Just An Obsessed Fangirl

“I’ll see you around, sweetheart,” he said, his words dripping condescension 

You fumed, too distracted to even hear that Brett’s heart was still racing even as he walked away

The two of you ran into each other a few times after at various meetings

Brett had done some asking around and found out you were a wereleopard, so he was slightly more prepared for your antics

But still, every time you saw each other, the flirting seemed to turn up a notch, the teasing hit a little harder

It reached a new high the night of the Devenford Prep-Beacon Hills lacrosse game

He’d spotted you in the bleachers as soon as he stepped on the field (not that he was trying to find you)

You were wearing tight shorts (were those even allowed??) and someone’s jersey (which definitely wasn’t allowed in Brett’s mind)

Brett definitely did not immediately scan the field and see whose it was

It was Liam’s

And you definitely had not worn it on purpose to see if you could rile him up

But if you had: mission accomplished

Brett was an animal on the field, scoring 6 goals himself and a number of assists, propelling Davenport to a 20-7 victory

You didn’t like how many times he slammed into Liam, but you were a big fan of how he looked when he was all sweaty

And then when he took his shirt off after the game

!!!!

But you played it cool when you came down the bleachers, first checking in with Liam, Stiles, Scott, and Kira, and waiting for Brett to start looking at you

You felt his eyes after only a few seconds

But you made him wait a minute or two before you turned to him and smiled, deceptively innocent

He came to you like a moth to a flame

You smelled his sweat and warmth and lust

And you couldn’t stop yourself from smirking

“You sure you still want to wear that loser’s jersey?” he asked, reaching a hand out to pinch the fabric between his fingers

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. “You don’t think I look good in it?”

Brett met your gaze. “You’d look better with it off.”

And then you had him, the cat had caught her mouse

Or maybe the dog had caught the cat?

It was hard to tell who was in control, but neither one of you ever stopped fighting for it

Not after a steamy hook-up in the backseat of his truck, where he asked you out and you pretended to have to think it over; not after that first date, where you thought he’d kiss you goodnight and he’d only smirked; and not after the first year together, where neither of you wanted to admit that you were in love, but you both knew you were

Corey Bryant

(male reader)

Oh, you really couldn’t have asked for a better lab partner than Corey Bryant

The poor boy was putty in your hands, and the blush that filled his cheeks when you gave him a compliment (even a small one) always had you going back for more

One time you ran a hand along his jacket while you complimented him and he couldn’t speak for nearly five minutes

You loved it

But as senior year crept along and supernatural events picked up around town, Corey began to change

It was little things at first: asking you to wash the beakers, telling you directions, looking you in the eye after a flirtatious comment

You bristled against it initially

Who did he think he was, growing a backbone against a wereleopard? He was only a human

Or was he?

Because you’d started to notice a change in his scent (not that you’d paid a lot of attention to it -- this wasn’t serious, you were just flirting) 

But the new smell was so faint and so unusual for supernatural creatures, almost seeming to change every second, that you couldn’t be sure

And what if he was just a normal human? What then? How did you feel about him challenging you more?

You hated it

Kind of

(Although you did kind of like seeing Corey’s confidence grow, whether aided by powers or not)

But as quickly as it had happened, Corey seemed to fold back into the shadows again

He came to class pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and he smelled scared

Not that you were concerned or anything

You just went to Scott McCall to make sure he, as the True Alpha in town, knew that something sketchy might be going on

And after learning about the Dread Doctors you only offered to help because you’re a wereleopard, the strongest, smartest, fastest supernatural creature around

“And the most humble,” Stiles had muttered

You’d winked and he’d gone wide-eyed, looking around frantically, but all you could think about was how Corey would have reacted instead

Would he still blush at something as small as a wink? Would he smile that sweet, boyish grin of his?

Now armed with the knowledge of Corey being a Chimera, you’d taken it upon yourself to be his bodyguard

And also test out what exactly his powers were

Was he stronger than you???

Well, as you found out in the Beacon Hills High School weight room, he could bench press 360 pounds

Easily

You weren’t sure if you should be bitter or turned on

Or both

“Thanks, Y/N, for helping. I know this isn’t something you’d normally do,” Corey said as he sat on the bench

You smirked (you didn’t really know how to smile) and leaned against a nearby squat rack, “I wouldn’t miss an opportunity to spend time with my favorite Chimera.”

There was that blush

And the boyish grin

And Corey looking at you shyly through his eyelashes

Were you blushing too?

“Do you think...Do you think I might be the Dread Doctors’ success?” he asked. “I just mean because I’m only getting stronger. And I’m healing faster.” Corey looked up at you nervously, then back down to the ground. “Nevermind, I don’t know--”

“I think you’re a success,” you said before you could stop yourself. You pushed yourself away from the squat rack and reached Corey’s bench in a few graceful steps. Slowly sitting next to him, you added, “I don’t know what the Dread Doctors are planning, but I think you check every box.” And then, because he wasn’t responding, just staring at you, red-cheeked and beautiful, you said again, “I think you’re a success, Corey.”

His kiss was nervous and excited and, underneath it all, dominant

When you both finally needed to pull away, Corey was the first to speak

“I like your smile.”

And you were smiling, because Corey was smiling too and you felt happy, not proud from teasing some guy, not accomplished because you made someone flustered, not superior because you were supernatural

You were just

The boys find you faster than you thought they would. You hear them round the corner as the monster shrieks its death knell. Its mechanical body curls in like the husk of a bug. Blood drips down your arm, getting on the wires that droop from the metal disk you're holding. It's still warm from the creature's chest cavity, where it had been nestled like a heart. The disk is pockmarked with flashing dots of light. They blink at you a few times, the pause between each growing longer, and then they wink out. The creature at your feet, speared by its own jagged limb, falls silent.

"What the fuck."

The boy isn't asking, you realize as you turn around, the metal disk slipping from between your blood-slicked fingers. He has dark hair and dark eyes and an athlete's build, all lean muscle and confidence. His gaze darts from you to the monster, then back to the monster.

He's flanked by two others, one with shaggy brown hair and freckles who looks to him in deference, and the other, dark-skinned and serious, who steps forward, side-by-side with the speaker.

"Minho," commands the dark-skinned boy, "check that the Griever's really dead."

The boy who spoke first nods and starts toward you, trepidatious at first, then more sure as sees the monster (the Griever?) more clearly. "Definitely looks dead," he says. "I don't know how she's not."

Their stares feel like drills boring into your skin. Your back aches, hot with blood, and the muscles in your legs are tightening up. Your mission is done, you should feel happy, but you're still here in this strange, wrong, too-familiar place, and the adrenaline that had been fueling you is fading. You want to go home. You want your sleeping bag, covered in a blanket of fur and nestled in the—the—Gone. The memory is gone.

I had a mission, you think. And then you say it out loud, testing the words on your tongue, "I had a mission."

The boy closest to you, the one who'd been called Minho, stares at you like you've grown a second head. "You're jacked," he says with a breathy, perplexed chuckle.

The insult is on your lips before you can remember where it comes from: "Crackhead."

Minho lets out a booming laugh, then turns to the other boys. "Can we keep her, Alby?"

The serious boy, Alby, frowns deeper. "We need to hold a Gathering. Thomas, go tell Newt. We'll be right there."

The third boy, the one with brown hair and freckles, nods warily. He takes one last look at you and sprints back the way he came. You watch him go, ignoring the boys he left behind until you hear a clatter of metal.

Your body jerks into action, spinning around and putting your hands up, ready to fight the Griever again if you have to. But it was just Minho kicking the creature's body, poking and prodding at its innards.

"What's your name?" Alby asks from behind you.

You turn and back up a few steps so you can keep both boys in your field of vision. Minho is crouched over the Griever. Alby is staring at you, his gaze heavy, solemn. Distrustful. 

"Y/N," you tell him.

Minho pries the Griever's jaw open. His voice echoes off the metal tunnel of the Griever's throat as he asks, "How'd you avoid getting stung?"

Before you can answer, Alby cuts in, voice sharp and angry. "Where did you come from? What do you mean mission?"

Your body aches. You don't want to be here, standing over a mutated, cybernetic monster, being questioned by strangers. "I don't know. I can't remember anything."

"You remembered more than we did," Alby fires back.

Minho straightens up. "Let's get her back to the Glade, Alby. She can answer at the Gathering."

You hate their lingo, want to spit on all of the slang you don't understand because you know the words that should be there instead (it's not called the Glade, it's called the…) but you can't find the words, so you jog with them through the maze, following Minho, Alby a few paces behind you. They have you locked in. There's an urge to break away from them at one of the intersections. You could push Minho into the wall and sprint past him, only where would you go? 

"What is this place?" you ask as you run.

Minho glances back at you. He looks apprehensive, but there's a curious glint in his eyes. "We're in the Maze. Although, you really shouldn't be in here, Greenie." Looking forward again, he speaks in a louder voice, "Clearly you're a rule-breaker."

You still kind of want to push him.

As you get closer to the "Glade," you hear the murmur of voices. It gets louder and louder, until you can see the door at the end of the corridor and, beyond it, a swarm of boys. Somehow, they get even more raucous as you get closer. Their shouts blur together, meaningless words and sounds filling the air. They clamber into each other, everyone wanting to get closer, no one willing to step into the Maze.

"Out of the way, shanks!" Minho yells.

Boys push and pull, slinging insults and questions, and somehow the mass of chaos becomes two distinct groups, one on each side of you.

Minho leads you across the grass to a rustic building. It's practical and sturdy, all of the effort put towards making a building that won't fall, none left to make it inviting. Inside is quieter. For a second, you're grateful because the blood rushing in your ears and the pain singing across your body is enough noise. But as you follow Minho into another room, the air grows thick and tense. Every breath feels like you could choke on it.

Eleven boys sit in a semicircle, two empty seats amid the line. In the middle of the room is a single empty chair.

Your stomach sinks. Your feet pulse with pain.

Alby enters behind you, jerking his chin at the chair in the center. "That's yours." He watches and waits until you slowly walk to the chair and sink into it.

Your skin feels hot. You're acutely aware of the blood on your clothes, the sweat on your body. You feel like a science experiment, everyone examining you, anticipating your reactions so they can write them down, dissect them, find the answers they want. Mouth dry, you swallow and wait.

Alby and Minho take their seats, Minho beside the third boy from the Maze, the one Alby called Thomas.

"Who—"

"Why—" 

"She's a—" 

"We can't trust—"

"She killed a Griever." Alby's voice rises above the rest, the stern tone of a leader.

The other boys erupt into more questions. They bounce off the walls. You don't know who to look at, gaze darting from boy to boy until you land on the blond next to Alby. He's one of the few that isn't speaking, his brown eyes boring into yours. You don't know if he sees fatigue, fear, or anger on your face, but he gives a slight nod, almost to himself, and holds up a hand.

"Slim it!"

The others get out a few more unanswered questions before falling silent.

"What do you remember?" the blond asks, his words tinged with a familiar accent. You can't place where you've heard it, who you've heard it from, but you remember that she had blonde hair too, and…The thought fades away.

"I know I had a mission," you say. It's as simple as that, but the boys stare at you like you're speaking another language.

"What does that even—"

"Who gave you—" 

"Where the fuck did you come from?"

The blond again holds his hand up against the barrage of questions. 

The large boy to your left who spoke last scoffs and protests, "Let us ask, Newt. I know how we can get some answers."

