(A/N: What Didn't Kill Me is set at the same time as The Maze Runner, but Jane will be the character in place of Thomas in the story (ie; the curious one who gets them out) and Thomas will be the character in place of Teresa. Confusing, I know, but bear with me.)
The ground beneath me is shaking violently and something metal is clanging hard against another piece of metal and things are loud and shaky and dark. The ceiling of the long tunnel above is approaching at a dangerously fast pace, ready to either swallow me whole or squash me flat. I stare at it for a few more seconds before coming to the realization that it is too far away to arrive any time soon, and so I look below. The box I am inside is rushing through a skinny, vertical tunnel at what seems like light-speed, ready to launch me somewhere when the ceiling opens; if the ceiling opens. Silently, I pray that the ceiling will indeed open. Sometime in the next few nanoseconds, I decide I would rather die by human catapult than human-ceiling sandwich.
My mind begins traveling, searching for the reason why I have been put into this box. The knowledge in me feels like heavy pebbles trapped in my skull. There is a part of me that feels so full it might combust; full of knowledge, of mathematical equations and scientific reasoning and historical understandings. It is a part of me that feels all-powerful.
Then, there is another part: it is empty, void of any reason why I know 15,672 (and growing) digits of Pi or the quadratic formula or why the hell I can name every planet in our solar system, or in any of the 500 existing solar systems, in both alphabetical and sequential order, and backwards. I am also void of a purpose, of any relationships, faces, memories, and names. I feel like a naked soul in a body I do not belong in.
I am a girl. This I know for some reason. I am wearing clothes: a long sleeve shirt and pants that hug my ankles and they feel recognizable but I do not know why. Until now, I am unsure I have ever seen pants before. But these are pants. They have to be pants.
Something in the back of my mind begs me to find a weapon. I think it must be an instinct; that I must be wired this way. Some part of my brain, a part I have no conscious control over, senses trouble. Quickly, I glance around the small box. Besides my body, it is only large enough to fit a metal cylinder (which, for some reason, I can tell is exactly 7.2 inches in circumference) and two wooden crates of food. My mind illuminates at the sight of wood, and I crawl over to it. And then I am propping my foot against the top crate and pulling off a short plank, causing some fruit to fall. The end of the plank is not jagged enough to be a weapon, and so I make new edges, breaking it over my knee.
Too entranced with my tinkering, I do not realize the shaft has begun moving faster until a lump forms in my stomach, telling me it's time to hurl. And I am about to, but then the ceiling is finally here. There is a jolt and I am thrown across the box, headfirst into the metal cylinder sat in the corner. The box does not slow down at the sight of the ceiling like I hoped it would. Instead, it screeches to a halt just seconds before it can flatten me. For a moment, every organ in my body is uprooted, floating between my bones, and I feel disembodied. Then it is over and my intestines drop and scrunch up again and this time I am sure my insides are coming out.
I am too busy on my hands and knees in the corner, doubled over and dry heaving, to notice when the ceiling splits in two. The hum of voices starts low and grows as the beamed light in the box expands enough to encompass it fully. When the beam reaches me, it is time to look up. I wipe the saliva from the side of my mouth and squint out at a thick circle of figures, all hunched over, pushing to get a look at what's come up in this hole of theirs.
The doors of the hole are swung open and then a body is crashing in. It lands with a thump that rattles my bones, where they lay in a heap against the far wall. Only now does the exhaustion kick in, and suddenly I am content with not knowing my name or where I am just as long as I can go to sleep right here, right now, on this rusty metal cylinder. But then a voice comes, and my eyes snap open.
"It's…a girl."
The voice is accented differently than I'm used to, and although I have no recollection of ever knowing anyone British, I know this boy is.
Piles and piles of voices follow the observation.
"A girl?"
"What she look like?
"How old is she?"
"Is she cute?"
"I so got dibs!"
"Would you all shut your holes?!"
The last comment comes louder than the rest from a figure in front, cuts clean through the chatter and silences it.
Then, as my vision begins to clear of black dots, I see the British boy, now inside the box with me, in detail. He is tall yet elf-like, with big doe eyes and half a smirk. He falls into a squat and I instinctively flinch back.
"Hello love," He speaks. "Welcome to the Glade."
At his words, the vomit I'd been trying to puke up finally rises in my throat, and then I'm hacking and spitting it onto the floor. My mind is flooded with thoughts, questions, inquiries –but all I can grasp onto is the way the thick, yellow bile falls through the holes in the metal box and disappears into the thin air below. The people above are becoming rowdy once again.
The British boy makes no sign of disgust, merely observes as I collect myself and scramble to my feet. Standing is harder than I originally thought, and when I wobble, a hand clasps onto my forearm.
"Don't!" I suddenly screech, ripping my arm away. Our eyes catch for a moment, but his confused, doe-eyed gaze does not wither me. "Don't," I repeat.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he says, his hands up in surrender. "I know you just showed up in a dark box and you're scared. We get it. But we won't hurt you."
