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The air in the Scorch hung thick and stifling, pressing down on Thomas. The sun blazed mercilessly above, a searing orb that bleached the endless expanse of jagged rocks and barren sand into a vision of desolation. Each breath tasted of grit and despair, the wasteland stretching around him like the edge of the world.
Teresa stood a few feet away, her posture unnervingly still, her expression unreadable. She might as well have been carved from stone, her presence as distant and unyielding as the landscape itself.
The silence between them was unbearable, thick with words neither dared speak. Thomas felt it like a physical force, twisting in his gut, each second amplifying the suffocating weight of her detachment. Something was wrong—he could feel it in the way she wouldn’t meet his eyes, in the rigid line of her shoulders.
“Teresa,” he said at last, his voice dry and cracked, barely louder than the whisper of the wind. He cleared his throat and tried again, his tone sharper this time, though it wavered under the strain. “What’s going on? Why are you—”
She didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze shifted to him, her eyes cold and sharp, and for a moment, Thomas thought he saw a flicker of something—regret, hesitation—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, but distant, like that of a stranger, someone wearing her face but devoid of her soul.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
Thomas stared at her, his pulse hammering in his ears as he searched her face for some sign of the Teresa he thought he knew. But there was nothing. No warmth, no recognition. Just emptiness.
“No, I don’t,” he managed, his voice faltering.
“Come on, Tom,” Teresa said, her voice sharp and cutting, laced with an irritation that rippled with something deeper—darker. “How can you still be so blind? After everything, after all we’ve been through, how can you be surprised by any of this?” She gave a brittle, humourless laugh, her eyes narrowing as she regarded him, her gaze stripping him bare. “We were pawns from the start. WICKED made us, shaped us. Everything we are, everything we’ve done—it’s all theirs. And it’s over now. Newt and I are doing what we were told to do. That’s all there is. WICKED’s all that matters.”
Thomas swallowed hard, his voice caught in his throat. “What… what are you talking about?” The words came out hollow, a pale echo of the storm raging inside him. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath hitching as the ground seemed to tilt beneath his feet. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Not Teresa. Not Newt. Teresa—she was a piece of him, a lifeline woven through every nightmare they’d survived together in the Maze and beyond. And Newt… Newt was his constant, his unwavering anchor in a storm of chaos, the quiet strength he’d leaned on when everything else threatened to fall apart.
But Teresa’s words twisted in his mind like barbed wire. He replayed them, each one a new wound that bled into his thoughts. “How can you still be so blind?” The accusation stung more than he wanted to admit. His chest heaved with the effort to stay calm, to find some sliver of sense in what she was saying, but the icy look in her eyes refused him even that small solace.
A sound behind him—a soft crunch of twigs—sent his heart skittering. He didn’t turn. Somehow, he already knew who it was. His instincts screamed at him to face him, but pride, stubborn and bruised, anchored him in place. He kept his gaze locked on Teresa, willing her to crack, to show him something—anything—that proved she was still herself. That she wasn’t completely gone. But her expression didn’t falter.
“Tom,” she said, her tone almost mocking now. “Newt is right behind you, and he has a very big knife. Try anything and he’ll slice your neck. You’re coming with us and you’re gonna do exactly what we tell you. Understand?”
The words hit him harder than the threat of the knife. He felt his breath leave him in a rush, his throat constricting.
“Say hi, Newt,” Teresa said.
Behind him, a voice he knew as well as his own broke through the thick tension. “Hi, Tommy.” Newt’s tone was light, almost cheerful, but it was a mask stretched over something sharper. The blade pressed against his back, cold and deliberate, punctuating the greeting. The contact was real, as real as the hollow pit opening in Thomas’ chest.
He swallowed hard, tears threatening to blur his vision, but he blinked them away. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear. “Hi, Newt,” he said.
“Well, at least you’re acting like a grown-up about this,” Teresa smirked, her lips twisting as she turned and motioned for him to follow. “Just keep moving—we’re almost there.”