Biting your tongue to keep more insults, origins unknown, from bursting out, you add the name to your memory, filing it with the others. The boy with the accent is Newt. The leader is Alby. You followed Minho through the Maze. And the third boy from the Maze who sits beside Minho, eyebrows furrowed together, his name is—

Thomas stands up. He looks far away, his eyes distant and unfocused. The room slowly quiets down.

"What is it, mate?" Newt asks.

Thomas doesn't look at him. For a few seconds, he just stares at the wall. Then his eyes snap to you. "She shouldn't be here."

The large boy grins, a harsh, twisted thing. "The Greenie's growing a brain."

Thomas doesn't react. Your eyes are locked with his, your breath stuck in your chest. Should you stop him? Should you beg him to continue? You don't have time to do either. Thomas stares at you and speaks.

You swatted at his arm but he twisted away, laughing as he shot back in to give you a peck on your cheek. He sprinted off to the Maze, calling out behind him, "Hope you're not too bored without me!"

Slinthead, you thought, but the words that came out of your mouth were, "Be careful!" You watched him until he disappeared into the stone mouth of the Maze, and then you waited a few more minutes, just in case he'd forgotten anything.

Time seemed to pass slower in the morning. The sun crawled up the horizon, creeping into a sky painted with vibrant reds, pinks, and oranges. The Glade began to stir awake.

A group of Slicers passed you on their way to the Blood House. Winston was at the head of the pack, talking with Frankie about something that seemed to require lots of hand gestures. Both boys nodded at you as you waved. Trailing behind them were Mike, Dave, and Geo. Geo was busy trying to step on the back of Dave's shoes, and Dave was busy trying to shove Geo away from him, but Mike slowed to a stop beside you, an easy smile on his face.

"Everything alright?"

You smiled back at him. "Yeah, you? Do you guys need any help?"

Mike shook his head. "I know we don't look the most competent," a few feet away, Dave had slung an arm around Geo's neck and gotten him in a headlock, and was now giving him a noogie, "but we're pretty good at our jobs. I just wanted to say thanks for taking over in the kitchen for me."

"No problem! I like helping Frypan."

Mike's smile grew. "You're the best. Let me know if you need anything!" He squeezed your shoulder and jogged back to his friends. Frankie had separated Dave and Geo and was holding them by the backs of their shirts, but that hadn't deterred Winston from his gesticulating.

You gave the group one last wave, receiving back a chorus of "Bye, Y/N!" and, with a final look at the Maze doors, you headed for the kitchen.

"There's our favorite girl!" Frypan exclaimed when you walked in, his hands deep in a ball of dough. The smell of bacon and eggs made your mouth water, and you saw Jim and Carl manning the flat top grill, bickering whenever they thought the other got in their way. Jack was beside them, providing empty plates and taking away the ones they filled, lining them up on the counter that separated the kitchen from the tables.

"You're just in time. We really knead you." Jack laughed at his own joke, jerking his chin to the dough, his hands full of plates.

Jim and Carl groaned in unison, then went back to arguing. Frypan began to sing, too loud and too off-key, and so perfect for the rambunctious peculiarity of the Glade that it made you feel at home. You smiled, rolled up your sleeves, and got to work.

Your shift in the kitchen ended after lunch with Frypan shooing you out the door. "We've got this handled now, I swear. Clint and Jeff will kill me if I keep you late again," he'd said. Then he'd ruffled your hair and shut the door behind you. A second later, you heard a loud crash, a cacophony of curses from the cooks, and a hurried, "We're fine!"

You made your way to your next job. It was a short walk, just long enough for you to run into Chuck, who tried to tag along with you until Zart, in charge of the boy for the day, hauled him back to the Gardens; and Newt and Alby, who walked with their heads bowed in deep conversation, only looking up to give you a quick greeting.

Gally lingered by the Med-jack Hut, holding his left arm to his body. His eyes were shifty, his face sulky. When he saw you coming, his lips set into a grim line that could have meant he was relieved or pissed off.

"Hey, Gally, you doing okay?" you said brightly, opening the door.

Gally followed you inside. "Fine," he grunted. As soon as he kicked the door shut behind him, he thrust his left arm in your face.

It was drenched in red. "Woah, what'd you do there?" You took a reactionary step back so it didn't drip on you, then peered closer.

"Dumb Greenie. Can't use a clunkin' saw." Gally spat on the ground.

You clucked your tongue at him. "Not indoors," you chided.

Gally frowned but didn't spit again.

"Sit down, I'll fix you right up." You pointed to the cot. Gally followed your directions like an angry toddler: trudging to the bed, sitting down heavily, and letting out a series of irritated sighs while you searched through the drawers. The medical supplies were sorted meticulously by Clint and put into frequent disarray by Jeff. You guessed Clint had been here last because you were able to easily find clean towels, wipes, and antibiotic ointment. You cleaned your hands with a wet wipe, tossed it in the trash, then returned to Gally, your brightest, most eager-to-help smile on your face.

Gally scowled at the floor.

You pulled his arm toward you and went to work wiping away the blood with a towel. "So a new guy did this?"

Gally nodded.

"And how'd that happen?" With the blood mostly cleared away, you could see a long, skinny cut along Gally's forearm. It stretched from just below his wrist halfway to his elbow. Although it had clearly gushed blood before, the rush had slowed. You applied pressure while you waited for Gally's answer.

"Idiot said he could cut the board. Idiot couldn't cut the damn board." Gally gritted his teeth as you pressed harder.

"What are you guys working on right now?" Peeling the towel back, you took a peek at the cut. It had stopped bleeding so heavily, and you could see that it wasn't deep. You let out a quiet, happy hum, then traded out the towel for a wipe. You started to clean the cut, glancing up at Gally every so often.

"We're...uh...working. On the Homestead." Gally's eyes flicked to yours, widened when he saw you were looking at him, then shot back to the floor. "Just normal stuff. Not for anything."

You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? Not for anything?" Gally's mouth clamped shut. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. "The cut's not too bad," you added after the silence had stretched on for too long.

"So I can leave?" He tensed like he was about to bolt off the bed.

"No! I haven't even bandaged it yet. It's like you're asking for it to get infected." You gave him a light smack on his uninjured arm.

Gally looked affronted. "No, I'm not," he muttered.

"You guys are too tough for your own good sometimes," you mused as you started dabbing the antibiotic ointment on Gally's cut. He grunted in response, which you decided to take as him profusely thanking you for doing such a good job. You bandaged his arm with a smile. "All set."

Gally was striding to the door as soon as the words were out of your mouth. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"No problem!" You started cleaning up, trying to match Clint's keen eye for organization. You were just trying to remember if he stored the creams alphabetically by name or by use when you heard someone clear their throat. You turned.

Gally was still standing by the door. His hands were on his hips and he was glaring a hole into the floor. "It's good," he said, seeming to fight to get every word out, "that we have someone like you. In the Glade." He nodded sharply, then stomped out of the room.

Your chest warmed and a shy, heartfelt smile crept onto your lips. "Thanks, Gally," you said to no one.

The rest of the afternoon was uneventful. Somehow, not a single Glader managed to get injured. Not even Chuck! Or someone working in the general vicinity of Chuck! You’d organized and reorganized the supplies, and when that had become mind-numbingly boring, you’d practiced your sutures and leafed through the medical textbooks. As the sun dipped below the horizon, you headed to dinner alone. Neither Clint nor Jeff had come to get you. Usually one of them would take over while you were gone, or, if all the Runners were back and the Builders and Slicers had finished their work for the day, all three of you would walk to the kitchen together. Leaving the Med-jack hut unattended made you uneasy. You hoped you would run into one of the Med-jacks on the way.

You saw no one. As you neared the kitchen, the air felt too still. The Glade was too quiet, too devoid of all the noises people made as they talked and ate and allowed themselves to unwind. You knew the kitchen and the dining area would be empty before you walked in, but it still made your chest run cold to see a place that was supposed to be so lively be so dead.

Your mind raced as you left the kitchen. Was there a meeting? You started walking toward the Homestead, then running. Why hadn't anyone gotten you? At the back of your mind, in that slimy, creeping voice that you hated, another thought arose: what if the Creators had taken all of them back?

You ran faster.

Suddenly, the doors of the Homestead burst open, and Gladers came pouring out, calling your name. For a split second, you were terrified. For a split second, you thought everything had gone wrong. Then you saw their grins. You heard their happiness. You slowed down.

"What's going on?" you asked, breathless from exertion and shock and excitement.

Newt was at the front of the group. "The boys made a little surprise for you, love." He tilted his head back at the Homestead.

"They did?" Your heart had pounded with panic seconds before, and it kept its same quick beat, only now trickles of warmth began to fill your chest and small butterflies beat against your stomach. Newt moved out of your way, giving you a clear path into the Homestead. Boys lined up on either side of you, more peering out through the open door, and, as you walked inside, a motley group of Keepers and your closest friends waited for you against the back of the room. The group was so thick you couldn't see the wall behind them. Thomas and Minho were front and center, wearing matching smiles of mischief and glee.

"One," Minho said.

"Two," continued Thomas.

"Three!" they shouted in unison, and the group parted to reveal a door.

A new door.

"That isn't--" you started to say, and then you were pushed and pulled forward, and they opened the door for you, and you were inside of the Homestead's newest room.

Your room.

Your friends filled in after you. They wandered around the small space, excitedly pointing out the things they'd brought for you.

"You obviously need a better blanket, so I put my second favorite one there for you." Minho pointed to the bottom of the bed, a roguish grin on his face. Both of you knew that was his favorite blanket.

"And I folded it!" Chuck added.

"I read that the smell of lavender helps with sleeping," Clint said when you saw the vase of flowers on your bedside table.

"And I put them in a glass!" Chuck added.

"Brought some housewarming snacks!" Frypan shouted as he and the other cooks weaved in and out of the Homestead holding trays of mini sliders.

"And I helped bring them over from the kitchen!" Chuck added.

"Newt and I...uh...tried to make some pillows." Thomas scratched the back of his head. "We recruited Jeff to sew them up. I think they'll stay shut?" He smiled bashfully.

"And I helped stuff them!" Chuck added.

"Made a rug out of sheepskin," Winston cut in proudly.

Chuck did not have anything to add.

As the commotion swirled around you, and you nodded and laughed and thanked everyone, you felt a quiet presence beside you. Looking over, you saw Gally, who seemed determined not to stare back at you.

"I thought you said you were just working on normal stuff," you teased. Around you, the room was warm and full of laughter. Your heart felt so full you thought it would burst. 

Gally shrugged. You figured that was all you were going to get until he said, “I came up with the idea for the window.”

The window was next to your bed. Its edges were crisp and neat, and, because they couldn’t make glass panes in the Glade, it was framed by wooden shutters so you’d be able to close it. Right now, it was open, and light from the setting sun streamed in and gave everything a comforting orange glow.

“I love it,” you said, and for a second you felt yourself getting choked up, all of your gratitude and care and love for these boys becoming overwhelming. You wanted to wrap all of them in a hug and never let them go, you wanted to tell each and every one of them that you appreciated them, you wanted to make sure none of them ever got hurt again. You wanted them all to know how much you loved them. But maybe, you thought, feeling all of them around you in this room they’d built and designed for you, maybe they already knew.

“It’s got something written on it,” Gally muttered. He nodded to the left shutter.

