a/n: long author's note down.
—
i. sonya
—
She tastes blood and gunpowder on her tongue, but it does little to make her recoil in disgust. It's not the first time she's swallowed things like those, and it is not the most revolting thing she's ever tasted either. She could count several things far worse than blood and dried explosives that found its way into her mouth, but that would have to wait for a later time.
The pistol on her hand is cold and heavy — and loaded. She makes sure the man in front of her knows it too. She cocks it, and angles it to point between his eyes.
"Tell, Ava," she mutters lowly, her voice broken in all sorts of places due to the lack of usage. She is not used to speaking in situations such as these — they are called stealth missions for a reason — but the King had sent her as a messenger this time.
Her target narrows his eyes at her, eyes swollen and teeth bleeding. His determination not to show his fear amuses her.
She lowers the gun. Right hand. Fires. "Wicked will—"
Cocks it. Left shoulder. Fires. "—never be—"
Cocks it. Left thigh. Fires. "—good."
There's no howl from her victim. Just a silent scream as he collapses to the ground that doesn't even last long. She knows she should be disappointed from the absence of his voiced suffering, or at least be amazed at his level resilience, but she doesn't. There's something off about his quietness, and it makes her take an instinctive step back when it is suddenly disturbed by his laughter.
"When the cat purrs, the mouse shall run."
She has her ears pricked for any kind of danger, her shoulders tense. Years of training had warned her to stay clear of suspicious action — a complete opposite of a wanted result would always hint at an enemy's trump card, or possibly, a play they had accidentally overlooked. A hidden gunman, maybe, or a to-be activated trap somewhere around here, or even an ambush.
The latter didn't sit well with her, not like the other two which she can easily evade and escape from, although not unscathed. An ambush, on the other hand, means having to fight a mass of armed men and women, an act that needs more than just her agility, wit and the temporary rush of adrenaline.
She braces for the worst.
"Y-You're —" he spits, before looking at her. It reminds her of a wounded hyena fending for itself from a prowling lioness she had watched from a documentary once. "I remember you! You're his bitch, ain't ya?"
Oh.
Oh.
"You're that brat's bitch, and, you really d—"
This time, when she pulls the trigger and more gunpowder and ash fills her mouth, he screams.
What a beautiful melody it is.
—
It's done.
[Is he dead?]
No.
Message has been delivered.
[Are there any information you were able to find?]
Mary is right. They're progressing in a shocking speed.
[Anymore?]
That's all.
—
She shuts her phone off, and looks at her hands.
She'll tell them, she decides. She'll tell them about the battered bodies of children she had seen locked in a cold room like they were nothing more than a piece of meat. She'll tell them about the gruesome experiments WCKD had done in that unit and the catastrophic results it could cause them.
What she will not tell them is that her target, a dark haired man her age with a sickening look in his eyes and a snarling smile on his lips, knew her from a long forgotten past.
And.
...
She's still debating whether or not she should tell them about the bloody hole in her target's dick. It'd be quite amusing to see Harriet's incredulity once she hears this, but she is not really in the mood for another one of Vince's lecture on her brutish actions and her lack of feminine classiness or whatever.
(Sometimes, she wonders at his rather odd characteristics until she remembers the old photos hung about in his office. She shakes the haunted faces of a little girl with pigtails, lilac dresses, ragdolls — and missing eyeballs, dark indigo tears, and purple crawling skin.
She gulps, and mentally sweeps Vince's daughter out of her mind, and continues debating.)
After a minute's thought, she finds herself settling to keep it a secret.
She's still not ready to be lectured.
—
a/n: so if you're wondering what the hell this story is supposed to be, I am not certain. ive only been obsessed with the fandom for a couple of months, and ive only watched the movies and haven't read any of the books yet, so a lot of things about this story is iffy and the characters would probably out of character at times.
this is a semi-au; semi because it still has WCKD and cranks and flares and right arm and mazes and shit, and an au because the world has not completely succumbed to the scorch of the sun or something. id give more info about it on the next couple of chapters, since im still weighing the possible whatnots I'm going to put. i don't like changing a lot of what happened in the movies, although it is technically supposed to be an au, so many decisions to carefully make.
also, this is a sonya and newt — better known as their shipname, sonewt — because why not? ive been in love with katherine mcnamara for a long time now, and hearing that she plays sonya in scorch trials was actually the real reason why I started watching the two movies. was bummed that her role is actually just so small (her screentime is basically just five minutes) but then I was distracted by how handsome newt was (don't tell me you guys haven't thought of it too). anyways, ive been reading a lot of fanfics, stumbled upon the very few sonewt ones and that was what convinced me to ship them both. so there ya go, more long author's note probably for the rest of this fic.
feedback is appreciated