Feral → newt, tmr

Chapter 23: RightArm

“No!” Katherine shouts, panic clawing at her chest.

“Vince, that’s enough!” A new voice pierces through the chaos. A dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties pushes through the crowd, her expression firm and unyielding. “Let them go!”

“She’s infected, Doc,” Vince argues. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”

The woman’s gaze is steely as she gestures toward the twins. “No, but they can.” Her expression softens as she looks at Thomas and Katherine. “Hello, Thomas. Katherine.”

The twins share a bewildered glance before Katherine finds her voice. “What? You know us?”

“Interesting,” the woman murmurs, a small smile playing on her lips. “It makes sense they’d put you both in the maze. Though I must admit... I was worried they’d kill you after what you two did.”

Katherine frowns. “What we did?”

The woman kneels beside Brenda, inspecting her wound with practiced hands. “The first time we spoke, both of you said you couldn’t take it anymore... watching your friends die, one by one. The last time we spoke, you gave me the coordinates of every WICKED compound, trial, and lab.”

“They were our source,” Vince mutters, his suspicion shifting to realization. “We couldn’t have pulled all this off without them.”

The woman straightens, her voice calm but commanding. “Take her to the tent. Get these guys some warm clothes.” She gestures to the twins. “Thomas, Katherine, come on. I need to get some blood from you both.”

The medical tent feels too small for all the questions rattling in Katherine’s mind. The dim, flickering light casts jagged shadows on the canvas walls as Brenda wheezes softly on the cot, her face pale and damp with sweat. Katherine’s gaze lingers on her for a moment before flicking to the woman at the table—Mary. She moves with practiced precision, hands steady as she prepares vials and syringes, the tools clinking softly in the tense silence.

"In the beginning, we were lost," Mary starts, her voice calm but heavy with something old—guilt, maybe, or regret. The words settle like stones in Katherine’s stomach as she watches the woman carefully transfer their blood into glass containers. "All we knew for sure was that the younger you were, the stronger your chances."

"You worked for WICKED?" Thomas’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp with disbelief.

Mary pauses, her hand hovering over a flask before nodding. "A long time ago," she admits, the weight of the confession pressing down on everyone in the room. "At first, we had the best intentions. Find a cure, save the world. But it became clear—you kids were the key. Because you were immune."

"But why?" Thomas presses, his tone hardening.

Mary’s eyes flick to him, her calm exterior wavering for the briefest moment. "Eventually, we found an answer. An enzyme produced by the brains of the immune. Once separated from the bloodstream, it could act as a powerful agent to slow the spread of the virus."

Katherine stiffens. The word "enzyme" feels clinical, detached. As if it’s not their blood, their lives, being discussed. "So, you found a cure?" she asks, though something tells her she won’t like the answer.

"Not exactly," Mary sighs. "The enzyme can’t be manufactured, only harvested. From the immune. The young." Her voice lowers as she draws a pale blue liquid into a syringe, holding it up to the light. "Of course, that didn’t stop WICKED. If they had their way, they’d sacrifice an entire generation. All for this."