Swallowing back happy tears, you stepped closer, peering at the shutter's bottom edge. The words were neat, carved in delicate cursive that should have been impossible to do on wood. It said: Thank You.

You couldn’t help yourself. You started to cry.

Gally shifted uncomfortably before reaching out to give you an awkward pat on your shoulder.

You cried harder.

Then Minho’s voice rang out from across the room. “Check the other shutter!” he crowed.

Sniffling and wiping away tears, you squinted at the other shutter. There, painstakingly carved in elegant script on the right side shutter, was the word: Mom.

A dry wind whispered past, bringing swirls of sand to flight. They looked beautiful in the golden rays of the morning but cut like glass as they whipped past your cheeks. With a grimace, you reached a weathered hand up and pulled some loose cloth farther over your face, squinting your eyes for protection. The sound of your heavy breathing filled your ears.

How familiar that was. How familiar exertion was. Before you could stop yourself from thinking, from remembering, you saw his face. He was by your side, smiling, goading you to run faster. He was betting you that he could reach the doors first.

“If I win, you owe me half your dinner,” came his playful tease, so vividly that you almost thought it was real. If you let your gaze wander, you could barely make out a mirage of him jogging ahead of you.

What was it you’d said, back in that other life, where you ran the Maze and lived in the Glade and weren’t as alone? You smacked your lips together now, looking for any moisture, and croaked, in a hoarse voice, “What do I get if I win?” The effort made you cough. Stopping in your tracks, you doubled over hacking. You expected to see the worn stone of the Maze beneath your feet, but there was only sand. Knives scraped your throat. You tasted blood.

“You can have anything you want,” Minho responded. You lifted your head, hoping for a glimpse of his face and seeing only sand.

Tears filled your eyes. You wanted Minho with you, right now. You wanted to not be alone. You wanted to not be here, to not have made any of these choices, to not have to keep going and keep trying and keep surviving all because of one promise. You wanted to reach the doors -- no, not the Maze doors, never the Maze doors again, the doors to a crumbling building in a crumbling town in the sun-baked, sand-ridden, abandoned Scorch.

Straightening up, you started for the building again. You reached it in a few long, purposeful strides. The door hung half off its hinges. You slipped inside, shutting it as best you could behind you, hoping that would keep at least some sand out. The inside was blessedly dark. The front room seemed kind of like a cafeteria, with a few tables and chairs and a long counter at the back. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you remembered the last cafeteria you’d been in. You wanted to spit on this place as payback.

Instead, you walked behind the counter, sunk to your knees, shrugged off your backpack, and curled into a ball. Your head pounded. You squeezed your eyes closed, pressed your palms to your temples, tried to hold back any more tears. The memory of Minho floated to the front of your mind again.

“No need to cry,” you could hear him saying. You could almost feel him tuck a finger under your chin, like he’d done before, and raise your head. “I’m still here.” And then you opened your eyes, hoping to see that cocky grin that would make the whole world would seem a little better.

But Minho wasn’t there. You weren’t in the Glade anymore. You weren’t even with WICKED anymore. You were somewhere in the middle of the Scorch, alone and trying to survive and failing.

With trembling fingers, you unzipped your backpack and pulled out your last bottle of water. It was half-empty. You stared at it numbly. How far could half a bottle of water take you? When you used to run the Maze, a lifetime ago, you never went in without at least one canteen full. Minho had teased you during your first run for taking three. You wondered what he would say now.

“We’ll figure it out together. We’ll get out together.” That’s what he would say. That’s what he had said, right before you went into the Maze for the last time.

I tried, Minho. You wanted to scream it out to the Scorch, let every damn Crank within a hundred miles of you hear it. Maybe Minho would hear it too, back at the WICKED compound, back in the Glade. He said he would find you. You’d repeated his words so many times in your head that they were practically imprinted in your brain. They were like a touchstone, something you remembered for luck and courage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he’d said.

You’d never said it back. You wished you’d said it back.

You forced yourself to stop remembering and took a sip of water. It was like ice filtering through magma cracks, soothing, soothing, soothing, and then gone, evaporating and leaving behind seething bubbles of lava. You wanted more. You wanted so much more for yourself.

You twisted the cap back on and shoved your water into your bag before you did something you’d regret. Leaning against the counter, you let your eyes close. Fatigue made your limbs heavy, and the warm air settled over you like a blanket. You hoped the sun would be gone when you woke up. Then you would walk, as you had for countless nights, with no real directions in mind, only the understanding that you needed to keep moving or else you would die. Somewhere out there, there was a safe haven.

But in your dreams, there was darkness, and in the darkness, there were Grievers. The Maze walls, dripping with ivy, closed in around you as you ran. Your breaths came short and fast, more from fear than effort. You had no bag, no weapons, just the shoes on your feet and a little bit of hope in your chest. But the Grievers were closing in.

Mechanical limbs whirred, slamming against the Maze floor so forcefully the ground seemed to shake. You whipped your head around, caught a glimpse of them, turned back and ran faster, looked again and saw them even closer. Metal clanged together, the sound of razor-sharp fangs gnashing, slick with slime. A rush of wind sliced past your arm. You tried to move faster, just a little faster, just enough to keep narrowly avoiding the Griever’s claws, just enough, please, just enough to make it to sunrise--

A wave of fire burned a line across your back. The pain was white-hot, so bad you couldn’t keep your eyes open, you were stumbling and faltering and barely moving and the Griever was going to get you, only with your next step you felt nothing but open space and then you were falling and falling and falling.

You hit the ground so hard the air went out of you, and only then did you realize you’d been screaming. A moment of shock passed. Then you shrieked again. Your back burned with pain, but it wasn’t fire, not like you’d thought at first, it was a cut, huge and sprawling and parting the flesh of your back. Blood drenched your shirt. You screamed, blind with pain and fear, waiting for the Griever to finish you off or sting you and send you into a spiral of even greater misery.

Something grabbed your arms, hoisted you up, strapped you down. The Grievers have me, they’ve got me, they’re going to kill me, you thought, even as you felt human hands and heard human voices and saw human faces.

“No!” You caught a glimpse of one of them holding a syringe, a Griever in disguise. Twisting away, trying to avoid it, you let out a scream so loud you thought your vocal cords would be torn to shreds, just like your back, just like the ravaged mess that was left of your back. The needle pierced your skin.

Immediately, your yells dropped off. The people or the Grievers or the Grievers masquerading as people laid you face down on a stretcher. You couldn’t move your neck, or your arms, or your feet, but every step they took as they carried you sent bolts of lightning through your body. Your face was wet with tears, with blood. The jostling stopped. Every nerve in your body rebelled in pain, and then there was a cold hand on your cheek, forcing your chin up. Grinning down at you was the face of the devil.

You woke now with a start, a cool sheen of sweat coating your body, phantom pains chilling your back. Your heart thundered wildly. Acting on pure instinct, you shot to your feet, looking frantically around the room. She would be there, you were sure of it. The devil, with her blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, her lips painted red with the blood of her victims.

But the room was dark and empty and you were alone.

You untensed with a long, slow exhalation. Tiny daggers still ran up and down your spine, dancing along the scars the WICKED doctors had said they couldn’t fix.

“An unfortunate variable,” the devil had said about the Grievers, “but necessary.”

Necessary.

You spat on the floor, wishing it was her pristine white cafeteria, half-hoping you’d look up and see her standing there so you could strangle her. But that thought was fleeting and your head shot back up in fear, scanning the room again and again to reassure yourself that Dr. Paige was nowhere to be seen.

When you were sure there was no one lurking in the night-shadowed corners, you hefted your backpack onto your shoulders and made for the door. Outside, the desert air was chill and dry. The occasional wind stirred the sand as you walked, footsteps making quiet whispers along the dusty sidewalk. Moonlight paved the way forward.

Goosebumps covered your arms as you replayed your dream, your memories, over again. Yes, the Grievers had gotten you, but not the ones in the Maze. It was the hidden Grievers, the ones who said they were good, and that they were going to save the world, and that you were helping.

“Thank you for participating, Y/N,” Dr. Paige had said. “I’m sure it wasn’t a pleasant experience. The data we gathered on the group’s response to a requested sacrifice will prove very useful, I assure you.” And she’d smiled at you. She’d actually smiled, pointy, predatory canines on full display behind her parted red lips. “The data from your response will also be very beneficial. Thank you once more for your participation.”

You were too shocked. You were in too much pain. The synapses in your brain weren’t firing correctly, still stuck trying to piece together that the sacrifice was some kind of test. An unfortunate variable. “What...what happens next?”

Dr. Paige had already left. Someone lower in the chain of command gave you a nonanswer about your role in Phase One being complete.

“But what happens in Phase Two?”

There was no answer to that question, no matter how many times you asked. You asked when you were stable enough to be moved to your own room, when you were compliant enough to walk the halls of the facility with a chaperone, when you were obedient enough to eat in the cafeteria among the staff members.

“WICKED is good,” they’d say. And then they would smile at you.

You shuffled through the sand. Reaching a hand, which you pretended wasn’t trembling, into the side pocket of your bag, you pulled out a meal replacement pouch with WICKED emblazoned on its side. Even as you ate, you worried. The dream loomed over you like a heavy cloud, and your food supply was dwindling. You wished for a sip of water, just a taste, a small trickle to wet your lips, something to help the powdery bar go down.

You wished you’d started hoarding food at WICKED earlier. It was only when you noticed that change was coming, that the air was electric and the people were alive, that you started to slip items from the cafeteria into your bag. The doctors had stopped ordering you in for blood tests and scans, which they had pretended were for your back, and then they stopped sending you a chaperone. It was almost like freedom.

“Code Green. I repeat, Code Green. All personnel begin preparations for Phase Two. I repeat…” The message came over the speakers while you were in your room, a barebones cell with a cot and a desk. In a flash, you were on your feet, pouncing on the opportunity. You slung your WICKED bag over your shoulders, ignoring the discomfort as it pressed into your bandaged back. Peering through the crack in your door, you couldn’t see anyone in the hall. The lights were flashing in time with the announcement, strobes of green slicing across the walls. Holding your breath in anticipation, you tried the door handle. Unlocked.

Heart fluttering, you pulled it open a crack and slipped through, shutting it gently behind you. No chaperone sitting outside. No guards patrolling. No people at all. You bolted down the hall.

Thinking about it now, as you finished your second to last meal replacement, the perishable food long since gone, you wondered why it was so easy.

Phase One. Phase Two. Thank you for your participation. An unfortunate variable. Unfortunate unfortunate unfortunate thank you for participating thank you for the data thank you for trying thank you for dying. Phase Two, I should have raided the cafeteria will you be in the cafeteria, Minho are you in the kitchen? Where are you where am I why is this happening what is--

Welcome to Phase Two.

You crumpled the meal replacement package in your hand and threw it into the air, letting it fly with the wind.

Minho’s voice was in your head. “I’ll raid the kitchen, the Med-jack Hut, bring us weapons.”

You shook your head and it faded. “I would have done it if you were there,” you said. Your voice was a croak. You cleared your throat and tried, “I would have…” The words floated away. I would have tried harder to survive.

“I tried so hard, Minho.” You thought of your bottle of water, only a few sips left. “I tried to wait for you in the Maze, but WICKED took me.” Grievers and white-clothed doctors and searing pain. “I tried to wait for you at WICKED, but...I think they let me escape.” An unlocked door, no patrolling guards. The vast expanse of the Scorch beyond, and a snippet of an overheard conversation about a safe haven at the end. “I tried to reach the end. But I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Sand. So much sand. Lightning storms and a burning, vengeful sun, and a throat so dry it hurt. “I can’t do this anymore.”

