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."
#1 Ranking for #TheMazeRunner
#1...
❝ You think if we ask nicer than these people, they might let us in? ❞
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ılı.lıllıılı.ıllı ᴺᵒʷ ᵖˡᵃʸᶦⁿᵍ; ( ACHILLES, COME DOWN gang of youths )
THE AIR IN THE SLUMS TASTED OF pulverized concrete and old sweat. There was a thick, stagnant heat that clung to the skin, making the layers of dust on Thomas's face feel like a second, unwanted skin. The street was choked with people, makeshift shelters cobbled together from scavenged tarps, and rubble from the destroyed buildings. He kept his head down, shoulders hunched, trying to mimic the defeated gait of the hundreds around them.
This was the "Crankland" of the elite—a massive, sprawling slum of those rejected by WICKED, huddled against the towering white walls of the city like a feverish tide.
Jorge moved to walk alongside him. "This place has really gone through hell."
"We just gotta stay together."
Brenda stayed right on Jorge's heels, her face a mask of pragmatic determination. She didn't flinch when someone reached for her sleeve; she simply batted the hand away with indifference. Behind her, Elizabeth stuck close, her bright blue eyes wide with a mixture of terror and overwhelming pity as she took in their surroundings. Frypan guarded Elizabeth's back, his large frame providing a mobile shield against the surging crowd, his usual warm smile entirely absent.
At the back of the group was Newt, walking with a persistent limp that he was clearly trying to hide.
They all tried their best to blend in with the sea of victims.
A low rumble vibrated through the ground, different from the constant drone of the starving crowd. Thomas turned around to see the crowd parting way for a rusted-out flatbed truck.
"We are the voice of the voiceless!" a voice boomed from a megaphone on the roof. "They hide behind their walls, thinking they can keep the cure for themselves while they watch the rest of us wither and rot!"
"But there are more of us," the man on the loudspeaker continued, leaning over the railing of the truck, "than there are of them."
Thomas watched the truck crawl forward. It was flanked by men in mismatched tactical gear, their faces hidden behind dark, ballistic masks. They held assault rifles with a casual menace that suggested they weren't just protestors, they were soldiers.
As the vehicle drifted past him, Thomas's eyes locked onto one of the masked men perched on the back. The man didn't look like the others; he sat perfectly still, his rifle resting across his knees. Even through the dark visor of the mask, Thomas felt a piercing gaze.