He steps closer to me and I step back toward the wall of the box. We stay like this, neither one ever deciding to break eye contact, for a while. I am next to speak.
"I don't believe you." My voice is hoarse, like I have not spoken in days.
"You have to," the British boy says. I almost laugh at this demand, but I am too cautious to let it slip.
"For Christs' sake, Newt," A new voice says from above, and then another body is slamming into the box right beside me. "Listen, princ-"
Before he has time to finish, I have the sharp side of my makeshift dagger pressing into his neck, his back against the wall.
"Woah woah w-"
"I want to go back down," I demand, staring into the new boy's eyes menacingly. He looks unfazed.
"Back down?" The boy chuckles and I feel it vibrate against the plank.
"And I want you back on ground level before I shove this plank far enough into your neck that it snaps your spinal chord."
Our eyebrows rise in sync, but neither of us moves. Above us, there's a chorus of low 'ooo's.
"Hate to break it to you, babe," The boy begins, smirking, "But this box was your one-way ticket to hell and you ain't leaving anytime soon."
I growl. Between us, I have a handful of his shirt and I use it to pull him forward and slam him back against the wall.
"Alright, alright!" the boy called Newt yells, coming up beside us. He looks at the boy I am still manhandling. "Just go back up, Gally. Let me calm her down."
He gives Newt a shifty glare, looking unconvinced and displeased. Eventually, though, he shoves my grip off of his shirt and climbs out of the box obediently. As I glance up, I notice most of the crowd is beginning to disperse.
Somehow, I feel safer with only Newt in the box, and so I decide against threatening him and drop the plank to my side. He watches and curtly nods.
"You made that?" He asks. It is not on the list of things I expected him to open with, but I shrug nonetheless.
He releases a slow, quiet whistle.
"'It's quite well done."
"What are you doing?" I snap.
He seems taken aback. "I'm…making chit chat?"
"Let's skip to the part where you send me back down."
"Do you even know where 'back down' is?"
At my lack of immediate response, he nods. "You don't. I know you don't because I've gone through the exact same thing. All of us have. But what I can tell you is that the only way you're gonna survive from here on out is by trusting us. You've got to."
Newt has taken control of the conversation, and it doesn't feel good, but I am at a loss for words. I do not want to leave the security of the box; the box I felt trapped inside only moments ago. But reason is telling me to trust the kid.
"Well, uh, I'm Newt. Do you remember your name?" His approach is cautious, like nudging a dead body with a foot to see if it'll move.
I don't know why I've made this comparison.
Slowly, I shake my head. "But it's here. Somewhere."
"No worries, then. It'll come within a day or tw-"
"Why don't I know my own name?" This is the first real question I ask.
Newt sighs. "You'll come to find most of your questions won't be properly answered. When we're put in the box, our memories have been wiped. Don't know how, don't know why. Luckily, names are the one thing they let us keep."
"Who's 'they'?"
"The Creators."
The title fits the situation. I imagine a man and woman in blindingly white lab coats, picking at my unattached brain in a petri dish.
Newt is looking at me like he expects a voiced response. His gaze is attractive, but I want it off of me.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay," He replies, letting out a long breath. I can tell I make him the slightest bit weary, and it pleases me even though he seems harmless. "Would you like to come up now? I'm sure those shanks are bloody itching to properly meet you."
After waiting moments for a response and not receiving one, he rolls his eyes and turns away.
"Just cooperate, would you, Greenie? We don't bite."
'Shank' and 'Greenie' are words outside of my terminology realm. In context, I understand their meanings easily, but I still wonder how such terms have assimilated into their vocabulary. Then, I wonder why I am wondering this instead of following Newt, who has already climbed himself out of the box and began through the grass.
By the time I reach him, he has already begun a monologue.
"-What we call the Glade, and there are currently 62 of us here, including you. And everyone's-"
I cut him off. "Currently?"
Newt seems agitated with my habit of interrupting him. "Currently. Ya gain some ya lose some. Glade keeps spinning. Anyways, everyone here's got a job. No jobs and things would get messy, so you do your part. We've got slicers, builders, runners, med-jacks, sloppers, cooks, and track-hoes." He counted them off on his fingers and then looked confused. "Yeah, thinks that's all of 'em."
He continues to talk, and as comforting as his low, accented voice is, I can't help but tune him out after a while. Then things start going fast.
I am introduced to a dark-skinned boy called Alby, who is said to be first in command just above Newt himself. The guy looks older than anyone I've seen, and is good at grimacing.
Then I am taken to every job section and properly introduced to its 'keeper,' who all seem jolly enough to meet me despite the circumstances. Frypan, keeper of the cooks of the Glade, passes me a bowl of slop when we come to the 'kitchen.' I have no intention of eating whatever it is, but I take it to be polite and sit down at an old picnic table with Newt. He begins another monologue, explaining more things about the Glade, but then I am struck with a sudden realization.
"Wait," I say. At this word, Newt seems surprised, as I haven't spoken since the beginning of the tour.
"Aren't there any girls? Are you all guys?"
