𝑻𝑯𝑹𝑬𝑬, ( act one ) ❛ starless night . . . ❜ ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ seven days
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o. game 𝒐𝒏, chuck ━
The dirt was far more stubborn on Thalia's nails than her clothes. Brown crescents formed underneath her nails, no doubt from the hours she'd spent in the Gardens potting tomatoes underneath the burning sun. Despite the dirt and heat, there was always the matter of flies; buzzing relentlessly in her ears. No matter how much she swatted them, they doubled their attacks like a secret code. But at the end of the day, she was content with being so closely bonded with nature even if it was simply tending to crops and potting tomatoes that would be plucked out a few weeks later.
The Track-hoes were by far the easiest yet most tedious job in the Glade. The Med-jacks were only needed when a boy fell victim to a sneak attack by a branch or a slip in the mud; but they're knowledge was prized amongst all others. The Slicers were skilled with the art of cuts and the Builders with their craft. Then came the Runners who had it the worst—hours upon hours of running with a cloud of death above them, Thalia would never dream of entering the dark corridors unless her curiosity got the best of her.
The Cooks were the Glade's favourite. Of course it was because of their endless provision of meals. Although some may not have been as skilled as the others, in regards to their horrible tasting meals ( no offence, Victor ), but in the Glade, respect had to be earned. And they damn well had.
That was why the Gladers eagerly stood in crooked lines in front of the Cookhouse where Frypan poured a generous amount of his meatball stew into their plates.
Lucky for Thalia and the rest, they got their plates of stew first and were already seated at the table in the corner of the Food Hall.
It was a moment before Alby and Minho trekked towards the trio, setting their plates down and sliding into the bench. Minho sat beside Thalia, resting his elbow on the table as he lifted his arm. Thalia tapped her knuckles against his before their arms fell back on to the table. It was somewhat a handshake between the pair, a movement of solidarity more so.
"—I have decided, Minho. And if you want to defy me then go ahead, I'm open to having another funeral," Alby declared firmly, hoping to shut the Runner up.
"Alby, you're not listening to me. The Maze has been ran through—every shucking inch of it. We don't have anything left to discover," Minho continued, his frustration growing stronger by the second.
Alby set his fork down, glancing at the three faces that stared at him that observed his and Minho's words with great intrigue. "All four of you know what happened the last time we attempted to discover something other than the Maze, right? We lost Nick. And I say that the only thing that can drive us out of here are those walls right there. Now, I don't care if you've scoured every inch of that Maze, Minho. You and the Runners will go back in there and run it again in case you missed somethin', got it?"
