The Saffron Siege (The Maze Runner)

Chapter 1 - I'm Going To Strangle You

"Psst, are you awake?"

I burrow my face into the sheets with an irritated groan. For somebody cursed with the lightest sleeps, this night's rest could account for beyond the next day. Therefore, the very fact that some poor excuse of a human being has the NERVE to try to wake me is astronomical.

...Maybe if I just play dead they'll go away.

A firm grip lightly shakes my shoulder.

"Get up, Joan."

It was a familiar, low voice strumming just above a whisper. No matter, whoever it is, if I was in a state of higher energy, my hands would knot around this person's throat like a noose. Instead I bring an arm out of the sheets and pathetically flail a dismissal. The hand holding my shoulder releases me, then grasps the rim of my hammock and slowly lifts it, threatening to tip me.

"Stop," I command, planting a harsh hold on the arm. He releases the fabric of the hammock and I fall back in neat sways. I rip my tired eyes open to the source of cruelty. A broad Asian boy hovers over me, draped of dim moonlight that poke between the loose, branch-woven walls of the homestead. His ebony hair melts into the shadowed surroundings of the room so much so that I can barely make out the single point his hair sharpens to at the front. Minho. He presses a single finger to his lip.

"Don't yell. Come on," he hushes. I arch a groggy eyebrow before turning back into my swaddle of sheets. My hammock sways me like a baby within a crib and my eyes falter shut again. I hear a dramatic sigh stem from Minho.

Then, the world's gravity ceases. I'm plucked from the cozy sanctuary of my bed and lifted to the sky. I thrash around in a frenzy. My left foot tangles with the hammock as I squirm, my hand scraping against warm skin. A fog of confusion swarms my fuzzy head, and just as I'm about to scream...

An awkward hand clasps my mouth and I'm squeezed tighter to Minho's body. He holds me like this for a few seconds, which gives me time to somewhat navigate what on earth's going on. My conclusion is that Minho's hand is pushing my head between his ribs and forearm, and the leg not knotted into the hammock is swung over his shoulder. Also I think I've stubbed my toe. Ouch.

"You done?" Minho mumbles through grit teeth. I narrow my eyes to slits and burn into his. Then, I chomp down on his hand like a shark. He drops me and leaps back, flapping his hand around like a lunatic. I feel my butt break into the cold, dirt floor as I slam into the ground.

"What the hell are you-"

Minho stamps his hand back against my face.

"You're going to get us in trouble!" He growls. I roll my eyes. Minho peers around the room in quick movements before reluctantly freeing me once more. The place is littered in a great deal of other hammocks — about fifteen swaddles of dull reds, yellows and greens — all filled with a snoring Glader. And, if Alby were to wake up there'd be trouble all around. Minho peers to the very corner of the twig-supported structure. Wood whimpers rhythmically attuned to the movement of the sleeping Gladers.

"What do you want?" I growl.

"Grab your shoes," Minho says, reaching under my hammock and pulling my old pair of verdant sneakers from my leather trunk. They're terribly shabby. One of the laces were split in three wire-like strands. Fortunately, out of all the memories they had wiped, braiding wasn't one of them. The end of the braided lace was a double knot to ensure my hard work doesn't undo. But, although practicality is salvageable, an upgrade would be pleasant. Maybe the next time the box comes up...

I pull my frown away from my shoes and over to Minho before whisking them from his grasp. I slip my feet inside each shoe gingerly and double-knot the laces. Minho cautiously spins a full three-sixty to make certain nobody else had woken up.

Finally, I prop myself to my feet and unhinge an aged vest resembling a splendid shade of olive — my favourite colour. It hung by a loose nail punched into a wooden pole that suspends my hammock along with another Glader's from the opposite side. Without another thought, I follow the creeping Minho down the row of beds.

To get to the exit, one would have to silently bypass the outspread of limbs shooting from the several other hammocks as well as storage crates inadequately pushed beneath them. Majority of the Glader's are out cold from another consecutive day of work, snoozing with wide mouths and half-sealed eyes. And for some, tongues sluggishly poke out from behind their lips with a complimentary string of drool puddling down to their chins. I toe over, stretch, and duck under the series of obstacles to pass through the row.

Suddenly, an arm bursts outward in front of me and I swerve back. My foot catches on a pair of glasses and bursts into an echoed crackle. I fall to my butt on a thud. Again. Minho glares back at me and springs behind a pole tucked under the cover of shadows. I freeze like a statue. I don't dare to move, even at the cost of breathing.

Over in the corner, a small rustling crosses the haunting silence. Oh, god. Alby sleeps over there, and Alby is by far the worst to wake. I wince, already imagining Minho and I shoved in the Slammer and spending a day of utter humiliation from the other Gladers. But alas, the movement stopped. I poked my head up high and see no fiery eyes piercing back at me. Alby is sleeping.

I fling a thumbs up at Minho and he continues forward. It's when I dust myself off that I spot a hammock with a smaller freckled boy in it.

Dodger is about eleven, maybe twelve. He has crazy red hair that curls in coiled springs all swooped into an afro. I smile at his soft face. I hope he's dwelling within a sweet dream. If I didn't cherish the blessings of a good night's sleep, I suppose I'd wake him and invite him to come with us, wherever Minho could possibly need us at a time like this.

Never-mind that. I let out a breath, shake myself of nerves, and meet Minho at the door.