Reshuffled || Maze Runner Fanfiction

Unprecedented Prejudice

The night falls quickly in the Glade. And with the rapid descent of the sun, the thunderous sound of metal grinding against metal, of stone breaking, of mountains falling. Of the impossible happening. I had been reduced to slack-jawed silence, awe-struck well the rest of the Gladers laughed at me.

"They're just havin' fun," Newt reassured me. I had glowered at him.

Now, after the moon has already climbed to its peak, I find a long-awaited moment of peace. A gentle light basks the clearing, and countless stars decorate the sky. The night is surprisingly warm, the breeze kissing my face. The only thing that breaks the peace is the snoring, which rumbles from inside the shacks, muffled by the thin walls. 

I try to search deeper into my mind, try to unbury the memories that seemed to have drowned. But I come up with nothing. Just smoldering hatred, so intense I feel almost choked by it. Hatred for everything; for everyone. This cursed Glade, these cursed Gladers, and- most of all- whoever had crooked enough morals to put me here. It makes me want to scream. 

Finally, I can't take it. But there's nothing I can do. I'm overwhelmed by this warped reality- what to do? I want to run. But there's nowhere to run to.

So? Just do laps. I stand, bouncing on my toes, and I'm about to start when-

"-What'cha up to, greenie?" I almost groan. Looking behind me, I see a silhouette leaning against the doorframe of the Homestead shacks. It takes a moment to place him as Newt.

I'm oddly irritated, "What's it to you?" 

"Just wondering. No need to bite my head off," he steps into the cold light of the moon. I see his face, angled and narrow, but his features are marred by the heavy bags under his eyes. I raise an eyebrow, bracing myself, "The Builders are gonna make a separate shack for you tomorrow," he comments absentmindedly. But he's watching me carefully, and I try to hide how my stomach twists at his words. I turn away, facing the darkness. 

"This is worse than a prison," I talk without thinking. I swing out one of my feet, letting it scratch against the ground. There's the warped memory of my mother, again, with pale skin and frizzy hair, with a warm smile and a plump figure. I miss her, even if I don't remember her much. There's the ghost memory of her hands brushing my hair from my face, of her arms wrapped around me. I look down at my feet.

Newt appears next to me, but he stands a few steps away. He holds out his hand and, surprisingly, I see the cold glint of metal.

I turn to him. It's a knife, small enough to hide in my pocket, but big enough to pierce a hand. I hesitate before taking it, nervous as my fingers brush against the palm of his hand. He doesn't look at me, but brings his hand back to his side. I push the knife into my right pocket.

"You know how to use that?" He asks. Still, he faces the dark field. I narrow my eyes, trying to remember if I do. I did gymnastics, but the knife felt uncertain in my hands, and my arm felt heavy, and suddenly I don't think knives are very much my specialty. 

I shake my head, "No. But-" suddenly I feel the need to show I can defend myself- "I can do a backflip."

He snorts, "Such talent."

Again, I'm irritated, but I try to push the feeling away, "Fine, then, what can you do?"

"Not much of anything. But I can use a knife," suddenly he has an idea. I can tell because he finally looks at me, "I can teach you how, if you'd like."

"Teach me how," I echo.

"Yeah. I mean, only if you want."

"How good are you?"