And still, you walked. Because there was nothing else to do. Because you were a Runner and Runners never stopped. Because you thought this might be another test, another phase, and you wanted to reach the end. Because the mirage of Minho was nearby, talking.

“We’re almost there,” he said. You rubbed your sand-crusted eyes and tried to find him. “We have to keep going.”

Other voices chimed in, pitched low and hard to hear. You hoped you could hallucinate Newt, too, and maybe Zart and Frypan, who had tried to help, had tried, just like you tried. You moved faster, feet cleaving through drifts of sand.

“There it is!”

You missed the sound of an excited Minho. You remembered the first time he’d had a little too much to drink at a bonfire, and he’d picked you up and twirled you around. You’d never smiled so much.

The memory used to be good, then it turned painful, and now you were just numb.

You kept walking. Around you, the city was fading into sand. Ahead stood a tall dune. You wanted to stop and stare and convince yourself to turn around. But you kept walking. Behind the dune, you’d see Minho and Newt and Zart and Frypan and maybe even Alby, and maybe you would forgive Alby, or maybe not, but you would still see him because everyone would be there.

You boot punched a hole into the sand dune, sending streams of gritty yellow dust cascading down the slope. Stepping forward again, you sunk into sand up to your mid-calf. Again and again, and then you stumbled and fell in up to your elbows, and still, you crawled.

“We can do this,” Minho said, from somewhere above or behind or by your side. He was climbing with you, barely out of sight. His playful grin was audible.

“Bet I can beat you to the top,” you said before he could.

“What do I get if I win?” he asked.

You smiled and there were tears in your eyes and sand on your cheeks. “You can have anything you want.” And you climbed higher.

“I want you to say it back. Please say it back, Y/N. Please.” His voice was fading. You were leaving him behind as you neared the top.

Sand burrowed into the lines of your face, past the seams of your clothes, finding every nook and cranny of your body to hide in. It was in your mouth, your ears, your eyes. You struggled to breathe. Your head felt as light as a cloud. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you finally promised as you reached the empty crest. Still on hands and knees, you peered over the other side of the dune. The slope was empty. Everything was empty.

You rolled onto your back, eyes shut against the fading night sky. Your arm bumped against something stiff. Reaching a hand out blindly, groping for it, you came back with a stick. You looked at it through squinted eyes. Atop the stick was a flag, and on the flag in big, thick letters, the same font WICKED used for everything, were the words, “Safe Haven.”

You laughed. The bitter chuckle was alone in the Scorch. Overhead, the sky was lightening, and soon you would be alone in the daylight of the Scorch, alone in the Safe Haven.

Shrugging your backpack off, you reached inside for your water and the last of your food. The bottle was empty. You didn’t remember finishing it, but you figured you must have. You chucked it to the side, listening as it rolled down the sand dune. You wouldn’t need that anymore. The air grew warmer as dawn approached and you opened your last meal replacement. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could hear voices. You wondered if you were going crazy, decided you didn’t care because you had tried Minho I really tried I’m sorry please promise me I’ll see you tomorrow please don’t let it end like this please.

You took a bite of the crumbling meal replacement bar and immediately spit it back out. It had soaked up the last bit of moisture in your mouth. You tossed the package to the side, where you’d abandoned your water and your will.

The sky grew pink and orange and yellow, and, finally, there was the sun, high in the sky, and you had no idea how much time had passed while you stared, and you didn’t care. There was no further destination in mind. This was it. And with the sun up there and you down here, you hoped that maybe this wouldn’t count as dying alone.

“There it is!” Minho again. Funny how he kept saying that. And then the voices of the other Gladers chimed in again. You wondered if you would keep replaying that moment until you finally passed. You wondered how it would feel. You wondered if there was water on the other side.

The sand rushed down the sides of the dune in waterfalls. You could hear it, even if you didn’t have the energy to look. It sounded like a whisper. Beneath the whisper was the panting of a group of people.

Runners, you thought. All of the Runners before and all of the Runners after, coming to take me away. Would Minho be among them? Was he dead, like you and like those sad souls who’d been killed by the Grievers (An unfortunate variable, but necessary) and all of the people who’d gotten the Flare, which you barely understood because no one had answered any of your questions?

Why is this happening and where am I going and what do I do and how did I get here and when can I go home, please bring me home, I want to go home and I want to see Minho one last time because I never promised him back and I should have.

“Y/N?”

Minho. You didn’t have the energy to speak or even open your eyes to see the hallucination.

“Y/N!” Feet pounding against sand, then hands on your arms, looping around your back, pulling you close and shielding you from the sun. “Wake up, Y/N. Clint!”

No, Clint wasn’t supposed to be here. Clint had voted for you to be sent into the Maze. You were pretty sure you used to hate him for that, but hate took so much energy, and you just wanted to pretend Minho was holding you until you didn’t have to think anymore.

The people nearby talked unintelligibly, oscillating between murmurs and gleeful shouts. There was cotton in your ears and a blindfold over your eyes and strong hands on your back, propping you up. Then there was a splash of water on your face and the world opened up again.

There was Minho. Better than in your memories, because he was here, in full color, so perfect you needed to squint. He was on his knees and holding you. Above, Clint was pouring water over your head. All around you were Gladers.

“Minho?” you croaked, although there was no question who it was. Dark brown eyes, now filled with tears. Full lips curved up in a smile. Scatters of freckles across his cheeks. Minho.

Minho nodded and pulled you into a hug. “I thought…” he trailed off. Then he laughed, a sound so bright and so happy that the water on your skin felt a touch cooler, the sun on your shoulders a shade dimmer. “I should’ve known you’d survive.”

“There’s no safe haven,” you said, the words bitter on your tongue.

Minho shook his head, still buried in your neck. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Smiling, you pressed a hand to his cheek, coaxing him to look at you. When he did, you leaned in and finally felt at home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's Note: I wanted to put a longer, more serious note at the end instead of the beginning so I wouldn't deter any newcomers from reading. I just wanted to say thanks to everyone for letting me try out this style! I'm not very happy with how this turned out but it was good practice. Hopefully, I can use this experience and write better pieces in the future. Thanks again for letting me experiment and for the encouragement. And my requests are always open :)

You were an unnatural fit to the routine. You’d disrupted it right from the beginning, with your arrival as the first female Glader. Now, months later, you still hadn’t formed many strong bonds. It was hard when you were rarely in the Glade during the day, spending most of your hours mapping the Maze. No one was directly cruel when you had a day off, but it was clear that this was a brotherhood, and you did not meet the requirements. You were an “other.” You were a girl. You were something to be looked at and talked about but you weren’t necessarily someone.

You didn’t feel like an outsider when you ran with Minho. He treated you like a person. Like a friend. So did Newt, although your time with him was limited to bonfires, where you drank Gally’s moonshine and talked.

Just the memories of those nights made you feel warm, even as you stood apart from the boys around the Box and prayed for another girl to appear. You stood on your tiptoes and tried to peer over the crowd. Through gaps and over heads, you caught a glimpse of a boy in the Box. He was younger than you, probably younger than most of the people in the Glade, with curly brown hair, round pink cheeks, and wide, fear-filled eyes. 

Alby jumped down into the Box. Laughter rose from the crowd as the young Greenie backpedaled so wildly that he tripped over his feet and slammed onto his butt. Next to you, a group of Gladers jeered. You frowned at them, watching their smiles slip into sneers. They looked away from you. Inside the Box, the Greenie cried, “Please don’t hurt me!” His already high, youthful voice was pitched even higher with terror.

You felt a stab in your chest. He sounded so young, so alone, so scared. Taking a step forward, you came to the edge of a thick knot of Gladers. They catcalled and hollered and cackled, slapping each other on the backs. One noticed you and quickly jerked away like you were contagious.

Cheeks burning, you stepped back again. You gave the crowd one last look, heard the Greenie blubber one last time, and headed for the Homestead, where there was no one to make you feel unwelcome or weak for feeling sympathy for the new Greenie.

Besides, you thought bitterly, they might make fun of him now, but he’ll still be one of them.

A few Gladers saw you go; most were focused on the Greenie, who Alby was trying to coax to his side of the Box, where someone had dropped a length of rope. 

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Alby said. Impatience wore thin on his voice. “Just come over here.”

The Greenie stayed curled in a ball in the middle of the Box.

Alby shook his head. Turning to the pair of boys above him, he lowered his voice and said, “Do you think Y/N could try to get him out?”

The Gladers looked at each other.

“Isn’t she running today?” one asked.

“I haven’t seen her all day,” the other added.

Alby frowned. “Fine,” he sighed, “we’ll do it the hard way.”

At that, the two Gladers joined Alby in the Box. The Greenie’s eyes bulged as they approached. He tried to scoot back. In seconds, the pair was on him, lifting him as easily as if he weighed nothing. They toted him to the rope.

The Greenie gasped. “Wait! Wait! I dropped it!”

Alby waved the boys on before they could stop. “I’ll get it.” While the Gladers hoisted the Greenie out, Alby walked to the center of the Box. Laying on the metal floor was a card of paper, pristinely white save for the 10 grimy fingerprints of the crying Greenie. Alby knelt, picked it up, flipped it over, and froze.

It seemed like an eternity before he stood again. Around him, the Gladers still talked and laughed. Around him, the Gladers still thought they were following their routine.

Holding the note in his hand, Alby commanded, “Gathering in the Homestead. Now.” After a beat of silence, he added, “If Y/N’s here, bring her.”

The Glade burst into a flurry of activity. Boys scrambled, yelling the news. Their Keepers chastised them and handed out work orders like candy. Feeling brave and uninhibited and a little frenzied, Gladers complained and groaned and manhandled each other and ran. The new Greenie was handed off to a Builder, then a Slicer, then rescued by a Gardener. A pack of Gladers took off for the Homestead.

You’d barely made it inside before your moment of alone time was shattered. The boys whooped and hollered and shouted as they sprinted toward you.

“Gathering!”

“You have to go!”

“Alby called for a Gathering!

Their voices came at you like bullets, one after another after another. Your questions fell on deaf ears. “Why a Gathering? Now? Did you say I have to go?”

They kept talking to each other, ignoring you even as they pushed you farther inside, pushed you toward the meeting room, pushed you like you couldn’t even walk by yourself. You shoved away from them and entered the room on your own two shaky feet. Only a few of the Gladers followed, taking their seats as Keepers.

With a sick sludge of anxiety swirling in your stomach, you looked around the room. You’d never been to a Gathering before, although you’d listened to Minho complain about how boring they were many times. The room was small, the only furniture a crudely made table surrounded by twelve seats, one for each Keeper plus Alby and Newt. There was no seat for you. You were not supposed to be here.

“Clint, what’s going on?”

The Keeper of the Med-jacks looked up at the sound of your voice. He’d been staring at the tabletop, tracing his finger along the wood grain. His hands were thin, his fingers long, and they held a delicate strength, accustomed to wrapping wounds and sewing stitches. “Alby called a Gathering,” Clint said.

“Yeah, I figured that part out. Why? And why am I here?” You tried to keep your emotions under control. Clint didn’t need to know you were a little annoyed, a little angry, a little worried. Clint and the growing mob of Keepers filing into the room didn’t need to know you were scared.