Thomas’ feet dragged against the sand, his movements laboured, weighed down by a growing sense of hopelessness. The world felt cruelly silent, as if even the desert pitied him. It stretched around them like a wasteland of broken dreams, barren and harsh, each sun-bleached rock and twisted root a reminder of WICKED’s control over everything. And each step felt like a surrender.
When they reached a jagged outcropping, Teresa slowed, turning to glance at him. Her gaze lingered before she entered the cave. The air was thick, stale, smelling of dust and decay. But it wasn’t dark. A faint, sickly green light illuminated the walls, casting shadows that danced like spectres.
“Take off your clothes, Tom,” Teresa said. No hesitation. No explanation.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Part of him wanted to fight, to yell at them, and snap them out of whatever twisted hold WICKED had over their minds. But he was too stunned to fight, too devastated to think. The press of Newt’s blade against his spine reminded him just how little control he had left. Numbly, mechanically, he obeyed. He moved like a puppet, shrugging off his shirt, kicking off his shoes—each article of clothing dropped to the ground felt like peeling away another layer of himself, leaving him raw and exposed. There was nowhere to hide, nothing to shield himself from the cold reality that the two people he had trusted most had turned on him for some sick game orchestrated by WICKED.
They bound him tightly, the rope biting into his wrists. He stared at the ground, unable to lift his gaze, each scrape of the fibres a painful reminder of how deep they’d fallen—how far they’d pushed him. His thoughts raced, memories colliding in his mind. Laughter shared in the Glade. Quiet conversations under the stars. The trust they’d built…
Their voices murmured around him, too low to make out. He felt the ghost of their touches. They moved in front of him like figures in some silent play, ignoring his presence as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture, a nonentity at the edge of their shared world. Teresa turned to Newt, her fingers grazing along his cheek, then sliding down to rest on his chest, her expression softening in a way Thomas had never seen.
Thomas couldn’t look away, compelled by some sick need to understand, but what he saw broke something fragile inside him.
Teresa kissed Newt. Slow. Unapologetic. Her hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as their movements grew hungrier, more fervent. The intimacy of it, the ease with which they connected right in front of him, made Thomas feel as though he’d been struck. He wanted to look away, to turn his head, to close his eyes and erase the image from his mind—but he couldn’t. His gaze stayed glued to them, as if he were spellbound, unwillingly transfixed by the scene unfolding before him, watching in silent agony as they became lost in each other.
Thomas’ chest constricted, his breath hitching as he watched, each second the kiss lasted twisting the knife deeper. He tried to shut out their soft sighs, the intimate sounds that filled the cave, but they seeped into his mind, amplifying the storm inside him. A poisonous cocktail of emotions churned—jealousy, betrayal, and something far more confusing. Was it Newt he envied for getting to touch Teresa, or Teresa for being close to Newt? It unnerved him; a dark, unanswerable ache that left him reeling.
He blinked repeatedly, desperate to wake up, to find himself trapped in yet another nightmare—but the scene refused to dissolve. He knew he should hate this, should feel a righteous anger that matched the depth of their betrayal. Yet, as he watched the two people he trusted most together, a far more unsettling emotion took hold, something far too raw for him to confront.
Teresa’s hands glided over Newt’s arms, her touch deliberate as she lingered, unbuttoning his shirt with unhurried precision before slipping it off his shoulders. And Newt—though his expression flickered with discomfort and frustration—didn’t pull away.
Thomas dropped his gaze, his heart a hollow drumbeat in his chest. His skin burned, his pulse racing as shame welled up within him, compounded by the unsettling realisation that his body was betraying him too.
He turned his head, desperate to focus on anything else—the coarse ropes digging into his wrists, the chill of the cave air contrasting with the prickling heat beneath his skin. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the overwhelming pull of their closeness, an ache that refused to be ignored.
A moment later, he caught Teresa’s gaze sweeping over him. Her lips curled into a knowing smirk, and his stomach sank. She’d noticed his arousal, and the glint of satisfaction in her eyes made his humiliation complete. Turning back to Newt, her hands slid slowly down his torso, her fingers toying with his waistband. But Newt’s expression darkened, irritation flickering across his face. He wasn’t responding as she wanted—Thomas could see it in the stiff set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw, each subtle movement betraying his growing frustration as her touch grew more insistent.
