I woke to darkness. Darkness and the deafening screech of metal on metal. I stood up and felt myself around my prison, a stone cold, metal box that ever so slowly moved upwards. Gears whirled and pulleys strained as I tried to find an opening to no avail. I finally slumped back down in one of the corners, wrapping my arms around my legs, waiting for the dark, depressing lift to reach its destination.
My name was Elizabeth and I was a trained and professional assassin. That was all I knew about myself. That and the fact I was in this lifeless, miserable, freezing, machine box-lift type thing. Despite being in an unknown location with no memories, my instinct told me to relax and stay calm, something itched in the back of my mind and I knew I had been in worse situations before. Though I couldn't remember them I knew I had. Anyway I would figure things out once this awful thing stopped and the smell of oil, rot and mould no longer buffered me.
It felt like I was there for hours. I discovered that my hair was held up in a messy bun by a sharp, decorated pin that was most probably poisonous. I had a long sword, with no sheath, hanging of my belt and four daggers hidden in secret sheaths in my sleeves and shoes. I strained my mind trying to remember anything but eventually gave up when I felt pounding on the inside of my skull instead. I gave a frustrated sigh and drummed my fingers against the floor of the box. I guess all good things would reveal themselves in time.
With a sudden jolt and one last screech the box came to a halt. Sunlight filtered through a crack at the top and I could hear voices, male voices. I tilted my head to the side and looked up, patiently waiting for the outside world to be revealed to me.
"No noise. . . Greenie. . . Dead . . ." Came a muffled voice from outside.
Slowly the crack in the ceiling grew larger and larger, with a loud metallic complaint as if it was being forced open. I closed my eyes and blinked a few times, my eyes adjusting to the new blinding light. I could make out figures above me and the voices became clearer.
"It's a girl?!" came another voice and the word girl was murmured through the crowd.
"Thank you mister captain obvious," I shouted, standing up and brushing myself down.
I was dressed in black. Black leggings, trench coat, fitted shirt and knee high boots, even the strands of my hair that I could see, were black, though I had white skin. When I looked back up again my eyes had adjusted to the sunlight and I could make out the faces above me. All of them were male. Boys in fact. Between the ages of fourteen and nineteen, one even looked to be about twelve.
"Dibs," shouted one immediately.
"How old is she?" shouted another.
"A girl are you sure?"
"She's mine!"
"What's her Name?"
"Hasn't anybody realized she has a shuck'n sword?"
I was confused by their reaction. It was as if they had never seen a girl before.
Eventually the crowd quietened as an older African-American boy stepped through the crowd, he was obviously the leader.
"No one touches the girl! If you do be expecting a visit to the maze!" he yelled, his voice was clear and loud and seemed to travel to the four corners of the earth. There were a few mumbled complaints and I looked down at my waist to where my sword was hanging. If anybody tried to touch me they wouldn't be paying a visit to this maze, they would be paying a visit to and staying in hell.
Someone lowered a long thick rope into the box, a loop tied at the bottom. I looked it up and down and scoffed. I walked around the rope to the wall of the box as confused murmurs broke out above me. When I reached the wall I moved back again before running forward leaping and reaching up, my hand catching at the top. I used my momentum to gracefully pull myself up, landing on my feet outside of the coldness of the box. I was. . . I had no idea where I was.
"Welcome to the glade girlie," came the voice of the leader.
"The glade," I muttered, rolling the word around on my tongue.
Then memories hit me, like a huge iron fist. I knew why I was here. I was here to assassinate three gladers, if I didn't. . .
. . . WICKED would kill me.