted out without debate, and the average person has been none the wiser. Other settlements have failed to adapt." He raised the coffee mug. "We don't drink this cheap coffee because harvests are bountiful. We drink in tribute to a fallen city that has no further need for trade. We take in the trade agreements and the refugees as we go through the protocols to ensure it will not happen here."

"And why are you telling us about it?"

"Some weeks ago, a group of us flew out to a meeting for the representatives of the region's various cities to manage this most recent tragedy. I happen to be old friends with one of the representatives from Lilia City, and as we exchanged news after the meeting, she had an odd story to share. WICKED's chancellor had contacted her, warning about the possible arrival of a large group of youths in her city. The youths, who had stolen something important, were to be seized, and WICKED should be contacted immediately. My friend had seen no groups fitting that vague description, nor did she care for the brusque tone of the demand. That organization had lost our faith a long time ago. But they had been robbed, supposedly. Later, when the head watcher told me about an uncommonly large group of teenagers that had settled outside the city, I wanted to know what they had taken. Soon after taking up residence, some of them ventured into the city. I waited for them beyond the gate."

"And then you blackmailed us for information," Minho said.

"We both had information to share. A perfectly good deal."

Newt scoffed. "A deal where you can call WICKED on us whenever."

"Why would I? Your friends up north have the cure to the Flare, far out of my reach, and with the chancellor's urgency to have it returned, I have no confidence in her ability to offer up a second. Betraying or mistreating you would be meaningless at best, and at worst it could leave us without the Cure, should it become available. WICKED had its time. If you were returned to them, that could be another decade of waiting. It could be nothing but the empty deaths of young immunes who could have salvaged the future."

"So you're here because you want us to 'salvage the future'?" Thomas asked.

"Believe me, I know it's a struggle, and I pursued it voluntarily. Actually, I was in a library not too far from here, studying for an exam in political philosophy, when the first disaster struck. You would have been in kindergarten, too young for any realistic ambition. By now, we have ended up on the same path, chosen or not. For the world to continue, it needs the young, the immune, and the Cure. The keys to survival."

"What about the things we need?"

"Per previous agreements, the city offers you its support. Shelter, resources, integration, education, opportunity."

"And if you get impatient waiting for the Cure?" Newt asked.

"Then, you can live here or in the outside settlements as mostly normal citizens for as long as the Flare spares us from collapse. As I said, immunes are important."

"And what if we need WICKED obliterated?" Thomas asked.

Gabriel looked surprised by his bitter tone. "'Obliterated'? You mean for us to launch an attack?"

"Yes. I do." He didn't care for tact. Tact wouldn't stop WICKED from hunting them.

"Under the constant threat of the virus, we cannot spare the manpower. Weakened though they are, WICKED could decimate our forces, and then who would be left to guard the city from infected?"

"And if you had the Cure?"

"Then we would reconsider. Should WICKED be a threat, they would need to be controlled."

The Cure for an army. That was what he proposed.

"So you're here to make some sort of deal?"

"We have our deal in place. I came here to listen."

"To what?"

"To you. If we are to build a case against WICKED, we need to know what crimes they have committed. There is a general consensus about the ineffectiveness of the organization in our legislative department, along with those of many other cities. Public favor trends downward. And yet, there are those who hope, and those who argue for handing you over. Many were silenced by the experiences of your friends, and yours might strengthen our argument, however much you are willing to share. As I understand it, WICKED attempted to recreate the Cure after your friends fled, and it may be best not to share details of their methods, should somebody get the idea to replicate them."

Thomas looked at Minho. His face was neutral. Did he know that telepathy had been the main goal? Did Thomas know that? WICKED could have been reaching for both, he supposed.

"You want to hear…?" Newt started.

"As much as you can tell. Like the conditions you were kept in, or any damage done as part of their research or outside of it."

Part of Thomas wanted to rant and rage now that he had this chance, but his mouth was dry. Newt looked at him with uncertainty. Thomas nodded to him.

Newt told most of the story. He gave his perspective on being infected, filling out a vague story that Minho had told the man before. He avoided the topic of telepathy altogether, something that remained a secret, but gave an account of the confusion and the psychological torture. Gabriel listened carefully, grim-faced. By the end of it, he left, polite and full of promises. Joan and Rat Man returned to the table to demand an explanation. Thomas felt empty, thinking through what had been said.

