Chapter Text
Mary leaned against the cool steel of the transport shed, the cacophony of the Right Arm’s camp surrounding her like static—a chaotic symphony of voices, clanging tools, and the distant whine of machinery. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the structure, her breath growing shallow as anxiety tightened its grip. Vince and his men disembarked from the stolen Berg, their faces etched with exhaustion. Relief clashed with disbelief as Mary’s eyes locked onto the unmistakable forms of Sonya and Harriet among the group of girls they had rescued.
Two weeks of despair had weighed heavily on her since losing contact with Thomas. He had been their last hope—the only link still connecting them to WICKED’s inner workings. Without him, their plans felt fragile, like a loose thread slowly unravelling. And now, against all odds, Sonya was here. Her wide brown eyes were tired yet glinting with wary defiance as she stuck to Harriet’s side. Both girls moved as though haunted, each step burdened by the ghosts of what they had endured. Mary wondered if they had completed the Trials in the meantime or if Vince had plucked them straight from the Maze.
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, steadying herself against the overwhelming surge of emotion threatening to consume her. She forced herself to move, to act, falling back on her professionalism. She was a doctor. She was here to help, to heal. That role settled over her like armour, concealing the cracks beneath. Her movements brisk and her voice steady, Mary stepped forward, guiding the girls toward the med tent with calm, practised authority.
“I’ll take over from here,” she said to Vince, her tone leaving no room for argument. He nodded, his grim expression softening briefly with gratitude before turning back to the others to unload the Berg.
Inside the medical tent, the dim light cast shadows over every scratch and bruise on the girls’ faces. Mary moved with efficiency as she cleaned wounds, checked vitals, and catalogued injuries. From their fragmented accounts, she pieced together the harrowing story of the girls’ escape: how they’d been picked up by a group posing as saviours—only to discover they were WICKED operatives in disguise, until Vince and his team intervened to truly rescue them.
Mary couldn’t help but notice how Harriet hovered protectively near Sonya, her alert eyes scrutinising Mary’s every move.
“This might sting a little,” Mary murmured gently, dabbing a bloody scratch on Sonya’s cheek. Sonya flinched but held still, meeting Mary’s eyes for a fleeting moment. The vulnerability struck something deep within her, but Mary steeled herself, forcing her focus back to the task at hand.
They didn’t recognise her. Of course, they wouldn’t.
Vince’s voice pierced the heavy silence, startling Mary as he stepped into the tent. His broad frame seemed to fill the small space, his presence commanding attention. “We intercepted them on their way to the facility—the remote one in the Scorch, not their headquarters,” he said, his tone grim. “There was a boy with them. We lost him in the scuffle.”
Mary frowned, her mind racing. “A boy?” she asked in disbelief. That wasn’t part of the original Trials. It was supposed to be the girls in one Maze, boys in the other. She looked at Sonya and Harriet, who had stiffened at Vince’s words. “Did you catch his name?”
“Aris,” Harriet supplied, her tone guarded as she glanced between Mary and Vince.
Aris. Not Thomas. Unease swept over Mary in a cold, relentless wave. WICKED was changing the parameters again, twisting the experiment into something new, something unrecognisable. She had tried to warn Thomas, to prepare him for the inevitable. He hadn’t listened. And now it seemed that not only had he been sent into the Maze, but Ava’s other special subjects as well.
Ava must be truly desperate if she resorted to such measures.
The girls were assigned to one of the community tents, and Sonya, quieter now than she had been as a child, leaned into Harriet’s presence as though it was the only thing anchoring her to this world.
Mary wrestled with how much she could reveal. Although she couldn’t give the girls back their memories—lacking the necessary devices—she could at least help them understand who they are and who they once were. However, Mary wasn’t yet ready to confront her own past. The trust between them was too fragile. Mary feared the weight of the truth, feared losing the solace she found in the role of a saint that the girls seemed to view her through, no matter how tainted and hollow it truly was.
Approaching midnight, she moved through her nightly patrol, passing the tent where Sonya and Harriet slept, when a faint metallic clink caught her ear. Her footsteps were light against the dusty ground, barely making a sound. Mary slowed, her concern rising, and paused at the edge of the tent. Gently, she pushed the flap aside, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior.
Moonlight filtered through the fabric, casting eerie shadows. Harriet sat awake, her back straight and posture tense despite the late hour. A makeshift chain looped tightly around her wrist, catching the silvery glow, its other end secured to Sonya’s. Her face remained peaceful, the steady rise and fall of her chest the only motion in the stillness.