Her efforts to elicit a response from him fell short. Newt’s features grew taut, his eyes narrowing as he finally brushed her hand aside. Flustered, he attempted to take control, his cheeks flushed, but the tension in his movements was unmistakable. Whatever this was, it wasn’t working for him, and Teresa’s composure visibly cracked. She stepped back, her frustration simmering beneath the surface, before turning sharply to Thomas. Her gaze latched onto his with an unsettling intensity that made him recoil.
Before Thomas knew it, Teresa had seized him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she shoved him toward Newt. The ropes around his wrists bit into his skin, his arms protesting as he stumbled forward, her grip unwavering as she guided him down to his knees in front of Newt.
“What the hell are ya doin’?” Newt’s accent was thick, edged with panic. Thomas looked up, catching the alarm in Newt’s eyes, his gaze darting frantically around the dim cave. “This is against protocol. You’re riskin’ his life!”
Teresa didn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering, completely unfazed by the accusation. “Wrong,” she replied coolly, a strange smile on her lips. “I’m saving both of you. WICKED needs variables. This—” she gestured between them, a strange gleam in her eye “—is a variable.”
Teresa’s hand slid into Thomas’ hair, her grip firm as she guided him forward, closer to Newt. The moment felt surreal, the tension between them crackling like static. Newt’s fly was undone, the thin fabric of his underwear revealing the soft curve beneath.
Newt’s gaze remained locked on him, his expression strained, almost torn. For a fleeting moment, Thomas thought he caught something in Newt’s eyes, something raw and unspoken—a shadow of challenge, an edge of something darker, almost possessive. But just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving only tension in its wake.
“Stop it,” Newt hissed, his voice tight, as he addressed Teresa.
She didn’t falter, her hand grazing Thomas’ cheek with an unsettling tenderness, her gaze softening into something that almost resembled adoration. “No,” she said firmly, her voice steady. “What if this is exactly what they’re counting on, Newt? What if they expected you to fail?”
Her eyes never left Thomas. “What if they want us to adjust the protocol?”
Newt shook his head sharply, his frustration mounting. “Not like this.”
“Drop the act. Tom and I both can tell how much you want this,” Teresa countered, her tone unwavering, laced with something unsettling. Her gaze shifted back to Newt, her voice dropping lower, firmer. “Take off your pants.”
Teresa's thumb brushed over Thomas’ lips, her touch both gentle and insistent, pressing down just enough to make him yield. Thomas, too overwhelmed to resist, parted his lips slightly, her control over him as undeniable as the situation unravelling before him.
Newt hesitated, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his pants. With a reluctant shove, they slid down, leaving him exposed.
Teresa’s grip tightened in Thomas’ hair, her presence relentless, her movements deliberate. Her voice, calm yet charged with authority, sent a ripple of strange desire through Thomas. Every word she spoke seemed impossible to defy, a shiver of command that crept down his spine and left him powerless to do anything but obey.
“Suck him,” she said, her voice sharp, and Thomas found himself nodding. She guided him forward. His breath hitched, a tremor coursing through him as her thumb was replaced by Newt’s dick—a storm of confusion swirling in his mind, unable to grasp why he complied so easily, why hesitation never even crossed his mind.
Newt tensed, and Thomas could feel it—a resistance he needed to breach. He wanted Newt to want this, to feel the pull of it as intensely as he did. He needed to show Newt just how deeply he, Thomas, wanted this—even if that realisation had only struck him moments ago.
Uncertain and unpracticed, he focused on making Newt feel good, pouring himself into the effort. When a sound finally escaped Newt—a quiet, involuntary release—it ignited something deep within Thomas. It was unlike anything he’d felt before; a desperate, aching need to lose himself completely. Slowly, Newt’s body began to respond, the tension easing, discomfort giving way to need, unspoken yet undeniable.
