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We have discovered a most extraordinary Candidate. None of us can put a finger on why he seems so perfect to serve as one of our Elites. There is simply something about him. Though very young, he seems to have an awareness of his surroundings well beyond his years. His verbal and cognitive skills are at an adult level, yet somehow he still holds on to an innocence – a childlike quality – that has endeared him to everyone he has met so far.
We have decided to name him after one of the most important inventors in history, as we believe strongly that he will go on to achieve great things.
I wanted to share some quick thoughts about Chuck's death since talk of it is rampant around the compound. Though not surprising, the reaction disappoints me.
Chuck was a wonderful child full of life and sweet tenderness. Of all our subjects, he may have been the one most likely to earn our sympathies, as well as those of his companions. Ironically, that is the very reason why what happened needed to happen. You saw the results for yourself. Most importantly, and to ease your consciences, remember that Chuck was not a potential Candidate and most certainly would have met an even worse death eventually. If anything, we did him a mercy by setting up the scenario that led to his murder. There is not much else to say. I do not need to preach about
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All the potential solutions are far too unpredictable to be usable. Except one. It's a virus. It attacks the brain and shuts it down, painlessly. It acts quickly and decisively. The virus was designed to slowly weaken in infection rate as it spreads from host to host. It will be perfect for our needs, especially considering how severely limited travel has become. It could work, John. And as awful as it seems, I believe it could work efficiently.
I'm still sick from the meeting today. I just can't believe it. I can't accept that the PCC actually looked us in the eyes and presented that proposal. Seriously. I was stunned. And then more than half the room AGREED WITH THEM! They supported it! What the hell is going on? Randall, tell me what the HELL is going on? How can we even THINK about doing something like that? How? I've spent the afternoon trying to make sense of it all. I can't take it. I can't. How did we get here?
Have you seen any of them? These aren't rumours any more, Randall. They have at least 27 confirmed sightings of infected groups. The virus didn't kill them! None of the doctors or scientists can nail down what's gone wrong. But most of the people living at Ground Zero locations are completely insane, like animals. They're monsters! But that's not even the worst part. What has the Coalition terrified is that victims even had time to escape from the remote camps. The Coalition thought the incubation period and onset of death would be much faster. And there are reports of symptoms in citizens
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But jargon matters not. What matters is how it all connects. The killzone. The Flare. The Immunes. A world that's in complete catastrophe. We need to find a cure. There is no other way to go forward. We will meet tomorrow, 0800. I have an idea.
“Stop it!” Mum screams, a sound so loud it pierces Thomas's eardrums painfully. “You stop it right now! I swear to God I'll rip your heart out if you touch my son!” Dad laughs. Not just a chuckle, either. His whole body shakes and he throws his head back as booming laughter pours from him, filling the house with its noise. Thomas has never heard something sound so wrong before. But the man keeps it up, laughing and laughing and laughing.
Frypan looked up at his nurse, and though nervousness filled his gut, he knew he was doing the right thing and forced himself to relax. He was about to get his memories back. His memories! He couldn't wait to see his past.
“No hugs and kisses?” Minho asked. “I've missed your ugly face.” “Follow me or you'll be fired upon.” Not even a crack in his stone-hard expression. Minho sighed and did what he was told. He wasn't in the mood to be shot that day.
It sounded too simple. “You actually think I could ever trust you, shuck-face?” “Excuse me?” the Rat Man asked. Minho shook his head. “I swear to God that if you do one more thing to me or my friends, I won't quit fighting until I'm dead.” A smirk appeared on the man's face, enraging Minho even more.
Minho was so angry he almost shook. He knew he had no choice but to do what he was told, and it drove him crazy.
A whiteboard hung on the opposite wall, and beside it stood a tall, muscular man dressed in green scrubs and a white lab coat. He had perfectly combed black hair and the worst moustache Minho had ever seen. “Welcome,” the man said. “My name is Lincoln. Please have a seat, facing me.” Curiosity took over. Minho sat in the chair, wondering what to do with his hands, until he finally folded them in his lap.
When the allotted time had passed, Lincoln spoke in a grave voice that showed he meant every single word. “Our doctors have determined that we need to dissect the brains of these subjects for a more in-depth study. But we will allow you to spare one of them. Which person do you choose to save? That is your question.”
Five full minutes passed. Minho sat in silence. It couldn't possibly be true. Did WICKED really mean to cut his friends’ brains apart?
Of all the many times he'd felt anger since entering the Maze, it had never been like this. Never.
Minho didn't get it, couldn't comprehend how this could all be necessary. The confusion just made him even angrier and more stubborn.
