tough guy ✔️ | the scorch trial minho

20

CHRISTMAS CAME EARLY, for the great and almighty Frypan had rekindled his dying passion of cooking.

These last days, there were literally nothing for him to cook. Perhaps instant or canned snacks fitted the travelling situation perfectly, but those weren't real food.

This was.

Doug and Joey, the stars of the day, managed to stumble into a freaking old butcher shop and took, not only a few good knives, but also large chunks of legit, fat, juicy lamb chops.

With the work of Frypan's magic, the meat turned into something a five-star restaurant would proudly serve, minus the plating because, obviously, they were in the middle of nowhere.

"This is crazy good!" Reggie exclaimed, taking another huge bite off his share, "I mean, you have to taste Monica's, but I have to say, the score is very close!"

Newt raised his eyebrows, "Monica's?"

"The chef of our Maze," Aris explained, "She makes the absolute best Shepherd's pie."

Reggie still felt weird about Aris, but he couldn't resist a conversation about the good old days. "Are you a fan of spicy food?"

"Not really," Aris replied, "But they did teach me to add a pinch of that pepper powder— Uh, the one—"

"—Lou planted in the Garden," the two boys chorused.

"You absolutely must try the shank's nasty casserole," Newt said boastingly, "Bet it makes your Shepherd's pie taste like klunk."

"Hey!"

The feast and hearty talks lasted quite long. Jorge cut that off when the sun dipped below the horizon, making the dusty orange land look almost purple.

Days of laying around and resting had taken its toll. Sure, they were itching to walk off some steam and loosen their muscles, but the walk seemed harder and longer.

Jorge, Reggie, and Aris walked up front, leading the way (yes, it was strange that all the non-Gladers were in charge of direction, but they had earned their places as honorary, trustworthy members). Frankie, Minho, and Newt helped herding the pack from the very back (Newton was hereby immune to being called 'third-wheel' or 'mosquito' or anything bearing similar definition).

The mountains slowly became jagged peaks of shadow, growing taller and taller as they walked. There were no real foothills to speak of; the flat valley just stretched forward until the ground erupted toward the sky in sheer cliffs and steep slopes. All brown and ugly, lifeless.

"I can't see any obvious path," Minho huffed after dark had fallen. Their only sources of light were the stars and the moon.

Frankie threw him a questioning look.

"Well, if it's a shucking safe haven, isn't it supposed to be big, welcoming and visible?"

She smiled, clearly amused, "I don't think WICKED's that easy."

"Frank, what do you think about Thomas?"

"What do you mean?"

Minho shrugged, "Personally, I think he's a good shank. I just don't think he's telling us everything. And I don't like people lying to my face."

"I second that," Newt winced, "Sorry, Tommy."

"You should ask him," Frankie suggested.

"What makes you think he'll tell us stuffs?"

"Maybe he was embarassed to share in front of everybody," Frankie tried to reason.

"Right, right!" Minho expressed his agreement with nods, "Go, Newt."