❝ never trust a survivor
until you find out
what they did
to stay alive ❞
―Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard
[ the maze runner × the hunger games ]
No one was ever happy in District 12. They were the poorest among the distric...
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THE WALK TO the Scorch was awkward, to say the least.
Since neither Newt or Rosalind were on speaking terms for whatever reason, the three tributes were forced to walk in silence, a thick cloud of tension condensing between them. And Thomas was right in the middle of it all.
Newt and Rosalind were on either side of him, the blond's eyes cast down as he walked, his stony facade masking his deep despair. One swift glance at his ally and Thomas could already tell that something seemed to have broken inside Newt.
As for Rosalind, she seemed to be putting on a steely mask as well, clearly trying to appear indifferent. But the corners of her eyes were glistening, the hint of tears reflecting in the harsh sunlight.
His two allies were broken, and he could do nothing about it.
Thomas so desperately wanted to ask them what had happened whilst he was gone, his curiosity like a wild caged animal trying to claw its way out. But he knew that no matter what he did or said, he wouldn't receive a single response from the two.
So he hiked along with them, acting as some sort of barrier between Newt and Rosalind. Soon enough, he got bored from his companions's refusal to talk to one another.
The weather and temperature didn't help―Thomas was starting to realize why Newt had named this section of the arena the Scorch now. The sun pumelled down on them mercilessly, leaving their hair burning hot to the touch, with blotchy red patches appearing on their darkening skin.
Thomas's throat was extremely dry, and they had no water. He was starting to think that maybe the silence between him and his allies was a good thing, for he didn't think he would be able to talk at all due to the parchness of his throat. It was as if the sun had sucked all moisture from his mouth, leaving his tongue the same texture as the desert sand he was walking on.
He could tell Newt and Rosalind were suffering too. Their movements got sluggish after a while, Newt's eyes visibly getting heavier and more tired, Rosalind's limbs hanging limply by her side. Both of them looked exhausted and dehydrated, their faces gaunt and cheeks sunken. Thomas figured he didn't looked much better.
Several times he contemplated begging Haymitch or the sponsors to send them down some water, and when his vision got worryingly blurry and he felt lightheaded, he finally did it, a weak, croaky "Water, please" squeezing its way out of his chapped lips. But nothing happened.
Thomas tried not to get too angry. Maybe the sponsors ran out of money―gifts became more expensive the longer the games went on, after all. Maybe he and his allies were close to a water source―though the more he forced his tired legs to walk, the more he doubted it.