Clint looked to the head of the table. Two empty chairs sat waiting. “Alby didn’t explain much. I think it was something to do with the Greenie.”

“The Greenie?” you asked, just as someone gave you a harsh nudge to the side. You whipped around and found yourself staring up at Gally.

“Don’t block the doorway,” he snapped. Before you could reply, Gally was walking past you, settling into the seat closest to the head of the table.

Most of the chairs were filled now. Some Keepers looked at you, others talked with their neighbors, and a few, like Clint, seemed like they’d rather be anywhere else but here. You lingered by the door. After a couple of minutes, Alby and Newt entered together.

You knew something was wrong immediately. Alby’s face, stoic at the best of times, was downright grim, like he’d just witnessed a terrible crime against humanity. Newt wouldn’t even lift his eyes to yours. His skin had taken on a pallor, pale white tinged with sickly green.

“Alby-”

Alby interrupted you. “Where’s Minho?”

You weren’t sure if he was asking you or the Keepers, but you answered anyway. “He’s running. What’s going-”

Cursing under his breath, Alby strode to the head of the table. “Someone got the schedules mixed up,” he fumed. “They thought you were running today. Minho is supposed to be here.”

“Maybe we should wait-”

“This can’t wait, Newt. You know that.” Alby shot Newt’s suggestion down before it even had time to breathe. “Y/N, take Minho’s seat. And someone shut the door.”

You didn’t like the way Alby was barking out orders or the way Newt had slumped into his seat like an admonished puppy. The whole world was off-kilter, just slightly, but enough that you felt nauseous and hyper-aware. Clint was still picking at the table. Winston was sitting next to Gally, who was staring daggers at you, and Zart, who had his arms crossed and was sitting straight in his chair, looked disgusted at something Doug, the Keeper of the Sloppers, had just said. Frypan was the one to get up and close the door, giving you a reassuring smile as he walked. You slowly made your way around the table to the only empty chair. It was across from Gally, right next to the side that Alby and Newt sat behind. 

Newt flinched away from you as you sat. Alby eyed you, waiting, waiting, waiting, and, finally, with the door closed and you perched on Minho’s chair, ready to bolt, he said, “We’re holding a Gathering because of this.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “The new Greenie was holding it.”

Down the table, Winston smirked. “Is that why he was crying? Poor thing can’t read?”

You frowned. One of the Keepers, Billy, chuckled lightly.

Alby ignored them and continued, “It’s a note from the Creators.” A few murmurs arose; Alby didn’t speak until it was silent again. “It says,” he cleared his throat and, next to him, Newt looked as if he might puke. “It says, ‘The Glade is failing. Show you can follow instructions and you will be released.’” Alby paused.

Unlike before, the Keepers stayed quiet. You were on the edge of your seat, listening with bated breath, like all of the others. Maybe the instructions involved finding something in the Maze? You knew you could help with that, and maybe Alby knew it too, and that’s why he’d made you attend the Gathering. You could nearly taste the freedom on your lips. Under the table, your legs shook with excitement, energy, adrenaline -- everything that made you feel alive. What would life be like outside the Glade? 

“Tell them the instructions, Alby,” Newt whispered, voice strained.

Your hopeful heartbeat faltered.

Alby’s eyes flicked up from the paper, met yours, and shot back down.

Something like dread filled your chest.

“‘Show you can follow instructions and you will be released,’” Alby repeated. He drew a deep breath before continuing. “Sacrifice Y/N to the Maze. Tonight.’”

One second passed. Inside that second, there was an eternity, an infinity, a lifetime. Your lifetime. Every limb of your body became paralyzed. You felt liquid. You felt insubstantial and invisible, only you were the farthest thing from invisible, because every single person in the room, all ten Keepers and Alby and Newt, even Newt, who wouldn’t meet your eyes before because he’d already condemned you to death, was staring.

And then the room roared.

“They’re lying!”

“That’s insane!”

“They can’t ask us to do that!”

“We can’t trust them!”

“I’m not doing that!”

“What if it’s true?”

The last voice, soft, barely audible, silenced everyone.

You stared at Gally, jaw dropped. “What?” You could barely speak above a whisper. Your vocal cords were constricting, choking you. Every breath felt like your last.

Gally’s gaze stayed on the letter in Alby’s hands. His eyes were glazed and his whole demeanor, normally stubborn and stand-offish, had shifted into quiet contemplation. “What if it’s true?” he murmured. “What if this is our way out? What if this is what we’ve been waiting for?”

The other Keepers began to speak. Instead of ardent protestations, you heard questions. So many questions and no definitive answers, except for Gally’s. The room spun around you, swirling, swirling, swirling. Your skin was flushed and cold and sweating and freezing all at the same time.

“He might be right,” you heard.

In an instant, you shot to your feet. The chair that Minho should have been sitting in clattered to the floor, silencing the Keepers. “Guys, this-this is insane,” you pleaded. Every face was a blur, a smear, no distinguishable people anywhere. You didn’t know a single boy in this room. “The Creators have never asked us to do something like this. They locked us in here! They-they...they put monsters in the Maze to kill us!”

“Maybe not to kill us.” Billy, the Keeper of the Baggers, was a boy of few words. He never seemed to have much to say, maybe because he’d gotten used to such solitary work. Most of the time, the only Gladers he was around were dead. “Maybe the monsters are there to kill you.”

Panicked tears burned in the corners of your eyes. Gally was nodding. So was Winston. Too many of them were nodding or looking down, pretending they didn’t have a say, hope gleaming in their eyes and betraying their thoughts.

You turned to your leaders. “Alby, this can’t--we can’t--”

“We’re going to vote on it.”

You switched tactics. “Newt. Newt, please, please look at me. This is crazy. We can get out without doing this, we can--I’ll run more and we’ll...we’ll figure something out, just, please, don’t--please just look at me.”

Newt slowly lifted his head. In the background, the Keepers talked, rising from their seats, growing more animated, more determined. Unshed tears glimmered in Newt’s eyes. “Y/N,” he said, and in your name you heard an apology. “This could be our only chance.”

“It can’t be.” You moved forward, desperate. “It can’t be our only chance, we’ll figure something out, I know we can, we just need to--” You were babbling and stepping closer and your hands reached out to grab his arms, to shake him, to knock some sense into all of them, and then Alby’s low, commanding voice rang out, ordering everyone to sit, and you were left standing, crying, terrified, and so, so, so alone.

“If anyone wants to see the note, there.” Alby dropped it onto the table. Across from you, Gally picked it up, scanned it, and passed it to the boy next to him, Winston. From Winston to Billy to Clint to Frypan to Ozzy to Doug to Zart to Leon. To you. With trembling hands, you held the note, saw the words, tried to read them and make sense of them, only nothing made sense at all.

Sacrifice Y/N to the Maze. Sacrifice Y/N. Sacrifice sacrifice sacrifice.

The more you repeated it in your head, the less real it sounded. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be happening.

“We have to make a decision,” Alby said.

Lungs squeezing painfully, you tried to speak. No words came out.

“I think it’s obvious,” Gally said. “Everything changed as soon as she got here. Now the Creators want us to do something, so we should do it.” He sounded more certain the more he spoke, his voice and words building to a persuasive, powerful crescendo.

“We could get out,” Winston added eagerly.

Clint pushed back his chair and slowly rose to his feet. He looked uncomfortable being the center of attention. One of his hands stayed on the table, scrambling for support. “I think it’s important,” he said, “that we think this through and give it the weight it deserves. This is someone’s life we’re talking about.”

It’s my life, you wanted to scream. I’ve tried to be a part of your group! I’m a Glader!

Clint continued. “But we also have to think about everyone else, too. I’m sorry, Y/N, I really am. But your sacrifice could mean that everyone else here can live.” Clint sunk back into his seat. “My vote is to obey the Creators.”

“Clint--” You were drowned out by Gally and Winston and Billy agreeing, formally voting to kill you. Gally nodded down at Ozzy, the Keeper of the Bricknicks, and then Ozzy said, “I vote to obey the Creators too.”

Leon agreed next. Leon, the Keeper of the Maps, who you’d spoken to nearly every day since becoming a Runner. Leon, who you’d sometimes traded jokes with and complimented for his drawing skills. Leon, who, after voting, said, “I’ve spent all of my time in the Glade trying to get out,” like it was an explanation you wanted to hear. Like it would mean it was okay for them to throw your life away. He wouldn’t look at you, still standing, half-slumped against the table as your legs wobbled with each vote that damned you to being ripped apart by Grievers.

“Guys, please,” you said, or you thought you said, but maybe they didn’t hear because now Frypan was standing up.

“I haven’t seen a Griever up close, I don’t know what it’s like in the Maze, and I don’t know what it’s like to patch up people who have done all of that. I know that Y/N’s a Glader. That’s all I need. I vote no.” Frypan nodded at you and sat back down, his normally easy-going face creased in deep thought.

One voice. One against six. But one was all you needed; one gave you a shot of strength, enough for you to straighten up, to open your mouth, to instead hear Doug say, “I haven’t done any of that either but I know that I don’t want to spend another goddamn minute in this Glade. I vote yes.”

The room spun. You looked down at your hands, found them in your lap, realized you were sitting but couldn’t remember ever doing so. Everything was slipping through your fingers so fast, too fast, impossibly fast.

Seven.

“My vote doesn’t matter much now,” Zart began, his words ponderous and slow. “But I vote no.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, as if daring anyone to question him.

Gally turned his attention to Alby and Newt instead. “So we’re doing it?”

Alby frowned. Newt buried his face in his hands. You thought you might pass out.

“Seven is a majority. It doesn’t matter our votes,” Alby said. “Or Minho’s.”

“Or mine.” The table turned to you. “I don’t get a say in any of this? It’s my life.” You knew your voice was too high-pitched, too warbled, too girlish to be taken seriously. You swallowed and it came out even more panicked. “You can’t just kill me with a one-vote difference, you can’t just--”

“It wouldn’t be a one-vote difference. I vote to obey the Creators.” Alby stared unwaveringly at you. “Newt agreed before the Gathering. That makes it nine to four, assuming Minho would vote not to obey.”

“Why?” It came out strangled and mangled and desperate.

“For the Glade,” Alby responded.

Newt suddenly looked up, shaking his head. “No, no, I take my vote back. I vote no. We can’t do this, Alby.”

“Eight to five. The majority says to obey. It happens tonight.”

“Alby--” “Alby, please,” You and Newt protested together, but Alby’s voice boomed over both of yours. “Gathering over. Gally, Winston, take Y/N to the Pit until tonight.”

Newt stood up too fast and stumbled, nearly crashing into the table. “We can’t put her in the Pit!”

The sound of arguing and chairs being pushed back washed over you, filling your ears with white noise. Chills raced up and down your spine, sending a clamminess to your hands and feet. You were going to die. You were going to be torn apart by Grievers, the very monsters you’d spent so much time running away from. It was almost ironic, really, and you almost laughed until you realized it was a sob, until you realized there were tears streaming down your face and there were two sets of hands grabbing you by the arms and hoisting you up and leading you out of the room and down the hall, practically dragging you for all of the good your feet did. And then you were in the doorway of a dark, windowless room, and Newt was standing in front of you. He enveloped you in a hug, spewing apologies about the vote and the room and your fate. All too soon, he pulled away. You saw his brown eyes and tear-streaked face. You saw the door close. You saw darkness.

You sagged to the floor and cried.

