A/N: Written and can be read to "Ancient Storm" by Adrian von Zeigler, back when I used Celtic music for inspiration while writing. Also, this is one of my "Nikki went there and fixed stuff" AUs.
Thomas bent low, ready to spring. Any moment, the door would open, and he would be sent to run. Outside, the wind whistled and threw itself at anything that dared to stand. Buildings crumbled, victims of the sun flares and witnesses to the atrocities that had taken place in the battered city. The pavement cracked, wishing nothing more than to be torn up, but still willing to tear anything else up.
The buzzer sounded, signaling the start of the countdown. The doors would open soon, and he'd be sent out to find the way out of the city. The small rebel group, a branch of SHIELD, had resupplied them, but could not carry them to their destination: another compound on the other side of the city. Maybe it would have a jet. Maybe it would have a car, or a tank. Maybe it would be just like this one. Who could tell?
The thought that he might soon be free thrilled him. Every day for the last week, it had been the same. Wake up. Resupply. Put on the backpack that would serve as his lifeline. Enter the small room from which he would start his run. Run, alone, to the edge of the city. Get to the next compound. Wait there overnight. Receive directions to the next place. Repeat.
The hope that he would find a place with a way out was becoming increasingly remote. He could've just waited at the next place, but he didn't. It would put them in danger. WICKED was everywhere. Cranks were everywhere. The bases, outposts, and watchtowers were running low on supplies. They had to send the Gladers on their way, or they'd get attacked. They didn't have the supplies to withstand, to survive, an attack from much of anyone.
He counted off the seconds. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, go.
The doors flew open and he took off. Running at full speed, passing anything and everything else. Focused on one destination. Safety. Hope. Freedom. He could feel it drawing closer with every step. He could also feel it marching away with every step. He was chasing it. He had to keep going, or he'd never be free. Never be safe. Never escape.
Being a Runner prepared him well for this situation. Most of the other boys who weren't had learned by now how to keep running. Those who were ran faster. The wind beat at him, threatening to knock him to the ground every time it changed direction. He didn't stop, though. Never stopped.
He kept running as fast as he could. His pattern was different from the others, he was sure. While some tried to pace themselves, he pushed. Ran as fast as he could, as long as he could, as hard as he could. He would run himself out, then stop for a break. Eat. Drink. Stretch. Catch his breath. Start again. It'd worked, so long as he had a good meal at the start and end of the day, plenty of water, and soft bed. A change of clothes was preferable, but not necessary.
And so he kept going. Passing streets, houses, offices, cars, trucks, lights. It didn't matter. Maybe as markers if he lost his way, but he never lost his way. Well, hadn't yet. WICKED was still after him. He might need to run a different direction, or turn around completely. Then these would serve a purpose. How long he'd been running determined how far he'd gotten. Those would mark where he was in respect to the beginning, and to the end.
The sun climbed higher behind the darkening clouds, warming up the planet. Unfortunately, also warming up the clouds, which were brewing. There would be a storm today. Hopefully, it would hold off until everyone got to safety. He doubted it would, though. It'd be a stroke of luck if it held off until he got to safety, and he was one of the fastest boys in the group.
He was right. Halfway through the day, halfway through the city, the lightening started. Cracking and tearing both earth and sky asunder with its anger, the thunder made him feel as if he was being torn apart by the noise. He pressed his hands to his ears and kept going. One close call after another didn't stop him. Each time, it seemed as if the thunder roared louder, angry at its inability to kill him.
He thought he was out-running the fury of the storm, or perhaps running straight to the heart of it. Challenging it to kill him. Proving himself worthy of passage. Of survival. Of freedom. The thought he wasn't worthy of it didn't enter his mind. He was too quick, too cunning, too hurt. He deserved it as much as anyone else. So on he ran to the end of the day, whenever that may be. However it would end. Finally, after another dangerous day of running, he got there.
He survived.
Reunited with the rest of the Gladers, his family, he sat down to catch his breath. To rest. Another harrowing day behind him, he learned that this comound was just like the others, but with one slight difference. They knew. The next compound they would run to would be the one that offered them their final freedom. A jet. A way to the Helicarrier. Safety. Home.