A Group B fanfiction following Group B's Keeper of the Runners (Minho's equivalent), Rogue. Read the Scorch Trials through the perspective of Group B.
'Every time she closed her eyes, she saw them-her friends and their bodies. She saw Rachel and Ada...
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SHE FOUND HER in the dark.
Far from the others, far from the gym, in a tiny cupboard tucked behind her bed in their dormitory. There she was—sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, as beautiful as ever. 'Hey you,' she said.
'Hi, Ada,' Rogue muttered.
Ada hadn't donned the bland clothes their rescuers had assigned them—the assortment of greys and blues, light and dark. Instead, she wore the dress—the one Rogue had always liked, before was abandoned to rot in the Glen.
Her hair, once matted and frizzy in the days of their escape, now cascaded in soft curls, framing her delicate face just as it used to. She looked as young, as innocent, as she had on that first day—when Rogue had first seen her in the Box.
'Come sit,' Ada said, patting the ground beside her. Rogue didn't hesitate. She folded herself down, wrapping her arms around her knees and taking all of her in.
She smelled sweet, like the Gardens. But her hands were clean, her nails immaculate and trimmed—no trace of the dirt they'd once been surrounded by. She was perfect, just as Rogue remembered her.
'You don't look well,' Ada observed, tilting her head slightly. She reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of Rogue's hair behind her ear.
It was true. Rogue had never looked into a mirror before. In the Glen, they didn't have them, and no one ever thought to ask for one. She'd only caught glimpses of herself in fleeting reflections—in the still water of the Range, in the glint of a polished metal surface or the faint shimmer of glass. But those were just fragments, brief and distorted, easy to ignore.
Now, in the gymnasium, mirrors were everywhere, and she couldn't escape them. She was everywhere, staring back at her, relentless and unforgiving.
The only thing that looked well about her was her body—toned and muscular from the years of survival. Her shoulders were broad, her arms strong, and her stance had the steadiness of someone who had fought. But her face told a different story.
Sickly pale, almost purple, her skin clung to her bones, making her look gaunt and ghostly. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with red, the whites so strained they looked ready to burst. Dark circles hung beneath them. She hadn't slept since they had put her under. How could she?
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw them—her friends and their bodies. She saw Rachel and Ada. Their cold, dead eyes looked into hers, accusing and haunting.