Hours passed. The room had no windows for you to watch the sun move across the sky, silently counting down to the end of your life. You had tried a few times to shove the door open,  but you only succeeded in bursting out between two strong Gladers. After the first time, they were ready for any attempt of yours to sprint past. Sometimes their voices would seep through the cracks in the wood. Apologies and excuses and pleas for you to please, just please, do this one thing for the Glade and help them all survive.

Part of you thought they were right. What if your sole purpose was to be a sacrifice? But then you thought of Minho and running and laughing and the few flickering memories you had from before the Glade, of an older couple smiling at you or the warm feeling of being loved, and you remembered how it felt to be alive. And you knew that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, for anyone but you to get to decide your death.

Your time alone helped you think. It helped you settle yourself, calm your mind, and dry your tears. But as soon as the door opened and you saw the sunlight fading from the hallway, all of your carefully planned entreaties faded from your lips. Your throat went dry with impending doom.

“It’s time. Alby’s waiting by the Maze,” one of the Gladers said. You didn’t even know who he was. Why hadn’t you gotten closer to him? To all of them? Maybe if you hadn’t been so solitary, maybe you could have...or they could have...or maybe...

“What’s your name?” you heard yourself ask as the guards flanked you down the hall.

He gave you a look of confusion. “Rob.”

“Rob,” you repeated. Rob led the way outside. You glanced over your shoulder at the other Glader. “What about you?”

“I’m David,” the one behind you answered. He hastened to walk beside you. David had stubby legs, two of his steps matching one of yours. You picked up your pace. Rob matched it easily; David lagged.

Over the Glade, the sun was nearly below the horizon. Gladers milled about but kept their distance from you, trying not to stare at the doomed prisoner. It was like you were already dead. And no one cared.

The wall loomed high above you, growing as your entourage got closer and closer. Huddled near one of the entrances was a group of Gladers. When you neared a hundred feet away from them, you slowed. David followed suit immediately. Rob’s lengthy strides shortened.

“David, Rob,” you addressed them by name, not looking at either even as they faced you. “Thanks for walking with me.” Then you bolted for the Maze.

David had no chance of catching up to you, Rob was just stunned enough to give you the head start you needed, and the group of Gladers only shouted as you closed the distance to the door.

My choice, the pounding of your feet seemed to shout. My choice. My life. You may have been minutes away from death, but you had never felt so alive. Adrenaline flooded your body. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. All of the cold fear had been replaced by the warmth of energy. One last choice, you thought. The open door called to you. 20 feet. 5 feet. You’d just crossed the entrance when one voice made itself known above the crowd.

“Y/N!”

Every muscle tensed, you spun around to see Minho sprinting after you, the group of Gladers following, none as fast as your partner. He crashed into you with the tightest hug of your life. Your body reacted before your mind knew how; you hugged him back.

“I couldn’t let you go without seeing you,” Minho blurted, his lips an inch from your ear. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t…” he trailed off. Loosening his hold, he pulled back enough to see your face. He stared at you like he wanted to memorize you. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am, Y/N, I can’t let you do this yourself. With two of us we could--”

“Die. We’d both die.” You pulled him close again, burying your head back in the crook of his neck, hating the fear in his eyes. You’d wanted your last memory of him to be a smile, not this.

He spoke more softly now. “If we had supplies, I bet we could do it. I’ll raid the kitchen, the Med-jack Hut, bring us weapons. We could find the way out. You don’t have to die. You can’t die.”

You wanted him to stop talking, because you couldn’t extinguish the little flame of hope blooming in your chest if he kept feeding it. “Minho-”

Minho cut you off. “You can do this, Y/N. You’re fast, faster than me, and a hell of a lot smarter than all of these shanks combined. Survive the night. Survive the night and I can bring you supplies tomorrow.” His voice had an edge to it, a fierce desperation you’d never heard from Minho. Inside his encouragement, he was pleading with you. “Fuck, Y/N, please survive the night. Meet me at the intersection past the west door when the sun rises. I fell there the first time we ran together, remember? I said it was because you ran funny and it made me lose concentration but it was actually because you looked so beautiful in the sunrise that I couldn’t think.” He took a deep breath. Your heart beat too quickly, running on hope and support and maybe a little bit of love. When Minho spoke again, his voice was solemn, “I’ll find you, I swear to God. We’ll figure it out together. We’ll get out together.”

“I’ll survive.” You were lying. “I’ll try.” Was that another lie? Everything was moving too quickly.

Alby’s voice stopped you from thinking any further. “It’s time,” he intoned. 

From your place in Minho’s arms, you saw that the group of Gladers, composed mostly of Keepers, had surrounded you in a semicircle. The way forward was blocked; your only way out was the Maze.

You and Minho separated slowly. Behind you, the Maze rumbled. Still, Minho held your hand in his, looking physically pained. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, hoping, desperate, pleading. 

You nodded.

Minho shook his head. “Please say it back, Y/N. Please.”

You glanced at the door starting to close, then at Alby, who stared hard-eyed at you and motioned for the Gladers to press in. You couldn’t find Newt in the crowd. Minho’s hand was heavy and warm in yours. Comforting.

You cringed away, raising a hand to block the brightness. Through squinted eyes, you saw boys encircling the room, level with where the roof would have been. Their voices floated down, gasps and shouts of “It’s a girl!”, and the sounds of shoving, bodies against bodies.

You took a step back, but there were boys above you there too. They were everywhere. One jumped down, making the whole box shake, and then you were turning around and around, looking for a break in the boys, a spot you could run through, someone to help, anything, anything, anything--

“It’s alright, love. We’re not going to hurt you.”

You whipped around to face the boy. He had his hands raised, and his eyebrows were knit together in sympathy. He had a kind face, with soft brown eyes.

Even so, any words you had were caught in your throat, caught by fear’s hand, trapped. Trapped, just like you. Your breaths came faster, your heartbeat quicker. Your hands trembled.

Across from you, the boy took a step back and looked up at the others. “Right, all you bloody slintheads need to back up!” He looked at one of the boys closest to the box. “Alby?”

The boy, Alby, nodded, then shouted, “Everyone, back to work!”

The crowd didn’t move. Your heart stopped. Your blood went cold.

Then, with a chorus of grumblings, the mob slowly dispersed. Boys peeled off this way and that, revealing grassy fields and large mountains in the distance. You peered closer. No, not mountains. 

Walls.

“It’s a strange story, love, but we’ll tell you all of it,” the first boy said. 

You couldn’t take your eyes off of the walls.

“I’m Newt. D’you remember your name?”

No. You’d realized in the darkness that you couldn’t remember anything. You felt strangely detached, like you were watching some other girl with no memories who was abducted and brought to a strange place. You felt pity for her. You felt sad for her. And you kept drifting along, only half-listening to the boy next to her, the one who said his name was Newt.

Newt stepped closer. You watched the girl watch him, watched his mouth move, watched the girl take light, careful steps to the edge of the box and climb out. You watched her stumble.

It was the feeling of Newt’s hand on your back, steadying you, that brought you back to reality.

“I’ll take you on the tour, love,” he said to you, pulling his hand back. In a soft voice, he added, “Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”

Your lips parted. Words sat on the tip of your tongue. Are you sure and How do you know and Please be right. And, also, lingering in the back, Thank you.

You swallowed and looked away from Newt.

He started walking. He kept a slow pace, both because of his limp and so he could intermittently point out buildings and people. “That’s Frypan, he’s the cook, and there’s the kitchen. Next to that’s the Homestead. You’ll be sleeping there.”

He spoke with such authority that you wanted to ask what his role in this little society was. If there was a cook, there must be a leader, and you hadn’t seen any adults around. But your tongue wouldn’t move, so all you could do was tilt your head to the side and look at Newt.

He scanned your face, then nodded. “I’m Second-in-Command. Alby’s in charge, but he won’t raise a fuss about you sleeping in the Homestead. We…” Newt ran a hand through his dirty blond hair before making eye contact again. “We haven’t…” He sighed. “You’re the only girl here. We don’t really know how the rest of those shanks will react.” Noticing your instinctive recoil, Newt hastened to say, “But you’ll be okay. Most of these lot are good guys. And the ones that aren’t...Well, they know the consequences. We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

There was that fear again, running its hands along your arms, past your shoulders, to your neck. It squeezed painfully around your throat, so painfully that tears threatened to spring up in your eyes. You gave Newt a quick nod and looked away, into the fields he was leading you toward.

He read you like a book and quickly switched topics. “These are the Gardens. When I don’t have other duties, I like to come out here. It’s good work, but it’s also just a good place to be. It’s peaceful.” 

A short, round boy darted out of a row of tomato plants, cackling madly. Lumbering behind him was a tall boy with a shock of curly blond hair, who shouted, “Come back here, Chuck!” The younger boy, Chuck, gave no indication that he’d heard. He disappeared back into the plants, with the tall boy following him.

Newt sighed. “It’s mostly bloody peaceful,” he grumbled.

The smallest of smiles twitched your lips up. You forced them back down, reminding yourself that you were scared, that you couldn’t trust anyone here, and that the way Newt grinned down at you did not make you feel safe.

“We’ll have you start working here tomorrow, all right, love?” Newt asked.

You chewed on your lip, staring over the plants. Your eyes landed on the tomatoes, right where the boisterous duo had gone through. Flutters of anxiety filled your stomach.

“I’ll be with you. There won’t be anything to worry about.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Besides waking up with no memory, that is,” Newt added.

Your lips betrayed you again. Newt grinned, and the butterflies that had been flying inside your chest slowly started to settle down.

Newt led you through the rest of the Glade. You saw the Deadheads and the Blood House, learned about the various jobs and Keepers, and, through it all, you didn’t say a single word. Newt never pushed you. Instead, he watched for facial expressions. He responded to any tap on the arm or flick of your chin. He lingered in the comfortable silences.

As you sat in your room in the Homestead that night, knowing that Newt was asleep in the next room over, you felt your shoulders loosen, just a little. The fear was still there. It still held your throat tightly in its grasp. But you felt a trickle of hope springing in the cracks.

You woke the next morning to a knock on your door. Opening it, you saw Newt.

“Ready to get to work, love?”

You nodded. The smile you gave him was uneasy and weak, nervous and gone in a flash, but it made Newt’s eyes shine with happiness. He smiled the whole way to the Gardens. Under the shining sun, you weeded plants, hoed new rows, and picked vegetables.

Newt stuck by your side. He explained more about the Glade; all you had to do was point to a person or a place and he’d run through it, even if he’d already explained the other day. A few times, you found yourself picking out things you already knew, just so you could keep hearing his voice.

“And then Chuck convinced Minho and Thomas,” Newt said between laughs. Behind him, the sun sat heavy on the horizon, haloing him in gold. “He convinced Minho and Thomas to take the rest of Gally’s clothes and--” Newt broke off, devolving into laughter.

You hadn’t met Minho and Thomas yet -- they’d been busy in the Maze all day yesterday and in the Runner’s Hut all last night -- but you’d heard a lot about them from Newt by now. You’d also heard about “Captain” Gally, and you figured he probably deserved whatever ended up happening to his clothes.

Beneath the cover of Newt’s voice, you felt comfortable letting out a small laugh. It was the first noise you’d made in the Glade.

Slowly, Newt’s laughter stopped. He stared at you, eyes soft, his lips pulled up in a small, pleased smile. He didn’t say anything.

You looked down at the basket in your hands, trying to stop yourself from blushing.

