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.*･｡. FLARES! .*･｡.
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023.
MEMORY LANE.
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"You good?"

   Was she good? Kennedy wasn't sure.

How good could she be when she had left behind her friends to go run in a maze that she had sworn herself to never enter again?

That didn't really seem to correspond with good, but then again, when was the last time she had been good? This was never going to be good. From the very start, there was always going to be damage left behind when they left. Of course, Kennedy didn't expect them to leave behind gladers, their friends, but apparently nothing was as they had ever expected it to be. Leaving was bittersweet. They had left family, and they had left memories; the glade was filled with all her memories. The only ones she had. All of her memories were in that glade. They had built that society from scratch; with blood, and sweat, and tears, and now they were leaving it behind.

They left boys.

Kennedy was horrified with herself. How could Alby forgive her for leaving the boys behind? How would George? How would any of their fallen men forgive her?

How would Kennedy ever forgive herself?

Kennedy couldn't.

Her hands were trembling, her face was hot, and she felt sick. It wasn't just because of leaving those boys behind. At the end of the day, they had made their choice. That was up to them. And sure, it was a guilt that made her stomach churn, but it wasn't why she felt ready to throw up her guts. No— it was the maze, that did all that.

Kennedy hadn't been in the maze, in a year. All of it was eerily familiar to her; it looked the same as when she had been a runner back in the day, and she wasn't sure whether that was a good thing, or not. The familiarity wasn't welcoming.

It was the maze.

Nothing about it was welcoming. It never had been, and never would be. Kennedy couldn't understand why Thomas seemed so drawn to this place, or why Minho chose to run it everyday. After everything they had seen in there, Kennedy didn't get it. One step towards it made her feel sick to her stomach. Being inside it again was surreal — it made her feel dizzy, and woozy; how had Minho gone back out there, after what they had seen? How did Newt? If she was so affected, why wasn't he?

She supposed they had always been stronger than her.

Newt and Minho prevailed all the odds, every time. They were strong, and resilient, and so determined.

Kennedy and Newt had agreed to never go back into the maze. It wasn't for them. Minho was the only one with the guts to go in, after all that had happened.

Not that the other two could, anyway. Newt was banned from the maze, and Kennedy wasn't supposed to go in. She could feel Newt linger closely, and she glanced up at him. He was wobbly, bum leg making him limp, and she could see his discomfort. It was how her hips felt. They ached already, burning in pain, but the pair made it up to a pace that was reminiscent of the old days— when they ran the maze together, each day. They were still decently fast, and they were less out of breath than she had expected. In a way, that was a comfort. It hit close to her heart. When they had been young, and hopeful, and optimistic. When finding a way out was the one thing they cared about more than each other. Before it went south, when they would playfully argue about being Minho's partner. God— the times had changed, since then. Time changed, a lot.

They were different.

Newt and Kennedy used to thrive for the maze.

They used to bounce around, raring to get back out. Much like Thomas, they had been eager and excited. Finding a way out was an addiction, and running was like their drug. Running was a drug.

The thing about running was that, when you started, you never wanted to stop. It was exhilarating. Kennedy used to run for hours at a time, ongoing, until she pushed past her limit. Running ruined her. It ruined her hips, it ruined her mind.

It ruined Newt.

The last time she had entered the maze, she had sworn it to be her final lap. She had only done it for Newt. After that, Kennedy couldn't go back in — she hadn't wanted to. It repulsed her. After that terrible day when she and Minho had hauled Newt's body to the glade, his lifeless body, she had sworn to never go back. Never in her life. Kennedy had sworn it.

And yet, there she was: running through the maze, one last time, in hopes of getting out. There they both were. Kennedy and Newt, ex-runners, maze rejects. Minho was up ahead with Thomas, both shouting directions and leading the pack, and she briefly pondered how much had changed. It was like flashbacks. She could see them but smaller, livelier, gigglier. Kennedy looked at Newt and blinked, and she saw a shorter and lankier blonde boy with longer hair. His cheeks were flush and glowing. She looked at Minho and he was as lean as he was now, slightly thinner, less broad. His jaw wasn't near as refined, and his boots were just too big on his feet. Their runner packs weren't as good and they would eat lunch as they ran, seeing as they weren't as quick.

When she blinked, it all changed.

Newt was more built, and he limped. He was tired, and dirty as ever, and Minho was much the same. He had a stiff back, he said less than he used to, and he was taller. Kennedy was taller, too. Not as tall as them, but taller. Her hair was longer, and she was shakier than she used to be.

Her hips hurt, and guilt weighed heavy burdens on her chest. It was traumatising being back in that maze. She hoped they got out.

"Are you?"

"Nah," Newt answered.

"Me neither," Kennedy forced a laugh. "Good that."

"Lots of memories in this place." He sighed, panting slightly as he ran. Newt gripped his spear tighter, "Didn't think we'd ever be back here."

"That makes two of us," she said.

    "It's kinda nice."

     "Are you crazy?" Kennedy hissed at him, "Nothing about this is nice, Newt! This is where you almost d—!"

