*Glenn escapes*

I awoke with a start, jolting from the horrific dream with a gasp. A dream; that's all it was, right?

I scrambled onto my feet and looked about me. All seemed the same as it was before; I couldn't have been out no more than five or ten minutes. And that meant lunch was probably already over. Gathering my composure, I marched back to the homestead, refusing to even glance at the Fields as I passed them.

"Hey, where you been?" Jeff greeted as I walked up the rickety staircase.

"Uh, sorry. I lost track of time," I lied through gritted teeth.

He nodded, slightly suspicious, and I smiled sheepishly. "Okay, then. Well Newt's in the last room; I figured you might want to tend to him first."

My eyes widened at this, and I took off without preamble. Was he hurt? Did Glenn do this to him?

I flung open the door and stumbled into the dim room; shadows fluttered about the walls as a lit candle emitted a feeble orange glow. Newt was sat on the bed, staring solemnly out of the cracks in the boarded window.

"Newt!" I exclaimed as he turned his head slowly, presenting a nasty gash along his temple. "What happened?"

He looked at me with sad eyes, and I walked gingerly to the bed, crouching in front of him.

"What happened?" I whispered again, taking his clammy hand in mine.

"Glenn... he hit me with a shovel... and then jumped into the box," he said, his voice no louder than a whisper.

"But... that means he's dead, right? Like that other guy who tried it?"

Newt shook his head and winced.

"Let me see to this wound first. Looks sore," I said, grabbing the first aid kit and a dry cloth.

"But Rowan," he hissed, his eyes swimming in the candlelight. "The box came with no supplies. It arrived and opened exactly when he ran to it. It's like this was all planned out from the start. The box left, and he escaped. He actually escaped!" His voice grew in pitch, his eyes now burning.

I slowly dabbed the cloth against his temple, and he gritted his teeth. "Sorry," I whispered, proceeding to wipe away the blood pooling from the cut. "This is going to need stitches."

He nodded, wincing again, and I ran to gather more medical supplies. As I strode down the corridor, Newt's words sunk into my mind. Glenn had everything to do with this; he was working with WICKED. That much was obvious. Why did he need to escape? In case Newt found out too much? I brushed the situation from my mind and returned to the room.

"WICKED planned this from the start, didn't they?" Newt said in a dangerously low tone.

I paused and stared at him for a moment, and then nodded reluctantly. I didn't want to believe that people could be so cruel, but it was true.

"Newt, I had a dream before I came here; just after you left me to find Glenn." Then I told him about the dream whilst tenderly stitching the wound closed.

He said not a word during my recollection, and slowly pulled me into an embrace afterwards.

"That won't happen, okay? I won't let that happen... you won't let that happen."

I nodded against his neck and closed my eyes. Why were WICKED doing this? What was the point in it all?

I pulled away and sat beside him on the bed, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Did anyone else see him escape?" I whispered, interlacing my hand with his.

"I don't think so. The bell didn't sound and the other gladers were working. Questions will be asked, however. Someone's going to notice the disappearance of the shank."

I remained silent, until I chose to speak what was on my mind. "What if he comes back? What if he returns, and I lose control and... and my dream comes true?"

"That won't happen, Rowan," Newt declared in a insistent voice, almost as if he was trying to convince himself as much as me. "I trust you, okay?"

"Okay."

I left him a few minutes later, and proceeded to tend to the other injured gladers, most of whom had minor cuts and scratches.

At last night rolled about, and I found myself sat beside Minho, Newt and Chuck near the campfire.

Minho looked slightly troubled, and I spoke my concerns aloud.

He glanced at all three of us in turn, and suddenly shuffled closer. The cool breeze ruffled our hair and clothing, and the fire spat sizzling sparks of golden flame at our huddled bodies.

"Minho, what is it?" Chuck asked, wrapping his arms around his legs and drawing them closer to his body.

"I forgot to mention something, after I went through the changing," he whispered, casting an eye out for any eavesdroppers. I frowned; Minho hadn't told us much about his recollection of memories. Only that I was there.

"What is it?"

"Rowan... you had some sort of brand on your back."

My eyes widened. "What?!"

Even in the darkness, I could see the fire in Newt's eyes as he scrambled over to me.

"Turn around," he insisted, and I reluctantly turned my back on my friends. I dreaded to think what they'd find.

Newt, with confirmation from me, gingerly began rolling my top up, ever so slightly. The wind rolled along my back, and I shuddered.

A single gasp told me all I needed to know.

"What does it say?" I asked, my voice wavering profoundly as the words hitched in my throat.

There was a prolonged pause, before Minho spoke in a voice no louder than the vague crackle of the fire. "Rowan Alesta. Subject 1F. Group C... The Destroyer."