He wanted to be relieved. The meeting had been inconsequential, nothing changed or decided. They hadn't learned anything that Minho couldn't have told them on his own, and hadn't shared anything they would keep from their friends. They had updated confirmation that there were people in the world who sympathized and would help them if they produced the Cure as payment. Thomas had taken that prospect into account already. So why did he feel strange?

They sat, stood, moved. Minho explained things, and Thomas heard some of it. Most seemed as distinct as waves crashing somewhere high above. He had spent weeks imagining what his friends might be doing with their freedom, but now he couldn't pay enough attention to care. Newt's words haunted him. Even the parts of the story they had lived through together felt so much worse when recounted outside of his thoughts. He saw those cold, uncaring faces of scientists as they made their threats and followed through on them in the name of the science that would give them the world. The sun was glaring at them, bright as it ever would be that day, but Thomas shivered. His back prickled with cold sweat. How could dozens upon dozens of humans agree to the cruelty of infecting people with the Flare and spurring the virus on. They had done it in pretense and actuality, a warning and a near follow-through, all for the sake of distressing them. And Thomas had been among them once, building the Maze. WICKED had steered him into something he wasn't sure could be redeemed. He didn't know what was real anymore, thanks to them. The dread and the rage set his blood to a persistent simmering. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to burn them to the ground or just sleep until they disappeared from his mind. Neither were options at the moment.

As they left through a city gate, smaller than the other one, his senses regained balance. They walked through the shade, watchful of the icy sheets on the ground. A modest forest struggled on through the snow that covered the less fortunate trees, cut off on one side by an ice-rimmed river. In front of it, the small village waited for them.

In a different age, it had probably been a small suburb, grown out of an older village, all neat rows of houses and gardens. There was a church at the end of one lane, a big iron cross held up to the sky. Next to it stood a store that hadn't enjoyed the untouched mercy of the other building. Windows were broken, and the products were certainly long gone.

"We stay away from that part as much as possible," Minho said. "The Cranks like to hang out in the church."

"Are they trying to pray the Flare away?" Newt asked.

Minho shrugged. "Something like that. They're pretty far along, but they don't tend to bother us."

"Good. If Cranks were going door to door preaching, I would go right back to the city."

"You're not the first person to say that."

"Why don't you stay in the city, anyway?" Thomas asked.

"We probably could," Minho admitted. "Some of us might have to get jobs to blend in, but we could make it work. It's peaceful here, though. When nobody's arguing or running around with some new idea on how to take on WICKED. It's peaceful once in a while, like at four in the morning. Maybe not peaceful, but it's ours. And we're outside the walls for once. The city's just for supplies and research."

"And nobody's suspicious about you lot running in and out of the city?" Newt wondered.

"Not really. The guards who usually get posted at the western gate are the ones who notice, and they know we're immunes. Apparently, it's pretty common for immunes to stick together in places like this, doing odd jobs or working with Cranks, where they don't risk dragging the virus into the city. You can't really drag the virus anywhere, but most people keep a distance."

"What if WICKED starts recruiting again?" Thomas asked. "If they go around asking for new immunes, do you think they'll rat us out? From what I gather, people don't like immunes."

"The ones who could rat us out are the same ones who'd have to keep an eye on the cranks if we were gone. So long as we're here, they get to play cards by the safety of the walls. Not much infection over there, maybe one infected traveler a week."

At last, they stopped in a street with houses to either side.

"Here we are!" Minho announced. "The Bloodhouses."

"You house animals in there?" Newt asked, looking as confused as Thomas felt.

"No, we house ourselves in there. And you don't have to worry about the blood. We mopped it up weeks ago."

"If these are the Bloodhouses, that means there were houses without blood in them," Thomas said. "Why not pick those? Nostalgic for the Glade?"

"I do miss Bark."

"Poor little beast," Newt agreed.

Thomas wondered if the dog was still alive somewhere.