After a second, Newt said, “Before we go to dinner, there’s one last place I want to show you.” He took the basket from you and handed it off to Zart, the Keeper of the Gardens.

The pair of you headed off towards the far wall, away from the buggy Gardens, the dark woods, and the noisy kitchen, where a hungry horde of Gladers clamored to get their dinner.

“It’s not one of the really important places,” Newt said as you walked, “so I didn’t show it to you yesterday.” His hands swung awkwardly at his sides, as though he wanted to reach one out, maybe to guide you, maybe to hold you, but couldn’t decide whether he should or not. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted him to or not.

All you did was nod.

Newt continued, “But I think, maybe, it could be good.”

As you neared the wall, you felt your stomach drop at the sheer size. You craned your head back and back and back, trying to see the top, trying to see if any ivy led all the way up. How could there ever be a way out of those walls?

A warm hand touched your arm.

Your head shot back down, eyes landing on Newt’s. The faintest pink burned on his cheeks, a glow from the sunset, maybe, or... You shook the thought out of your mind as he pointed to the wall.

Carved into the wall in front of you were names. Immediately, your gaze landed on Newt’s. Next to his, Alby’s name was done in blocky letters. Thomas and Minho had made their marks. Chuck’s name was squeezed between the two, as he often was in real life, when he’d inject himself into their days. You recognized enough names to figure out that every Glader had been here once and had left a permanent memento of themselves. Some of those mementos, like the ones with a single sharp line running through them, had already outlasted their creators.

“I thought, I don’t know...I thought maybe seeing other names would help you remember yours.” Newt rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the ground. 

Your heart felt warm in your chest. Yearning took over. You reached a hand out, tracing the closest names, looping through the letters, dotting the i’s, crossing the t’s. You wanted to remember.

Please remember. Remember for Newt. Remember for me.

You pulled your hand away and pointed to Newt’s side, where his knife was strapped. He unsheathed it out without a moment’s hesitation. When he handed it to you, his fingers brushed over yours and you could swear your heart stopped. You had to fight to keep your composure, especially with the feeling of his intense stare as he watched you carve the first letter of your name into the wall.

You felt, rather than saw, Newt step closer to you. Glancing at him out of the corner of your eye, his smile almost took the breath out of you. Your hand stilled as you finished the first letter.

Newt repeated it, sounding almost awed. “Keep going, love.”

Forcing your eyes away from him, you continued carving. Each letter of your name was done with precision, right below Newt’s. It felt fitting to do it there, like he was some guardian angel looking over you, keeping you safe. Being around him made you feel...the English language wasn’t sophisticated enough to describe it. You felt warm. And calm. And the kind of happiness that made your cheeks hurt and your jaw ache, even when you weren’t smiling.

When you finished, Newt said your name, his voice reverent. “Y/N.” He repeated it. He glanced down at you. “Am I saying it right, love?”

He’d gotten closer than you’d thought. His breath nearly hit the tips of your eyelashes. If you moved only a few inches you’d be touching him.

You nodded.

“Can I ask you something?”

You nodded again. He was so close you felt dizzy. You would’ve agreed to just about anything he said at that point.

“Are you able to speak?”

Your nod was more hesitant this time, slowed by dread for his next question.

“Why don’t you?”

You wanted to look away but his eyes had a hypnotic hold on you. You shrugged half-heartedly. How could you explain that every time you tried to speak your throat closed up? That your mouth went dry and you forgot every word you knew? That your heart started beating erratically, and your palms began to sweat, and it felt like walls were closing in, and you felt the fear again?

Newt nodded. He took a step back, the tension in the air dissolving. Jutting his chin at the wall, he said your name again. A smile crept onto his face. It was that soft, sweet smile that had gotten you through your first days in the Glade.

It got you through the next week, too. A week spent trying other jobs, where your lack of communication proved rage-inducing for a certain captain and ultimately landed you back in the Gardens.

It was rare that Newt wasn’t by your side. Today, though, he and Alby were caught up in meetings with the other Keepers, trying to figure out how to discipline a Glader who’d been making inappropriate comments and trying to instigate fights.

Newt had told you the basics the other day. You hadn’t wanted him to go into detail. He’d seen that on your face and quickly switched to telling you about the first crops they’d tried to plant, which had been such a disaster that the Creators sent up multiple books on farming the next month. The conversation was much lighter from then on.

Being with Newt was so easy. Most of the others pushed you too hard to talk, which only made your throat dry up and your tongue feel like lead. You wanted to talk with them, sometimes, but...you couldn’t get the words out. You couldn’t think of them when it came time to speak. You had a mental block, barricades set up to keep you from feeling too comfortable here. Part of you needed to feel the fear that came with trying to speak. If you stopped being afraid, you’d start getting complacent.

The sound of the Walls grating to a close struck the same feeling in you, even though you were safe in the Gardens, well away from the terrors of the Maze.

“Y/N.” Zart’s voice broke you out of your thoughts. “Good job today. Some of the other shanks left a bunch of tools out, could you bring them to the shed? I have to track down Chuck.” His normally placid expression morphed into a scowl as he shook his head, his blond mop of hair flopping over his forehead.

You nodded. The two of you split off among the rows, Zart’s cursing fading as you approached a scattering of trowels and rakes.

You pursed your lips in disappointment before stooping down and trying to gather everything. You ended up with two rakes and a hoe tucked under your right arm, a few trowels held close to your chest, and a sharp hand pruner held carefully in your left hand.

Boys.

You huffed as you headed for the shed. It was a crudely constructed building that was made in the first few weeks of the Glade’s existence. You’d heard some other boys say that the first Gladers originally slept here, but Newt hadn’t mentioned it so you weren’t sure how true that was. If they had slept there, you didn’t envy them. It was smaller than your room in the Homestead, which was a far cry from large. You supposed it was in a nice enough location, though; it stood on the edge of the Gardens, close enough to the woods to catch some shade, but not so deep that you were alone.

As you neared the shed, you saw that you actually weren’t alone. A figure paced next to it, head bent low, features hard to make out.

You purposely tried to walk louder as you came closer, hoping you wouldn’t scare him. At the sound of a twig crunching under your foot, his head shot up.

You’d definitely seen him before; he had thick, dark eyebrows and a strong jaw. The bruise forming under one of his eyes was new, as was his now crooked nose. You were pretty sure his name was Connor.

“Y/N,” he said, stilling in his tracks. He made no move to help you carry the tools.

You nodded, gave him a tight smile, and headed for the door. One of the rakes almost slipped from under your arm, but you squeezed it tightly and took a few hurried steps.

Connor crossed in front of you. You veered to the side. His arm shot out and grabbed your shoulder, hard enough to jostle it and send the rakes and hoe tumbling to the ground.

“You think you’re better than me or something?” He was speaking quickly, too quickly, you didn’t have a chance to respond or adjust the trowels that were slipping through your grasp or push him away. In one quick movement, he turned and slammed you into the shed wall. Two trowels dropped. You clutched the rest closer, your breaths turning into nervous pants.

“Is that why you don’t talk? You think you’re better than me? Than us?” Conor loomed over you. He glowered at you, his eyes afire with rage. “Answer me.” He slammed you back again. Your head cracked into the wall and you let out a soft whimper.

“So you can talk.” His grip was vice-like on your shoulders. His nails dug into your flesh like he wanted to tear you apart. “So why don’t you talk? Why don’t you fucking talk?” Again, he slammed you into the wall.

Were you crying? Were you talking? Were you making any noise at all?

Were you even breathing?

“You make this place even harder to be in. We don’t need some fucking mysterious mute bitch when we have to solve the Maze. Don’t you get it? You’re a distraction!” Every few words were punctuated with a slam. The air whooshed out of your lungs in a pathetic cry for help.

You’d never tried harder to talk.

But now there was so much fear in you. Not existential fear -- real, in-your-face danger.

One of Connor’s hands released your shoulder. It ached in relief until his fingers wrapped around your throat and he leaned in close to say, “Fine. Don’t talk.” And he squeezed.

Each second was an eon. Your lungs screamed for air. Blackness lingered on the edges of your vision, closing in, closing in, closing in, leaving only a pinprick of light. Your legs went numb, as if they’d just fallen asleep, and the feeling worked its way up your body, down your arms, to your hands, where the last trowel and the hand pruner were about to fall.

Hand pruner.

You had no more air, you had no more energy, and yet your body was moving and you were thrusting the sharp end of the hand pruner into Connor’s gut.

He let you go with a cry, curling over and holding his stomach. Air rushed into your lungs, only to leave a second later as you screamed, “Help!”

Connor groaned and straightened up enough to launch a clumsy fist at you. You twisted to the side. Your foot caught on a gardening tool, sending you sprawling to the ground, clambering away on hands and knees, still gasping for air.

A wet hand grabbed your ankle. You kicked, connecting with something solid, and yelled out, “Someone help!” The hand left your ankle for a second, then you heard something heavy moving in the grass, and the hand clamped down on your calf.

You tried to wriggle away. People were coming from the Gardens, you could see their black silhouettes as the sun set behind them. You heard your name, shouted by your rescuers and growled by Connor. You kicked at him again. His other hand caught your foot, using you to pull his body further onto your legs.

He was heavy. He slammed a fist into your back, knocking you flat.

“Get off of her!” Your rescuers closed in. They wrenched Connor off and surrounded him. Warm hands, soft hands, gentle hands, helped you stand. Connor’s blood rolled down the backs of your legs.

“Are you okay?” Newt asked, his voice frantic. He held you, his touch like feathers on your arms, as he scanned your body up and down, looking for any injuries. “Is that--” he started to ask, staring at your legs. Mid-sentence, Newt turned away, calling for a Med-jack.

“It’s not mine,” you interrupted him. The words were hoarse and quiet but audible, and Newt whipped back around to face you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

His touch slid down your arms, his hands enveloping your own. “I knew that was you yelling,” he said. His eyebrows lowered and his face grew serious. “I knew it was your voice. I knew it was you, love.”

Words hung on the tip of your tongue. Words you’d meant to say your first day in the Glade. Words you’d wanted to say every day since. Words that you could never get out. “Thank you,” you finally said.

Newt smiled, so wide and so bright that your heart started beating like you were sprinting. “I’ll always be here for you, love.”

It hurt to watch them tie him to the bed. How could someone as strong as Alby, the leader of the whole Glade for as long as you’d been there, be reduced to that?

It was all too much. Too much pain, too much loss, too much grief. As Alby shrieked in one room with Newt by his side, Minho and Thomas were patched up in another, and you slipped out the door. You paced the length of the building, came back to the door, turned around again, reached the end of the building, turned around, again and again and again, trying to beat the thoughts out of your brain.

Fear and relief fought for dominance over your emotions. You wanted to grieve for Alby, to celebrate for Minho and Thomas. You wanted to cry big fat tears of sadness, and you wanted to smile so hard your eyes welled up.

How could you be at once terrified for Alby and immeasurably happy for Minho and Thomas? How could Alby get handed a death sentence, but Thomas kill a Griever? Who had designed this cruel twist of fate?

Your steps never slowed as you began shifting the blame onto the people who put you in the Glade.

It’s their fault. It’s all their fault. Every single life lost in here, every nightmare, every frown. The Creators did this.

The Hut door creaked open. You whirled around, expecting Minho or Thomas or Newt, expecting a sign of hope, and saw Margaret.

