A MAZE RUNNER TRILOGY
"And one day someone walks into your life,
a total stranger, and they become so important
to you. And while you're only known them such a short time,
you feel you're loved them for a lifetime."
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ılı.lıllıılı.ıllı ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ ( DRAG PATH twenty one pilots )
EVERY BREATH MADYLIN TOOK was a slow, painful affirmation of her existence, a testament to the relentless march of consequences. Each decision, a stone thrown into a pond, its ripples spreading out, touching everything, everywhere. She sat slumped against the cold metal, her wrists bounded in her lab, the cuffs biting into her skin chained to the ceiling of the train. The person next to her shifted, their breath coming in short, shallow puffs. Her head dropped back to rest on his, their identity lost to the haze of her own exhaustion—just a flash of dark hair, matted to the side of their head, and the line of a strong, wiry arm that flexed every time the train jerked.
She often drifted back to the Glade, to the crossroads she'd faced. The choice to abandon Gally, break their promise, to leave the safety of their walls, their home, and brave the Maze with Newt and the others, still haunted her. She'd believed it was the right thing at the time, the only way forward. The only way to save her from an agonizing death. But what if it hadn't been? What if she had stayed?
A dull ache settled in her chest. Would Gally have still gone into the Maze, chasing after them, consumed by his anger and fear? Or would her presence have anchored him, made him content with the idea of the others' escape if it meant she was still by his side? He'd gone after them for her, hadn't he? A desperate, misguided attempt to keep her safe within his warped mind. Would he still be alive today? A shiver ran through her, unrelated to the train's chill. Maybe they would have found their own way out, a different path, away from the chaos. Or perhaps, the Right Arm would have found them there, in a Glade untouched by the Scorch.
Then there was Minho. The memory of him falling, the eletricity against his skin, brought a fresh wave of nausea. Newt's warning echoed in her hollow mind, "Don't, love!" But she had. She'd always run to those who needed her, an instinct ingrained deeper than any caution. How different would her life have been now if she had listened? Stayed by his side instead? If she had let WICKED take him without a fight, the sacrifice, the betrayals? Would she still be whole? Untwisted?
Choices. Always choices. Even when they felt forced, when the weight of the world pressed down, she knew, in some core part of herself, that she had still moved her own feet. She had still chosen.
A dull throb started behind her eyes, the familiar precursor to Thomas's insistent whispers. He'd tried to reach her, for months now. At first, they were able to communicate. But as the days bled into weeks, the connection had frayed. Her body, starved and bruised, had grown weak. Her manipulated mind now felt like missing pages of her own story, too fragile, too unstable to hear his voice, let alone send him hers. She had, in the end, simply shut him out. A month ago, was the last time she could bring herself to reach out before they had gotten to her completely. She'd managed one final message, a desperate plea, a warning. WICKED hasn't stop moving us. They will be transporting us one last time, in one month. She'd hoped he and Newt would come. Now, the hope felt like a foolish dream from another lifetime. Now she just hoped they had forgotten her. Hoped they had made it to the Safe Haven instead, far away from all this. Far away from her.