"Nah, if we were nostalgic we'd have gone back to WICKED. Frypan insisted on living somewhere with an 'actual kitchen', and the only one that met his standards was here. And there were barely any broken windows around, so we agreed to stay. I had first pick of the houses, so I'm not complaining."

A figure came jogging towards them from the other side of the street.

Minho waved in greeting. "Captain Gally! How goes it?"

Gally stopped in front of them, looking at Thomas and Newt with surprise, then at Rat Man and Joan with suspicion. "You got out. Finally. Does this mean Minho won't be the leader anymore?"

"Shuckface. You know Harriet's a leader, too, so if you're saying I'm bad, you're saying that she's bad."

"Harriet never made me stay up until two in the morning because I was better at a video game."

"You weren't better. I defeated you."

"After three hours."

"Three fun hours. What else were you going to do? Sleep? Sleep is too boring."

Gally turned to Thomas. "See what I have to deal with? I always knew the guy was jacked in the head. Back in the Glade, I'd kick myself for saying this, but please take over, Thomas."

Thomas had expected those words from Gally about as much as he'd expected friendship bracelets, but his sense of unease went beyond astonishment. He supposed there was the expectation that he would take charge once he returned. Hadn't he himself taken for granted that he would be making the plans and decisions? That was always the way things had fallen into place. He would have backing, but the brunt of the responsibility was his. That had been what he wanted.

"Hey, Gally," Newt said. "We found someone on the road who might be familiar."

Throughout Newt's description of the man at the gas station, Gally's face shifted from disbelief and skepticism to careful hope.

"It… does ring a bell. I think," Gally admitted.

"Do you want to check it out?"

Gally shook his head. "Not yet. Can't get my hopes up. If they need the Cure, I'll wait until I can bring it to them. Then it won't be all for nothing."

"This isn't the best time to drive around in our footsteps," Rat Man added. "WICKED could have a search team there right now."

"Aren't you WICKED?" Gally asked.

"Do you think I'm here out of concern for WICKED's interests?"

"You'd better hope we don't think that," Minho said. "Now, Gally, about that Crank?"

"Right. I think he was lost or something, but he's back with the rest of them now. Must've been using the Bliss. Dude looked right past me."

"The Bliss? Where did they get that from?" Newt asked.

"Some guards gave it to us to drop off near their base. They wouldn't do it normally, but the… city hopes they can be saved with the Cure on the way. There's been some sort of effort to hand it out at the nearest Crank Palace, too, though you'd have to ask Sonya or Miyoko if you want to know more about it."

"Speaking of, where is everyone?"

"Inside, obviously. Come on." Minho made for the closest building. "And Gally?"

"Yeah?"

"Go tell Frypan it's a code Gold."

Gally rolled his eyes but went down the street as asked.

Thomas hadn't realized how cold he'd been until he stepped into the warmth of a small foyer. The air had a mellow sort of pine-scent that warmed him as much as the temperature. It felt like a home. A row of jackets on hangers waved in the wind from outside, overlooking half a dozen pairs of wet shoes. The clothes weren't neat by any means, but there was an overall cleanliness to the place. Joan and Rat Man had been told to wait outside for a while, as the amount of information they should be trusted with would be discussed, and their absence gave Thomas a sense of safety that hadn't been there before. Now he could be with the people he trusted. His equals.

"Beth?" A familiar voice called from another room.

"Even Beth-er!" Minho called back as he kicked off his shoes.

A distant groan could be heard, followed by several voices in discussion as they dismissed Minho.

"Your shoes, shanks," Minho said when the other two didn't take them off. "The living room carpet took ages to clean."

"Since when do you care about carpets?" Thomas mumbled, but he took off his shoes, feeling the wooden floor beneath his socks. It felt nice to be free of the shoes, which were a bit too small.

That left Newt, who stared at the open entrance to another room, where the voices were coming from.

"Lizzy," he said. It was almost a whisper.

"What?"

"Lizzy," Newt repeated. "Sonya." As if broken from a trance, he practically threw his boots off and bounded into the other room.

"Right," Minho said as he and Thomas followed at a slower pace. "His sister."

A few people sat around a table in the living room. They had seemingly been working with some papers until Newt had rushed inside to throw his arms around Sonya, who looked at Thomas and Minho over his shoulder with utter confusion.