Newt looks entertained. "Sorry, love, but you're the first girl ever delivered. Probably explains why everyone's sorta looking at you like meat, eh?"
I roll my eyes.
"Pro-ba-bly."
What the boys call The Glade is ironically stunning. Long, vibrant grass, farm animals roaming about, and a forest of bare trees, appropriately titled The Deadheads, in the corner. If I had any inkling of a reason for my being here, the environment might have actually put me at ease. Unfortunately, this was all compromised by the four tall –so tall that they seemingly stretched into the clouds- walls trapping me here.
A while after introducing us, Newt releases me into Alby's care, saying he has some "less important manners to attend to, but attend to all the same." I feel more comfortable with Newt, but I let him go and listen while Alby speaks, though he says little that I care about or understand. Despite my silence, he seems quite driven on insisting that we are all "family" here, and that no Glader should ever harm another Glader. I figure this is stemmed from my stunt in the box with the boy called Gally, but it still goes in one ear and out the other. I've already promised myself I'll do whatever is needed to escape, whether it's with or without this "family."
For the remainder of the day's sunlight, which was only a few hours worth, I am finally allowed to roam about on my own before tomorrow when I'll be evaluated on which job I'll take in The Glade. After walking nearly the entire perimeter of the place, I find myself at the opening of the gigantic doors both Newt and Alby had warned me about walking through. On the opposite side lay a ground of cracked cement and walls of ivy, stretching back into oblivion. For a moment, I wonder if there is a similar Glade on the opposite side, one we feud with. An old tale of star-crossed lovers flashes in my mind, but I cannot remember the title.
"Hey Greenie!" A near voice hollers, and suddenly I am being gripped by the shoulders and thrown 4 feet back. I have little time to notice the lack of breath in my lungs because I am immediately rushing to my feet. Gally is upon me in less than a second, pointing a finger in my face.
"I don't know who you think you are-"
"Gally, slim it!" Someone yells, interrupting him, and I don't have to look to know that Newt's arrived with a small army.
"But we oughta get one thing straight." The boy is almost yelling, almost spitting in my face.
I don't back up.
"You're a greenie, and greenies don't go 'round holding shuckin' daggers at peoples' throats and barking orders. So you're gonna hand your weapon over to me like a good little girl, and order will be restored."
Gally is smirking, holding his hand between our bodies, waiting for my offering. The plank feels heavy in my back pocket. I plaster a smile on my own face and reach back to grab it.
Then, quick as a striking snake, I have Gally's wrist in my grip and I am twisting his arm around until it's pinned against his back uncomfortably. He begins writhing, and the Gladers around us have their arms outstretched, slowly advancing and ready to attack.
"Hey!" Gally yells at me, and I stretch his arm upward until he is crying out in pain. Until now, I had no idea of my strength, or of my ability to put someone so easily into an arm lock. The juxtaposition must be funny looking, I think, considering the boy has at least 4 inches on me.
"Quiet!" I yell, using Gally as a shield and holding the plank out threateningly against the ever-imposing circle of boys. There must be about 7 or 8 of them. I only recognize Newt and Alby, the two in front.
"Now. I may be the only girl here and your ignorance at how to act properly in such circumstances is understandable. But you should get it through your skulls right this instant that I am not now –nor will I ever be –a puppet to you people."
Gally begins to squirm again, so I take the makeshift dagger and press it into the side of his neck until a drop of blood is drawn. He stills.
"Greenie, let the boy go," Newt says, his voice calm.
"You don't get to tell me what to do, Newt."
"Okay we all need to-"
"Tell me what's out there!" I demand, cutting Alby off.
"Not yet," Alby says.
"You guys can't just keep me here!" I yell.
"We can't let you leave!" Alby says. "You need to get it through your shuck head that we're not here to buggin' hurt you, girl! All of us here are in the same boat."
"Then give me some answers!"
It's Newt's turn to yell. "We can't relive the last three years of our lives to you in five bloody minutes, alright! It would overwhelm the klunk outta you! Outta anyone."
I am tiring of the arguing; slowly realizing Newt must be the Glade's one and only voice of reason.
Suddenly, a loud boom erupts from behind us, followed by scraping that echoes off every wall. I jump and force Gally to turn with me, now pointing the dagger towards the opening in the walls. As I attempt to control my shaking, I watch as the two walls slowly creep inwards, lessening the gap between them. It is an unreal thing to witness, these absolute humongous slabs of concrete somehow moving themselves by way of just two gears on either side.
It takes a minute or two for them to finally meet, but when they do, its noise mimics a crack of lightning. Gally strains his neck to face me, where I stand behind him still.
"You get it now, do ya Greenie?" He asks.
I roll my eyes. Swiftly, I unravel his arm from my tight hold and move to stand before him. Once we are both steady, I send him a genuine smile and promptly knee him in the crotch.
I don't wait up to see him double over, but as I turn to head towards the beds, I hear the crack of knees on ground.
I can't help but smirk.
And, although I'm sure he'd deny it, I see Newt smirk too.