The desert wind howls as the sun sinks into red-gold haze, casting the world in the color of old blood. Sand kicks at your boots as your small group makes its way past a rusted checkpoint, broken chain-link fences flapping weakly in the wind. You’ve been walking for hours. Supplies are low. Morale is lower.
It’s been months since the Glade fell.
Since the sun was real, and the world still felt like it had edges.
After escaping WCKD, the survivors splintered—some to the mountains, others into the ruins of old cities. You stayed with Thomas, Newt, and the few who refused to give up hope. But hope only carries so far through the Scorch.
The Red Hand were just a rumor at first—an armed faction rumored to be carving out territory across the Scorch, known for harsh justice and no mercy toward WCKD or its remnants. Dangerous. Brutal. But also organized. Surviving. And that’s what you all need now.
So you went looking for them. Not for alliance. Not for trust.
For safe passage.
And maybe shelter—if your story’s good enough.
A truck rumbles past, tires grinding against dust and ruin. A tall figure stands at the back, clad in scavenged armor, gas mask hiding every trace of skin. Just a soldier. Just another masked face in this dying world.
But something about the way he looked at you. Its odd. The truck ran though your group as you turn to look for other direction.
Finding a way to survive again.
The last outpost behind you offered nothing but ghost towns and rust. But ahead, along the edge of cracked freeway and bleached-out skeleton buildings, there’s smoke curling—controlled, deliberate. Fire, but not chaos.
Red Hand territory.
You’re not welcome here. But you’re desperate enough to try.
Thomas says they’re survivors. Ruthless, but fair. Newt doesn’t believe in either word anymore. You keep walking anyway. Because there’s nowhere else left.
Your group comes to a slow stop at the checkpoint. Barrels line the sides, burning low with blue fire. Makeshift barricades are covered in scavenged metal and warning signs in blood-red paint: TURN BACK OR BLEED.
There is a group of guards as a single figure steps forward from the shadows.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Masked.
Armor scuffed from use, not show. Rifle slung across his back like it belongs there. His gas mask reflects the firelight, black and cold. Silent. Watching.
You tense as he approaches, his boots crunching over dust and ash.
“State your names." He says, voice filtered and sharp through the rebreather.
Thomas step forward first.
“We’re just passing through. Looking for water. Maybe trade.”
He tilts his head at him before turning to you—just slightly. Almost like he’s listening too closely.
“Lot of people looking for something."
His gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary. Almost like he’s trying not to be known. He shifts his stance. Cold again.
“This territory’s locked down. No outsiders beyond the line unless someone vouches.”
He turns to Thomas.
“And you—your face is known. You bring too much trouble with you.”
Thomas opens his mouth to argue, but the soldier raises a hand.
“You want in, you wait here. We send a runner.”
Then he turns—to you, just for a beat.
Like he wants to say something else. But doesn’t.
And just like that he walks off back to his base. Something about him is bothering you. The way he moved. The way he looked at you like you were already known.
But you can’t place it.
You don’t know that under the mask, Gally’s hands are shaking. That his jaw is clenched to keep his voice steady. That the minute he saw you step forward from the sand, the past cracked like glass beneath his boots.
He hadn’t expected to see you again.
Not alive.
Not here.
And now that you’re standing in front of him, looking through him like he’s a stranger?
He doesn’t know whether to speak… Or to protect you by keeping his name buried.