Her red hair was tied up in a ponytail, giving her an air of self-assurance. The way she held herself was so much stronger than that girl who’d cowered in the Box that you almost did a double-take.

Instead, with your thoughts bouncing from one worry to the next, a question from the back of your mind spilled out. “I thought you worked in the Gardens?”

If Margaret was surprised by your question, she didn’t show it. Right then, she seemed unshakeable. “I was helping for the day,” she replied. She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving behind dark bloody streaks that made your insides grow cold, then looked back to you, raising her chin proudly. “I’ve been spending the rest of my time with Clint and Jeff.”

Except for when you were making out with Newt--you forced the thought away. That was over. Done. You’d made a kind of peace with Newt; you could do the same with Margaret, especially after she came to Alby’s aid. 

You’d been kneeling next to Alby, only a few feet from the Maze doors, just staring at the sting. The grass had tickled your knees. The wind had whispered through your hair. You had only stared.

And then Margaret was there. She’d nudged you out of your dumbfounded stupor, moving you enough that she could start applying pressure to Alby’s sting. When she barked out orders, Gladers leapt to obey. She’d made you a glorified table, shoving supplies into your hands until she was ready for them, and you would’ve thanked her if you could get any words out because she was saving Alby’s life. You’d stuck to her side and held bandages the entire time they carried Alby to the Med-Jack Hut.

“Clint says the Grief Serum will save Alby, and Thomas and Minho are fine, except for a few cuts and bruises.” Margaret’s voice was soft, matching her smile. “And Minho says he’s starved, but he’s just being dramatic.”

An unintentional grin pulled at your lips, bringing a reprieve from the memory of Alby’s wound. “Good to know he’s still a diva. I was worried.”

“It was really brave of all of them to go in...there. I don’t know how you Runners do that.”

Your smile slipped away. Alby shouldn’t have been there, not with just Minho. Not without you. And if you had gone, maybe Thomas never would have needed to go, to witness the true horrors that roamed the Maze at night. You picked your words carefully. “I don’t know how you Med-Jacks do what you do.” There it was again, behind your eyes: the hole in Alby’s stomach. Remembering the look on Alby’s face brought a wave of nausea. “Don’t you feel guilty--” your words were cut off when a howl of agony rose from the Med-Jack Hut. You winced, but Margaret squared her shoulders and ducked back inside.

You lingered by the door. Your feet itched to run away, as far as you could, anywhere where you wouldn’t have to hear anymore. They refused to take a single step closer to the building. It took every ounce of your restraint to even stay rooted near the Hut.

I will not run. You repeated it like a mantra. I will not run I will not run I will not run-

Margaret appeared again. She nodded at you, a confident Everything is under control nod, and closed the door behind her, leaving the pair of you alone outside once more.

“If you’re stung and you don’t get the Serum, you die,” Margaret stated. “If you do get the Serum, you live.”

“But you have to go through that.” You pointed at the door. Behind it, you could strain your ears and hear the sound of Alby pulling at his restraints, bucking wildly on the bed, just like he had been when you left. “And after you go through that, you still might end up crazy.” You spat the words out, even though it wasn’t Margaret’s fault Ben tried to murder Thomas. It wasn’t Margaret’s fault Ben was dead or Alby was stung or everything was changing.

“But you have a chance.”

It was so simple you didn’t know how to respond.

Margaret continued. “We gave Alby a chance. That’s all we can do.” She let her words hang in the air for a few seconds, then took a small step forward. “And…well…I was hoping you could give me a chance too. Time is so precious here. I don’t want to waste any more of it.” 

You caught a glimpse of determination in her green eyes before you looked away, back to the door, hoping for Minho or Thomas or Newt to walk out so you could leave. Your heartbeat picked up, your muscles readied themselves for a sprint. You didn’t want to hear her apologize -- if she apologized then who could you be mad at? Who should you be mad at? How was it okay to try being friends with Newt if you didn’t give Margaret another chance too?

“Y/N, I want you to know that I’m really sorry.”

You nearly bolted.

Margaret kept talking, her voice smooth and calm, like she was trying to coax a feral animal into a trap. “When I first came up in the Box, I was so scared.”

“We all were.”

Margaret nodded. There wasn’t a trace of anger on her face. You almost wanted there to be, because then you would have an excuse to get mad. You wouldn’t have to stand here and try to be an adult, try to have a rational conversation. You could blow up and run away and not have to feel guilty because she was mad too.

“I was terrified, like everyone is when they arrive,” Margaret said. And when I saw that there were only boys, I was even more scared. I know you probably felt that way too.”

You said nothing, but memories of the day you woke up in the Box still plagued your nightmares sometimes, especially recently, now that you slept alone. The fear of the unknown as the elevator rose. The panic upon seeing all boys. The deep, freezing, overwhelming horror when you saw the walls.

“Seeing another girl helped,” Margaret’s voice had your full attention, but you couldn’t look at her. You kept your gaze steady on the door. “And Newt helped too. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear that.”

“He helps everyone when they get here.” You were too defensive. He didn’t deserve you being so defensive. Were you acting like this to protect Newt or because you wanted to go against Margaret?

It’s for Newt, one part of your mind thought, while another part raged against her.

Margaret nodded again. “He really helped me adjust to being here. He’s a good leader. We...we spent a lot of time in the Gardens together the first few days.”

It was starting to get painful. You squeezed your eyes shut, but that only made you picture them together. He was smiling the way he only did for you, or the way he used to do for you, and it made your chest ache.

Margaret quickly said, “We weren’t doing anything, though! It was just friendly. We were just friends.”

“Friends don’t kiss,” you spat. In only three words, you’d channeled enough anger to make Margaret go pale. The confidence she had from being in her element was drifting away, her shoulders drawing in, her arms wrapping around herself. She was shrinking before your eyes.

You felt a stab of guilt.

“We only kissed once, I swear! And it didn’t mean anything! Not to either of us. He was comforting me and it just happened. I was upset because…” Margaret trailed off. She took a deep breath. “I was upset because I didn’t feel like I could contribute. I didn’t want everyone thinking I was just another mouth to feed. I didn’t want to be someone who couldn’t help out, who just took. I want to help. I need to help. I wanted to be,” Margaret crossed her arms across her chest as if daring you to argue, “I wanted to be as dependable as you, not some weak girl who could barely dig a hole.”

You thought you must have misheard her, but she was looking at you earnestly, her eyes bright and her mouth set into a firm line.

“And I did find something I can do. I’m a Med-Jack.” She wasn’t trying to squeeze herself into a tight ball anymore. Margaret stood there, a far cry from the scared girl who’d come up in the Box, and said, “I’m proud of where I am, but there are still a lot of things I wish I could take back. You know the main one, but I won’t go into it. I don’t think you want me to.”

You quickly shook your head. Staring at her, at the true version of Margaret, not the one who’d been warped by bitter, angry memories, made you let out a weak laugh. “I’d rather get stung by a Griever.”

A small, playful smile crept onto Margaret’s face. It was shy and timid and eager -- the kind of smile a teenager is supposed to have. “I could fix you up after.” Her tone edged the border between serious and light.

At some point, your eyes had locked onto hers. You let them drift now, glancing to the door. “I bet you could.” You took a deep breath. “Thank you. For saving Alby. And helping the others. You do contribute to the Glade.”

Margaret’s face opened to a sweet, satisfied grin. “Thank you.”

She looked like she was waiting for you to say more. The door started to open, so you rushed out, “And maybe we could try being friends.” Then you darted towards Minho, reaching him when he only had one foot in the grass, and threw your arms around him.

Minho’s laugh sounded like music. “Careful, I’m delicate!” he complained as Thomas slunk out behind him.

You scoffed and pulled away to jab Minho in the side. “No, you’re not.”

When you looked up at him, it was all you could do not to hug him again. Aside from a few scratches and a small bruise on his cheekbone, he looked exactly like the person you’d spent months running through the Maze with. He looked exactly like your partner.

Alby’s wailing shattered your peace. You and Minho moved away from the Med-Jack Hut. He nudged the door closed with his foot.

Minho’s demeanor had darkened at the sound of Alby. There was less joy in his voice when he said, “We’re having a Gathering today.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Because of him?” You jerked your chin at Thomas.

Thomas shrugged and muttered, “You mean this isn’t what Greenies usually do?”

Margaret giggled.

Turning back to Minho, you asked, hope lacing your words, “You’re going to make him a Runner, right?”

“I’m going to try.” Shaking his head, Minho added, “Some shanks are upset about what he did, though.”

The corners of your lips pulled down. You’d heard Gladers talking while they passed by the Med-Jack Hut when you’d been waiting. Most had been in awe of Thomas’s bravery, but a few, namely one loud-mouthed blond Builder, couldn’t get over the fact that Thomas had broken a rule. “What did Newt say?”

Minho heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s on our side, but who knows how the Gathering will go. If Gally picks up steam…”

You shook your head, directing your attention to Thomas. “I’m with you. You should be considered a hero.” Thomas ducked his head, but you weren’t sure if he was embarrassed or reliving last night’s dark memories. You kept talking. “What you did took ten times more courage than Gally has ever shown. Newt knows that too.”

“Newt knows what?” Newt’s voice rose over the creak of the door opening. As he emerged from the Med-Jack Hut, he looked as though he’d aged 10 years. Already, you could see the stress settling on his shoulders, weighing him down.

There was a yearning inside of you to pull him close and take as much of the burden as you could, like you’d done for each other in the past.

But that was the past and this was your present, so you said, “You know Thomas should be a Runner. He killed a Griever. We need him.”

“I’m not the one you need to convince, love.” Newt glanced at the sky, where the afternoon sun hung heavy and golden. “But I guess it’s time to find out how everyone else feels.” With that, he started walking in the direction of the Homestead.

Nearly everyone looked as surprised as you felt by Newt’s abruptness.

Margaret was the exception. She still wore that confident, serene expression when she said, “Good luck, everyone. I’m on your side too, Thomas, if that counts for anything.” 

“Thanks.” Thomas watched Margaret until she disappeared into the Hut and shut the door behind her. When she was gone, he shook his head, as if clearing his mind, then shifted his focus to Minho and you.

“I’m going to walk with Newt. I’ll see you guys in a bit?” You didn’t wait for a reply. After a few seconds of light jogging, you were next to Newt.

He was frowning. Everything about him was moving down; his eyebrows were drawn together, the bags under his eyes were heavy, the corners of his lips pointed south, and he walked like a man going to his execution.

“You can do this, Newt.” The words flowed freely. “You can be the leader. You can figure this out.”

Newt stared straight ahead. “I’ve never run a Gathering without Alby. I don’t know what to do with that empty seat next to me.” The accent over his words was thick.

 You didn’t second guess yourself when you reached out and took his hand. Immediately, he squeezed, gripping you like you were a life preserver and he was drowning. “Alby will be okay.”

“He won’t be the same.”

“But he has a chance.” Those were Margaret’s words coming out of your mouth, but you found yourself believing them more as you said them. “He has a chance, and we have a chance. To escape.”

With every step you took, you grew closer to the Homestead and Newt’s posture straightened.

He looked down at you. His eyes were deep pools of brown, so soft and warm you wanted to drift asleep right there. “We have a chance,” he repeated.

The two of you stopped outside the Homestead door. Your hand slipped out of his. For a second, your pinkies stayed joined, like you were promising each other that you would take your chance. 

Then you broke apart.

Tag List: