Rogue | Group B → The Maze Runner¹

i.one

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● [ i . the second month ]
TMR belongs to James Dashner

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THE METAL BOX shuddered upon its ascent; the perpetual scrapes irritated her ears, and her consciousness began to stir. Slowly, at first, emerging from slumber's depths. Only her breath remained in her control. In and out, in and out.

Next, her back; it ached, laid flat on the cold steel floor. Where instinct defeated disorientation, her fingers twitched in a meek attempt to ease her discomfort. It worsened. Sweat seeped between eyelashes and stung her eyes, and a dim light blinked, filtering through her eyelids. It stopped.

A sharp jolt woke her. She gasped, intaking the stale, musty air, then coughing it back up. Her limbs struggled as if she had never moved before, stiff and cramped as she shifted herself onto all-fours. Above her quaking arms, she coughed still, spitting up phlegm and blood until her throat was raw.

In her darkened surroundings, she closed her eyes once more, hoping the nausea would cease. She tried to think over the harsh sounds of chains and pulleys, over the invasive smell of burnt oil. She found that she couldn't. She found nothing. No parents, no home. No knowledge of where she was, how she got there, who she was. All she knew was her name. 

Another jolt. She was thrust forward violently, catching herself on the metal gated wall. Beside her, something fell. A box, it seemed, as she held out her arm to shield herself. In agony, she stumbled backwards; something had caught her on the way down, something sharp enough to carve into her arm and gush blood.

Swearing loudly, she clutched her upper arm, the words tearing through her throat in a rasp. She dug her nails into her skin with a grimace, desperate to distract herself from the throbbing in her arm. She felt the blood trickle over her fingers, and fell to the ground once more, striking the hard floor with her bruised knees first. Then, she heard it. A movement. Someone was with her.

'Hello?' she trembled, squinting through the dark. With her free hand, she fumbled through the stale air, reaching out, still gripping tightly onto her injured arm. She found it, the someone, their hands cold as ice and body limp against the sway of the box.
'Hello?' She tried again, more determined. She crawled over the body, grabbing them firmly by their shoulders, hair, then face. It was another girl. She's dead, she thought. She's dead and I'm alone again.

Just then, the light flickered on, casting its dim glow. Low-hanging, flashing. Blinking in adjustment, she pulled away from the body, revealing a small Asian girl with downturned eyes and a slightly crooked nose. Like herself, the girl was coated in dried blood and dirt, her white tank stained a deep red that her wound had bled upon. But she was breathing - her chest rose and fell gently. She was alive. Then, next to her, another girl. And another beside that one. She rose to her feet, and there were five of them in total. All girls, all young, all filthy. And one was awake.