“Good,” Teresa murmured, and the fleeting comfort of her fingers tangled in his hair vanished, replaced by a dark, inescapable certainty: this was exactly what WICKED wanted. The loss of control, the surrender of everything they held sacred—and yet, to his own dismay, he didn’t mind.
The people he trusted most were right here, their touch electric, their closeness more intimate than he’d ever dared imagine. Yet every gesture, every whispered demand, carried an undercurrent of calculation. He wanted to pull back, to shut it all out, but the intoxicating pull of being seen, truly wanted by them both, held him captive.
Teresa’s grip eased in his hair, though she remained close, her gaze steely, assessing. “Don’t fight it, Thomas,” she murmured, her voice cold and deliberate, as if rehearsed. She pulled him back, releasing Newt’s cock from his mouth, and added, “WICKED needs you to let go. Just… accept it.” Her hands cupped his face, tilting it upward to meet her eyes, daring him to defy her. Yet, beneath that steely mask, a flicker of something softer remained—a muted plea, a desperate hope that he would endure this, even if it came at the cost of breaking him.
She kissed him, slow and deliberate, and beside them, Newt shifted uneasily, his posture stiff, his face pale. His brow furrowed as he glanced between Teresa and Thomas. When he spoke, his voice was strained, barely more than a whisper. “Teresa… we’re pushing it too far. This… it could—” He cut himself off, the unfinished thought hanging heavy in the air. His gaze darted to the cave walls, as if expecting WICKED’s unseen presence to emerge from the shadows, ready to judge, ready to intervene.
Teresa pulled away and Thomas tried to follow her lips. Her eyes snapped toward Newt with a sharp, warning gaze. “Newt,” she hissed, her voice low, a clear warning. “You know what happens if we don’t go through with this. You know the consequences.” Her words softened just enough as she turned back to Thomas, a flicker of something almost vulnerable in her eyes. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Tom. Just... give them what they want. Enjoy it, if you can.”
Thomas’ pulse thundered in his ears as her words settled into him. Enjoy it? What was Teresa really asking? He wanted to scream, to claw his way free from the ropes and the unbearable truth of what WICKED had reduced them all to.
Why couldn’t he have this? You can, a voice in the back of his head whispered. And he knew it was true. He could enjoy this. Why shouldn’t he?
Need coiled tightly around him, and despite everything, the warmth of Teresa’s hands on his face felt like something precious—something he hadn’t realised he could have. And Newt… He wanted him closer. So much closer.
As if sensing his turmoil, Newt took a hesitant step forward. His hand reached out, gently brushing Thomas’ cheek, almost apologetically, his voice low and ragged. “Tommy, I… I don’t want this for you. I swear I don’t. But…” He paused, his eyes clouded with pain as he looked away. “But we don’t have a choice.” His hand lingered, a reassuring touch that eased Thomas' nerves, yet ignited a fire within him all the same.
Thomas swallowed hard. They’re doing this to save me , he realised, even as it felt like the situation was tearing him apart. He felt a swell of emotions he hadn’t known he’d been holding back—a longing to be close, a desperate desire for something real. He wanted to feel their closeness, wanted to feel their warmth, to forget everything else.
But this couldn’t be real. If this was what WICKED wanted, then it had to be a lie. And yet… he wanted it, wanted them, both of them, here, now.
“Tom,” Teresa whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “Let go. Just this once. It’ll be over soon if you don’t fight.”
Thomas’ eyes locked with Newt’s, the intensity of his gaze pulling him in. “If this is what WICKED wants… why does it feel right?” he murmured, his voice thick with confusion and desire.
Newt hesitated, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand travelled upward, fingers tangling in Thomas’ hair, the scrape of his nails against his scalp sending a maddening spark of sensation through him.
Sorrow darkened Newt’s features. “Maybe that’s what they’re testing,” he said quietly. His words caught, and he bit his lip. “How far we’ll go for each other. How much we’re willing to break for them.”
Teresa watched them both, her gaze hardening. “Don’t start getting soft, Newt,” she said, though her voice trembled almost imperceptibly. “He has to break for this to work. We all do.” The words were firm, but there was a subtle desperation in her tone, as if she, too, was trying to convince herself.