"Hey, Newt." She patted him on the back awkwardly.

Newt stepped back. "Sorry. I'm just so glad you're alright. After all those bloody illusions…" He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Can we just pretend I walked in and said 'hello' like a normal person?"

"Sure," Sonya said. "Let's talk later, though."

Newt looked away in embarrassment, but Thomas could understand his reaction to seeing his sister again. WICKED would use any tools at their disposal, and what would be better at breaking someone's will than the image of harm done to a recently remembered sibling? Despite the years they had lost, and the cautious distance of the familiarity they were trying to rebuild, they had their past. Though Sonya had forgotten most of the memories that had been given to her during the fourth trial, Newt had gotten everything back. The Flare -or the process of curing it— had done something to the Swipe, even if the implant had retained its other functions. He remembered the closeness of their childhood, and so did WICKED. Unlike Thomas, Newt hadn't come out of the latest round of agony with a strange distance to everything. After all the ways his brain had been unreliable, he had more or less learned to recognize reality. He could look at Sonya without doubting that she was someone else, and seeing her unhurt by WICKED was the final confirmation that she was alright. As Thomas looked around the cozy living room that was clean in the opposite way of WICKED, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was too good to be true.

"So anyways," Minho said. "Thomas and Newt are back."

They sat down at the table as Sonya gave a summary of what they were doing, with Minho supplementing information about how they were structuring all the work. Apparently, different tasks had been delegated to different houses, though the people working on those tasks weren't necessarily the people who lived in the designated house. The task groups seemed to be very flexible in their composition. Newt seemed to have forgotten about being happy to be reunited with his sister, staring at Minho with something akin to horror as he explained that people sometimes decided to skip work without warning in favor of sleeping in or taking a day-trip into the city.

Minho wasn't as concerned about order as Newt was. Still, he was no fool. They were making progress, by the sound of it. Sonya's group had worked out how to get a cure out to as many infected as possible as soon as they had it, doing a few outings to the nearby Crank Palace and locating other palaces within reach. Though the Bliss was an expensive drug, Gabriel and his coworkers had gotten their hands on as much of it as they could in an attempt to save as many infected as possible in what was meant to be the final stretch of the crisis. The missing girl, Beth, was possibly out by the city wall collecting a package of it to be handed out at the Palace in the next few days.

"Or maybe she went inside to hang out at the library," Sonya said, shrugging. "She does that sometimes."

"What about the Bliss?" Newt asked.

"We'll have someone else get it. We've got all day."

"If you say so… Speaking of all day, though, we've got two… helpers waiting outside, and if we leave 'em in the snow all day they might get cold feet and return to WICKED."

He explained their rescue. As expected, nobody was happy to have Rat Man there. Half the group had been among those living in the second facility after being presumed dead in the mazes, but they had been told all about the former assistant director from their more familiar peers. They were more willing to trust Joan, who had always seemed like a decent person working for bad people, though having a position of power in the organization spoke against her.

Still, they couldn't just leave them out there. It was true that they had betrayed WICKED, but they could probably expect to be pardoned if they gave up their location. It was best not to tempt them, however much they seemed to disagree with their old colleagues.

"Alright," Minho said. "We'll ship the rat off to the facility. If he's as smart as he claims, he can help from there, plus it's easier to keep watch on him there. Joan might have useful knowledge about WICKED, so she can stay here and prove to us that she's trustworthy. How about that?"

Nobody disagreed. It should never be said that Minho was bad at making decisions, however rash they were on occasion.

"The Berg doesn't come until tomorrow," Sonya said. "Where do we put them until then? We can't show them our plans, at least not right now."

"Kitchen duty?" Her friend Miyoko suggested. "They won't get any secrets out of peeling potatoes."

"Good that," Minho said. "I bet Rat Man never expected to be demoted that much."

They left Sonya and her group to continue planning their next excursion. The adults were glad to see them return, though less glad to be informed that they would not be privy to any information as of yet. Still, they didn't argue against the plan for them, though Rat Man was skeptical about flying back and forth from the facility with a Berg. Minho did assure him that it wasn't something they did often, but they needed to bring in supplies once in a while.

