The girl with the chestnut hair and candy apple green eyes is branded Subject B13. She passed the Trials, made it through the Scorch and survived to escape the clutches of WICKED. She feels as if after all that's happened she must be incapable of love. But then a broken boy from Group A comes along and threatens to change that. Will she be able to battle the demons lurking in the darkness of her mind and be happy with the boy that promises to show her a brighter future?
She sits with her legs folded underneath her on a worn black lounge in the middle of some stadium. If it weren't for the green-clad guards milling around, she'd be convinced WICKED didn't have their greedy claws still clinging into her skin. But she knows better, of course, because there is no hope of being free. Not now, maybe not ever.
She watches passively as girls from Group B and the strangers from Group A- Gladers? Is that what they were calling themselves?- mingle with each other, spreading throughout the wooden hall. She spots the boy with brown hair- Thomas, she remembers- talking to Teresa, standing further away than he would have before the Scorch. His muscles are taut and his jaw is set and from where she's sitting it looks like his fingers are hovering over the knife at his belt. The girl knows he wouldn't hurt Teresa, not even after what she did to him. He's heartbroken, that's all. Maybe a little angry. He doesn't know how to deal with that pain by himself so he turns to something he knows. Weapons.
She doesn't care too much for Teresa; in fact she disagreed with nearly everything the other girl had done during the Trials. She respects her, though, for her ability to kick ass and not care whether what she's doing is going to have repercussions later.
Then, for some reason unknown to her, as if triggered by the sight of the other girl, images of her being a Sprinter in the Maze, running through the puzzle by herself, struggling with loneliness and stress, hit her like a tidal wave crashes down onto the coast. She feels nostalgic- nostalgic of all emotions! - as if her entire life is over and she's watching from the sidelines as her friends continue on. Something about the place, about the Walls, has earned itself a place in her heart. Despite the shock, fear and pain she felt there, it had still carved her into the girl she is today. And that counts for something, right? But then darkness spreads and she remembers all the wickedness she experienced there. The shrill screams that cut through the air. The flashing lights and mechanical whirs. The first day she and Chelsea explored the vast corridors outside the Square, only realizing too late that the giant walls move. And close at dusk. The hopelessness she felt when her friend was ripped away from her, dragged deeper into the maze, was overwhelming. She never wanted to feel that wretchedness again.
She closes her eyes and hugs her knees to her chest, settling down into the comfortable cushions. She is glad no one has come over to see her because she's so tired she doubts she would be of any use. But just as she's closing her eyes she sees someone sit down in the single armchair beside her. She keeps her eyes closed, hoping they'll just go away.
"Uh...hi,"
It's a boy's voice, deep and slightly husky with a trace of some accent she can't place. The sheer pleasantness of it makes her lift her heavy eyelids to find out who the alluring mutter came from. The first thing she notices is his olive skin, his dark hair. He's Asian, and very handsome. He looks ragged and exhausted, dirty and burnt but still well put together. His jaw is strong and set and he has a glint of something hopeful in his dark eyes. A small smile plays along his pink lips and he has all the confidence in the world. She realizes she's seen him before, always by Thomas's or the tall, blond boy's side. He's their leader, she thinks.
She waits for him to say something before remembering he already had. "Hey," she murmurs, her voice croaky. She clears her throat before continuing. "Rough couple of days." She wishes she could say something with more meaning, more feeling, less universal, but she can't think of anything.
He blows air out of his nose in a short burst, like he's scoffing. "You're telling me."
Everything about him; his relaxed shoulders, charming smirk and casual tone makes her want to hug him or strangle him until he tells her how he does it. But it seems like he's overcompensating slightly, like he's fighting an internal battle and doesn't want anybody to be his ally.
She feels her eyelids start to droop down, fatigue dawning on her, but she fights it, wanting to talk to him more. "What are you going to do now that we're finally out for good?" she asks, once again cursing herself for the lack of imaginative questions. "No more WICKED. No more Trials. No nothing."
"If those shuck faces are just going to let us walk out of here then I'm going to wear a pink tutu, get down on one knee and sing a song to Rat Man himself,"
She realizes as he says it that it's what she's been thinking also. Not about the song thing but about escaping. There's no way WICKED would put them through all those tests to just let them go at the end. They had to have a follow up or something. "Just trying to be optimistic," she says wearily through a yawn. "I'm sorry...I'm really tired," she murmurs, half wanting to get out of the awkward small talk and the other half actually wanting to sleep. She closes her eyes fully and maintains the position of an unconscious corpse, waiting to see if the boy will leave. He doesn't. A few minutes pass and she still feels his presence in the chair. Then he speaks up quietly, like he doesn't want anyone but her to hear.
"I just..." he starts softly, his voice is strong and steady. "I just don't know how I'm going to live now, you know? The things I saw- the things we all saw...and had to do...shuck it. I don't think I'll be able to sleep again. Those crazy slintheads in the Underneath, the lighting-" he pauses. She remembers the burns she saw on his arms and neck, the touchy way he positioned himself in the chair, the mega storm in the Scorch... "I'm Minho, by the way." he says before she can decide how to react. "Not that you're awake or anything..." he starts to sound nervous, like talking to her is a little more nerve wracking than battling the Grievers. "God, I've never talked a girl to sleep before. Y'know I'm actually normally the smooth one? I could talk someone into committing murder without them thinking twice. But you're uh, different...Anyway, uh, I'm going to go now so...nice chatting with you- or to you, I guess,"
She hears him stand up but doesn't open her eyes. She's kind of overwhelmed by everything he's said, starting with the 'you're different' and ranging to the faltering consistency in his sentences.
Just as he's walking away she catches him murmuring to himself. "Shuck it, Minho. You're such a slinthead. Smooth. Really smooth."
Even as his footsteps merge with the sounds of conversation around her, getting further and further away, she feels as if he's still sitting there, right by her side.