As Thomas looked between them, his heart clenched with the crushing realisation that they were all caught in WICKED’s snare, forced to play parts in yet another cruel trial. Even if what they shared was real—the closeness, the touch, the fleeting moments of tenderness—it was tainted, warped by the constant awareness that WICKED was watching, turning his love for Newt and Teresa against him.
"What do you need me to do?" Thomas asked, his voice laced with a determination to share the burden. He couldn’t bear the thought of them shouldering this alone. They were all in this together, and he needed them to see that.
Teresa and Newt exchanged a look. After a brief pause, Teresa’s attention returned to Thomas.
"The assignment was... to fuck each other in front of you," she began carefully, "but since Newt seems unable to... get into that… I was thinking of a way that might work for all of us.”
In the dimly lit control room, the glow of multiple screens cast a cold light on Assistant Director Janson’s face, his eyes locked onto the live feed from the cave. The flickering images of Subjects A1, A2 and A5. And he couldn’t help but clench his jaw as he watched A1’s hand move through A2’s hair, the intimacy of the scene struck a dissonant chord within him.
“What is happening?” Janson muttered, irritation lacing his voice. “This wasn’t part of the trial’s protocol.” He leaned closer to the screen, brow furrowed.
Janson reflected on the trial’s intended purpose—a precise act of betrayal, a carefully engineered fracture of the will. But this? This was defiance incarnate, a chaotic mess that undermined everything they’d meticulously planned for A2.
Ava stood beside him, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a clinical interest that Janson found unsettling. Her gaze flicked from A2 face to A1, then to A5, as if she were calculating the angles of a chess game. “You need to see the value in this,” she said, her tone steady, even as the tension in the room thickened. “What we’re witnessing is more complex than simple compliance or rebellion. Thomas is reacting, and that’s significant.”
“He’s not reacting in the way we wanted,” Janson snapped, his frustration boiling over. “This isn’t about them connecting; it’s about him feeling betrayed! He should be in agony right now, not aroused.” He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to look away from the screen momentarily.
Ava's expression remained unfazed. “But this connection, however misguided, could lead us to a deeper understanding of his psyche. He’s clearly overwhelmed, and instead of collapsing under pressure, he’s embracing it. That’s a variable we hadn’t anticipated.”
Janson swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his composure. He didn’t want to throw up in front of Ava. “It’s not how we planned,” he muttered, shaking his head. “We need to pull the plug if this continues. If Thomas doesn’t see this as betrayal, it compromises the entire test.”
Ava’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she tilted her head, considering the implications. “Let them continue for now,” she said, her voice cool and measured. “This could reveal more about their dynamics than we initially anticipated. We need to understand the strength of their bonds, even if they are forged through manipulation. If Thomas’ will can be bent through something so intimate, that’s invaluable information.”
Janson’s frustration curdled into simmering anger as he continued to watch the feed, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding in the cave. A2 walked straight into the trap—a carefully constructed ploy meant to shatter him—but the boy wasn’t reacting as they’d predicted.
"You really think this is a good idea?" Janson asked, his disbelief palpable. "This was meant to break him!"
Ava remained focused on the screen, her expression inscrutable. “Sometimes the path to breaking someone is not through sheer force, but through the manipulation of their desires. If Thomas embraces his affection, it can be a powerful tool to exploit later. We need to observe. Let’s gather data—monitor how this unfolds.”
Janson recoiled, a knot tightening in his stomach. The boy was no longer merely a victim of the betrayal; he was becoming complicit in it.
“This is our trial, Janson. We're still in control,” Ava’s voice broke through his thoughts, her tone unwavering. “Let them play their roles. We’ll analyse the results, and when the time comes, we’ll use this data to push them further. We’ll make sure Thomas understands the true nature of betrayal.”
He nodded reluctantly, his eyes still glued to the screen. They were on the precipice of something—an unexpected revelation that might shatter the delicate balance of control they had fought so hard to maintain. And despite the unease settling over him, he couldn’t help but feel a grim sense of anticipation. Thomas would break. Eventually.