• Trial One: The Maze •
||𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑|| Blake was said to have tamed the vicious robotic creature, Seven. She was granted the nickname Griever Tamer. But was the creature ever really tamed? Or was it just a distraction, a way that WICK...
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(THE GRIEVER FIGHT)
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Thomas grabbed Minho by the arm. "Somehow I have to get through that!" He nodded towards the rolling army of killing machines that were between them and the Cliff. The Grievers looked like rumbling boulders made of blubber. Flashes of light bounced around the stone walls, shining off into the grey night sky, glistening onto the bodies of the Gladers.
Minho and Newt exchanged a long glance, a wordless conversation played between them. They couldn't stand there for long, they need to think fast. "What are we waiting for?" Blake asked, her voice echoing casting an eerie chill.
"They're coming!" Teresa yelled. "We have to do something!"
"You lead," Newt finally said to Minho, his voice barely a hint of a whisper. "Make a bloody path for Tommy and the girl, Teresa. Do it."
Minho nodded once. He gave Blake a steel look of bravery, then he turned toward the Gladers. "We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin' things toward the walls. What matters most is getting Thomas and Teresa to the Griever Hole!"
Blake gripped her weapon harder. Adrenaline started to course through her veins like a boost of raging energy. She looked around at her friends, giving them a final goodbye with her eyes. It was strange, Blake always found herself running, but now she was standing her ground, fighting—ready to unscrew bolt, pulling off steel, doing whatever it took to win the fight.
Teresa gripped her shoulder tightly, a wave of fear washed over her face. "I know you're strong but just be careful, Blake," Teresa whispered, not moving her eyes from the horde of Grievers. Blake had mixed feelings for the girl, but at that moment, she pushed away all their differences. "You too."
"Ready!" Minho yelled, raising his large barbwire-wrapped club into the air, a long silver knife lied in his other hand. He pointed the knife at the horde of Grievers, pointing the Gladers to battle.
Blake took a deep breath, tightening her ponytail. "Now!"
The sarcastic Runner ran forward, heading straight towards the deadly creatures. Newt went after him, right on his heels. Blake pushed off the ground, following the two in a stride of a run. After she took off, the rest of the Gladers followed. A tight pack of charging people, heading straight towards a bloody battle. Blake could feel the terror radiate from the Gladers, from herself.
Blake had her enemy in eye, a sickly green Griever, snapping its three-fingered claw with the number 12 on it. She gripped her weapon with both hands ready to swing. As she was about to make contact with the creature—the first sounds of boys crashing into Grievers rang in Blake's ear—pierced with screams and roars of machinery cries. A rattling chain-pulling noise with sounds of shredding wood.
