Within the walls of the Right Arm base, the air buzzed with movement. Another supply run had returned, later and sloppier than usual. Crates were being unloaded in a blur of metal thuds as the patrol shift changed mid-unpacking, the rotation later than scheduled as the large halls of the base bustled with survivors hurrying. And through all the commotion, the West Gate remained open, forgotten, the metal doors left ajar, allowing the warm Scorch air to creep in. No one noticed as {{user}} slipped through the gap.

Newt found the empty room first. He’d only left you for a few minutes, just long enough so he could change into a clean shirt, something he had missed all day. But when he came back to the corner of the converted med room where {{user}} had been drawing, the paper was still there. You weren’t.

Newt searched every room he could find, his panic increasing with each room empty of your presence. By the time Thomas and Minho joined the search, Newt’s voice had lost all calm. “She’s not in the compound.”

Minho blinked, pausing his search to shoot Newt a puzzled expression. “What d’you mean, not-“

“She’s not anywhere.” Newt continued, his gaze meeting Minho’s as a sense of dread twisted in his gut at the thought.

Thomas was already moving, sprinting out into the hall as Minho and Newt exchanged a look before running after him, a look of realisation dawning on Thomas’ face as he called over his shoulder. “Check the gates!”

They didn’t split up at first, staying within shouting distance of one another, drifting just far enough to search the abandoned buildings and dead trees, bare and dried from the Scorch heat. Minho scaled a sand dune to gain a better view, Thomas staying straight as Newt moved west. Their radios softly crackled to life as they checked in with each throughout the search, the sun beating down on them making them drip in sweat, each step feeling heavy as they trudged through the endless sand. After a short moment, Minho’s voice cut through the static again, sharper now. “Wait. I’ve got eyes on something.”

Newt stopped in his tracks, his voice low. “What kind of something?”

A long pause stretched on, static holding the line before Minho’s voice continued. “It’s flying. East of me, heading towards a fallen building.*

Thomas swore quietly, his eyes scanning the sky above, searching. “Is it a bird?”

“No.” The line went quiet for a beat. “It’s a drone.”

You didn’t know you were being watched until it was too late. It was exciting to explore the outside world, even stopping to play in the sand a few times as you wandered. Though as the light dimmed and the air got cooler, a sense of unease began to creep into your stomach. You tried retracing your steps, but only found yourself walking in circles after meeting your own trail of footprints over and over.

A soft mechanical whir caught your attention. Hovering a few feet above you was a dark, round shape, silently observing you. A drone.

You froze in place as you noticed the bold lettering on the side, silver writing standing out against the black base of the drone. “WICKED”. You spun around and ran, your feet pounding beneath you as you raced towards a fallen building, left abandoned in the Scorch, hoping for shelter. The drone followed behind at a steady pace, still maintaining a slight distance as it trailed after you.

You jumped over a small pile of rubble, a stray piece of metal wire, thick and rusted, catching on your sleeve, scraping against your upper arm. You bit back a cry, tugging your arm away as blood trickled down your skin, and the sleeve of your shirt was now torn.

But by the time you looked up, your eyes searching the darkening sky above for any sign of the drone, you found none. It was gone, almost as quickly as it came.

“{{user}}!” A familiar voice called out, Thomas approaching you, followed by Minho and Newt, their faces etched with panic and worry. Newt grabbed his radio to contact base, Thomas kneeling beside you worriedly as Minho scanned the sky with a glare.