“Harriet?” Mary whispered, stepping cautiously into the tent.
Harriet’s head snapped up, her sharp eyes narrowing with suspicion before gradually softening into recognition. “Dr. Cooper,” she said quietly, her voice edged with wariness.
Mary’s eyes flicked back to the chain. “What are you doing?” she inquired, her voice barely audible to keep from disturbing Sonya.
Harriet hesitated, her fingers brushing the cold metal links absently. “Keeping her safe,” she said after a long pause, when Mary didn’t even expect an answer anymore.
“From what?”
Harriet’s jaw tightened, and she glanced toward Sonya, ensuring she was still asleep. Her voice dropped even lower. “From herself.”
Mary tilted her head, waiting. She could sense the girl’s disquiet and gave her the space she needed to gather her thoughts. Finally, Harriet spoke again, her words halting, laden with unease.
“She’s… different sometimes. Mostly, she’s herself. Sometimes, she’s Lizzy. And as of recently…” Harriet’s voice faltered, her hands clenching into fists.
“It’s okay, you can tell me,” Mary encouraged gently. “You’re safe here.”
“There’s someone else,” Harriet said finally, her eyes darkening with an emotion Mary couldn’t quite place. “It’s still new, and I don’t understand it. I didn’t know that part of her. I only met her on our way here. After Rachel… I think... I think she’s acting like Beth before—before she…”
Rachel. Beth. Mary had wondered what had become of the girls—what fate had befallen them. They hadn’t been among the those Vince had brought here.
Mary listened, her heart heavy, as Harriet’s next words tumbled out in a hurried whisper, each one cutting deeper than the last.
“Beth wanted to stop us from leaving the Maze,” Harriet said, her voice shaking. “She killed Rachel. And now… I think Sonya’s taken on Beth’s personality. It’s not really Beth—it’s like a twisted version of her. Angry. Dangerous. When she surfaces, it feels like she has no control. She tries to leave, to go back to the Maze, or… worse. She calls herself Beth.”
Harriet’s hand tightened around the chain. “That’s why I chained her to me. If she wakes up as… as Beth, I’ll know. And I’ll stop her.”
Mary stared at Harriet. She had anticipated something like this—a fractured personality was prone to splintering even further. It wasn’t unusual for personalities to adapt to their trauma, but hearing Harriet describe one so dark and volatile sent a chill through her.
What moved Mary more was the naturalness with which Harriet devoted herself to Sonya, the way she managed her condition. She didn’t seem to question it, simply accepting it and making the best of it. Ava had once said that the subjects who survived the trials would be the brightest, strongest, and most resilient of their kind—the key to the cure. At least Ava had been right about one thing.
“I know what this is,” Mary said softly. “It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder. It happens when the mind fractures, usually due to trauma. Lizzy, Beth… they’re fragments of her, parts of her mind struggling to cope with everything she’s endured.”
Harriet opened her mouth, her eyes searching Mary’s. “You sound like you’ve seen it before.”
“I have,” Mary admitted. She took a deep breath, glancing at Sonya’s sleeping form before continuing. “I knew you before the Maze. I worked for WICKED. Back then, she was just Sonya and Lizzy. She had a brother, Edward. She talked about him often.”
Harriet nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Lizzy still does. She talks about Eddie all the time. Like he’s just around the corner. She misses him.”
Tears stung Mary’s eyes as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. “He was everything to her,” she whispered.
“What happened to him?”
“WICKED,” Mary began, her voice breaking. “There is a second Maze. He is—”
It’s Newt. He tried to kill himself.
Thomas’ words echoed in her mind, making it impossible to continue.
After a moment, Harriet spoke up. “Can you help them? Sonya. Lizzy. Can you… fix this?”
“I’m sorry,” Mary said, her voice laden with regret. "There are things that cannot be fixed."
That admission, Mary now understood, came too late. They should have seen, long ago, that this world was broken beyond repair—that some things simply weren’t to be mended. The relentless pursuit of a cure had been a distraction, a futile attempt to rewrite the inevitable. Instead of clinging to the illusion of salvation, they should have focused on preparing humanity to adapt, to endure, to survive in the world as it was, not as they wished it to be…
A spark of sudden inspiration jolted Mary, stealing her breath. She needed to talk to Vince—immediately. Casting an apologetic glance at Harriet, she murmured, “Excuse me,” before slipping out of the tent, the cool night air wrapping around her, doing nothing to temper her fervent ardour.