Official lights out was hours ago now. It happened the same time every night, like clockwork, when the entire facility -- a humming thread of activity and movement during the day --  went as still and as silent as the grave. Newt listened closely for any sign of movement outside the thick slab of metal that made up the door to the bunker rooms where he and the other boys were accommodated. It was a small room, only big enough to house four rows of bunk beds, each and every one of them housing a snoring figure that he would have to try and sneak past if he were to be able to get out and do what it was he was aiming to do.

He held his breath and listened intently, head tilted towards the door. Silence. The only sounds were the shuffling of Minho turning over in his bunk and Siggy's repetitive snores from somewhere above him.

Slowly, painstakingly as to not make a sound, Newt drew back the covers on his bed and threw his legs over the side, pressing his bare feet tentatively onto the stone floor. It was cold against the soles of his feet, and he felt his toes go achingly numb against it. They weren't provided with slippers, only one pair of white shoes to be worn in the day, but those were by the door and he couldn't risk moving them without it being noticed. Bare feet would be quieter anyway, he reasoned to himself as he stood up and inched closer to the door.

Newt pressed his ear against the metal, waiting.

Not a shred of movement came from the other side.

Casting one last glance behind him at the slumbering boys, Newt pulled the door open, wincing at the low creaking of metal. The sound seemed ten times as loud as it usually did, but when he checked over his shoulder, he saw that only Thomas had shifted slightly in his bunk, and that the rest of them were still sound asleep. Sighing with relief, Newt thumbed at the ID card he had swiped from the guards escorting them earlier, fingers sliding across the laminated surface, and tucked it into his pocket.

He would need it for where he was going.

Sliding out the room, he closed the door silently behind him, and was left facing the hallway before him.

The hallways of the complex were dark, oppressive. The walls were nothing but towering masses pressing in on either side, the ceiling a slate of black that stretched as far as his eyes could process in the limited light that shone from the dying torch in his hand. He had nicked it from a supply crate earlier, buried it under his pillow until he needed it. As he moved further and further into the heart of WICKED's complex, he started turning it on and off every few seconds, every shuffle of sound bouncing off the hallway symbolising the possible threat of being caught.

As he reached the entrance to the console room, Newt paused and stared at the light shining from underneath the door, frowning in confusion. The facility was locked up hours ago, and theoretically everyone should have been in bed by now.

"I'm not sure it's wise to continue these trials." A familiar voice met his ears from inside the room. When he slowly moved his head around the edge of the steel, Newt recognised her as one of the doctors who did weekly tests on them. She was frowning, dark skin shadowy in the limited light coming from the multiple screens in front of her. They were filled with charts and numbers, many of which Newt couldn't understand, and one of the screens, separated into six sections, showed diagrams of the human brain, pulsating and emitting a series of data, heart rate underneath them.

All were blue except for two, whose diagrams were still and red, a flatline beneath them.

Another voice responded before Newt could process what it meant. "We've come too far to stop now, Crawford." Newt immediately recognised her sleek blonde ponytail and white lab coat. "We're looking at progress, real progress. You said it yourself, the brain activity we are seeing-"

"Is inhumane and cruel." Dr Crawford interrupted. She pointed at the data surrounding one of the diagrams on the screen. "The fear levels are intense, the stress levels even higher. We already lost two, I shudder to think how many we'll lose before we start to see results promising enough to even hint at a cure."

Ava Page frowned, the wrinkles on her face appearing more pronounced in the harsh blue light of the monitors. "We can't turn back now." She paused for a moment before turning back to Crawford, and Newt was forced to quickly duck behind the door before he could be spotted, pressing his ear against the wall instead. "I want you to prepare the others. Four more, to be sent up next week. I want them tested daily, and I want them to be prepped for the swipe."

Crawford pursed her lips, but nodded. "I'll make it as painless as possible for them."

"Good. Oh, and Crawford? See to it that the list of coordinates is disposed of as fast as possible, by tomorrow latest. I don't want The Right Arm to become more of a complication than they already are."

"Understood, ma'am." Crawford sent a fleeting glance at the far right monitor before swiftly moving towards the door. Newt shrank back into the darkness as much as possible, holding his breath, and only released it when he saw Ava Page stride out of the room, turning the corner before heading out of sight.

Newt waited a beat, and when there was no sign of further movement, scurried into the control centre, making a mad dash for the far right monitor. His gaze caught on the monitors featuring the brain diagrams, the two inactive ones stark and vicious, and he watched the numbers and data stream across the screen in a dizzying blur of letters and numbers.

Brain activity, Crawford had said. They were studying brain activity.

That's why his friends were being thrown into the maze, why they were forced through trials and tribulations so horrific and inhumane it was a wonder that mankind could inflict such suffering, acting like a God lording over his subjects.

Anger coursed through him, boiling his blood. This whole time they had been lied to, promised safety and love, companions in a world that had turned so lonely overnight, when in reality they were nothing more than lab rats tortured to entertain and amuse.

Resolve strengthened, Newt grabbed the notepad and pen laying on the table next to him and, flipping through pages upon pages of names and percentages, hastily copied the coordinates on the monitor that Ava Page insisted needed to be deleted. The coordinates of every single WICKED compound and lab, so much power, so much pain, captured in a few strokes of the pen. When he was done, Newt stood there, staring down at the list, before ripping the page from the notepad and jamming it into his pocket.

He knew immediately what he had to do. The Right Arm, Dr Page had said, causing trouble for WICKED. Surely if anyone could dismantle the organisation it would be them.

With that in mind, Newt glanced up at the monitors in front of him, watching the haze of words and images flash across the screen, and smiled.