(NOTE: CHAPTERS ARE CURRENTLY BEING EDITED)
In which Teresa wasn't the first girl to come up in the box...
*This is a NewtxOC fanfic*
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Emma wakes up in a dark box, starting her new life with only memories of her name and a boy named Thomas...
the g...
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We carry on through the storm
Tired soldiers in this war
Remember what we're fighting for
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Minho led the way, navigating the Gladers through every twist and turn of the maze.
Every movement seemed risky, almost like a tightrope walk in which they dreaded what came next. It was a long way forward, and every corner they took raised the chances of their demise.
Emma struggled to keep up, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through her body with every stride. The courage that had fueled her earlier was quickly being replaced by a chilling dread, gnawing anxiety that each corner they turned could be hiding a griever, waiting to strike them when they least expected it.
She wondered when the inevitable clash would come when they'd hear that terrifying hiss, see those gleaming claws come barreling towards them...
But still, they kept running.
Their breaths came in ragged gasps as their bodies screamed for rest. Despite the searing pain in their lungs and the burning in their legs, they pressed on, driven by the sliver of hope that they might actually find freedom. The thought of quitting lingered in the air like a whisper, but nobody dared give in to it.
They had come too far, lost too much.
Stopping now would be an unforgivable betrayal of those who had already fallen.
Emma stumbled slightly but caught herself, her chest heaving as she forced her legs to keep moving. Every muscle in her body begged for her to stop, just for a moment, but she clenched her jaw and focused on Minho who was ahead of the group, urging them to keep up.
While the rest of them struggled, Minho looked effortless, his movements fluid and sure. He wasn't gasping for air like the rest of them, and the strain that contorted their faces didn't touch his.
It was no wonder he had been made Keeper of the Runners.
Emma forced herself to match his pace, even as her legs screamed in protest. She wondered if Minho ever felt tired; if the constant running and leading ever weighed on him the way it did on the rest of them.
If it did, he made sure not to show it.
Newt slowed his pace until he was running alongside Emma. His breath was labored, but his focus was on her. Even in his worn-down state, he was managing better than she was, limp and all.