In the time they had spent in that first house, the street had come to life. People were going in and out of houses, dashing between them or away like comets. Sometimes they would stop to talk to another before continuing on their way. When they spotted the new arrivals, they stopped altogether. Gladers and Glenners alike came up to them with greetings, congratulations, and so many questions. Minho did his best to wave them away as they headed for the main kitchen.

Though each house had its own kitchenware, most was damaged, and those who hadn't worked with preparing food back in their respective mazes had little experience providing for themselves. It was easier to have a designated group do most of the cooking.

Frypan certainly wasn't complaining about the arrangement. They found him with flour up to his elbows, contentedly kneading a bread dough. He looked almost exactly the same as in the Glade, even as he looked up at Thomas and Newt with a grin.

"I almost didn't believe Gally when he said you were here."

"Nobody lies about code Gold," Minho said.

"Is that what 'code Gold' means?"

"Why does nobody get that? It's gold for victory."

"Gold for 'it's good to see you again, Frypan'," Newt said. "And back in your element, too."

"Yeah, finally. The food isn't as good when it's not homegrown, but at least we're not relying on WICKED sending up supplies every week."

"Speaking of WICKED." Newt gestured behind them. "Here are your new kitchen assistants."

This time, Minho took care of the explanation, leaving Thomas and Newt to wander. They passed two girls, each one carrying a bag of potatoes. They said their uncertain hellos, having never spoken to the two before, and went on their way. There were voices in the distance, the sound of a kitchen, but the hallway was still. Newt sat down on the staircase leading up to a second floor. Thomas stood on the edge of a blue rug, a short distance away. They looked at each other, sharing the wonder of this place. Newt's eyes were sparkling. He couldn't wait to see more of the little world that their friends had created. No doubt, he already thought about ways to fix the flaws he had spotted in the structure Minho had outlined earlier.

Thomas should be right there with him, breathing in the fresh air of freedom. This was the closest they had ever been to safety. He should be pulling Newt to his feet so they could do a ridiculous victory dance around the room. If their escape had felt like a victory, Thomas would have kissed him right on the lips like they almost had before remembering that WICKED was watching their every move. The cameras were gone, the trials and mind games over. And still, he felt watched. They both knew that the moment they had was a shadow of what it should have been. Guilt, regret, anger. They were so much sturdier than joy.

They got the full tour, seeing all the work that had been done during their capture, reconnecting with the friends and allies who had gotten away before them. Everything seemed to be worked out. They knew where they could get the materials needed to make more of the cure. They had locations that could be used in its production, for when WICKED's facility stopped being practical. They had researched and strategized for the acquirement of allies, who would have the strength required to bring WICKED to justice. The only thing that separated them from success was the final turning point of cracking the molecular code. They received regular updates from their friends over at the facility, which were simplified but generally positive. They were at a standstill, apparently, but didn't expect to stay there for long. They had almost won, and Thomas hadn't even been there to help.

As the sky darkened in the late afternoon, everyone gathered at Frypan's house for a mixture between a celebratory dinner and a house party. According to Thomas' flimsy idea of what a party was, there should have been more alcohol involved, but they made do with overly sweet soda with enough bubbles to make Thomas's eyes water. The whole house was like a storm of voices, laughter, and ceaseless movement.

Thomas had nodded his way through a conversation with Harriet, trying to focus on what she was saying with little success. Then, Sonya had appeared at her side, and Thomas had been alone. He slipped through the crowd and out the door. Nobody wanted to go out into the darkness, where snow fell in thick flakes. The sting of frozen water melting on his face made it easier to breathe. The dim remains of light and laughter that made it outside felt much safer than the full effect. The baked potato in his stomach felt like a stone. He had been starving, but the warm smell of butter and chives that had at first been alluring had turned his stomach once the plate was in his hands. Things that were too good to be true were better off as lies. When they pretended to be true, they were still too good, sickly sweet like that soda, and just as likely to make you tear up.

The door opened. Before Thomas could sneak away along the side of the building, he saw that it was Minho.

"Hey, shank, we saw you go outside, and you didn't come back. Are you good?"

"I'm…" Thomas shook his head. "When that Berg gets here –tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going with it, to the facility."