     "Hey— none of that," Newt cut her off with a sharp look. She may have been their leader now, but Newt had always been whom she respected most. He was her brother. Kennedy listened to him in serious moments, and so she listened now. She listened good. "That is in the past, alright? We've grown since then, we've changed. The whole damn plot has changed, Ken! We're getting out, of here. We don't have to feel like that ever again, okay? I promise you."

    "You can't promise that."

    "I just did."

    "Shank," she muttered, giving him a shove. When she did, she winced in pain and stumbled on her feet. Newt gave her a look; it made her straighten up, "Don't give me that look."

    "What look?" He played.

    "That look Minho gives me," Kennedy sighed. "That one he's given me everyday since he found me, out here." She saw Newt's lips roll between his teeth; he knew what she was on about. "Like my hips will snap, and I'm gonna fall down and never get back up."

    "We just worry about you," Newt told her.

    "And I worry about you," Kennedy said. "Both of ya."

    "How 'bout we all stop doing shit that'll get us all killed?" Newt suggested lamely, but that was enough to get a chuckle from her. It got him a real chuckle, too. His words were ironic, considering the fact they were probably going to die when they turned the corners ahead and neared the griever holes, but she supposed that was the point. All of this was so uncertain, that even having hope was really ironic. How could they have hope? They were bound to die! Even if they made it out, they could die at the next hurdle. Perhaps they would be running from death forever, after this. But, she supposed that was the thing — the unknown. They would never know unless they tried. And that was the thrill of life, wasn't it? Trying. Running from death was less thrilling.

    "Deal."

    "Deal."

    "Deal!" Minho.

   They slowed to a jog, then a stop when realising Minho was now stood waiting for them, close by. "Wait— what we dealin'?"

    "Tell ya later, mate." Newt snickered.

   Minho nodded, shrugging, while Kennedy placed a hand onto Chuck's shoulder. He was stood beside Teresa, catching his breath while they were stationary.

    "You good?" She asked, to which Chuck nodded. Kennedy let her hand ruffle through his hair and looked at Teresa, who gave a nod of her head to signal she was fine too. Nodding, Kennedy let her weight shift from foot to foot, left to right, trying to ignore the ache of her hips. Now wasn't time for a sit down.

   She could feel eyes on her, and she knew they were hazel. That gaze had become identifiable for her, now. And, when she looked, sure enough, Thomas was watching her closely. Kennedy forced a smile and gave him a nod, to which he looked skeptical but didn't say anything. Rather, the boy leaned around the corner to try and see what danger lay ahead. Quickly, he whipped around and shut his eyes, grimacing. They all remained silent, waiting for him. But they knew that, judging by his reaction, no one wanted to find out what he had seen.

"Is there a griever?"

"Yeah," Thomas told Chuck.

"Oh, sheez..."

"You take this, Chuck." Minho decided, handing the kid what looked like a lump of metal. The key. "You stay behind us, alright?"

"It's okay," Teresa assured. The boy looked hesitant as he took it from Minho, but seemed braver when he glanced at Teresa, whom tied back her hair with a piece of rope. She nodded with a quirky smile, "Just stick with me, and Kennedy."

"We gotcha Chuckie," Ken winked at him.

"Once we're through, it will activate and the door will open." Thomas explained quietly, sucking in a heavy breath. He glanced at the group and nodded to himself, trying to keep his face brave; it was harder than he thought it was, and he wondered how Alby, Newt and Kennedy were ever brave enough to try and run things; how did they do it? Thomas was a stuttering mess, and he prayed he looked and sounded braver than he felt. "We stay close, we stick together... we get through this." He assured, gripping onto his staff and giving Kennedy, Newt and Minho a look that no one else was able to read. She fought back a smile, the trio becomes a quartet. They gave him the same look, and he turned back to the group, "We get out now, or we die trying."

"Bloody inspired," Newt mused.

"Ready?"

"Yeah!"

"Hell yeah!"

The crowd cheered and raised their weapons, and Kennedy was no exception. She gripped her staff hard, knifes in her boots, and let out a deep breath; "Let's do it. For Alby."

"For Alby!"

"Alby! Alby! Alby!"

Thomas nodded, "For Alby."

They all cheered again, whooping for their fallen leader, and it was a horrifyingly beautiful moment. They were going to do this; they were going to get out for Alby. This would all be worth it, for Alby — all of this made his death mean something, his sacrifice in their names. They had to try for Alby. He would want that.

"Let's go!"

The dozen teenagers screamed and spilled around the corner, a dozen spears and knives waving through the air. And they all ran.

They ran down the strip and towards the griever, who shrieked, running right back at them. Kennedy nearly faltered but kept her footing, sticking close to Teresa and Chuck. The boys dove ahead first, swiping at the griever and pushing it back with all their spears when Thomas yelled for them to. All of them made quick work of it, stabbing and shoving, working as hard as they could to force the griever over the edge.

It nearly went, too. But, instead, one kid went down before they could see who it was. The griever's pincers threw him off the side and he was gone, and then the pincer flew through the air and hit Teresa across the face. She grunted at the impact and let out a yell, swinging her knife back and smashing it into the metal. Her force was complimentary and it sent the pincer flying, striking right into the metal and through it. Kennedy yelled and smacked it with her spear, and they watched it soar away with heavy breaths. The pair took a moment to share bewildered expressions, but their attention was stolen by a familiar yell — Chuck.

Kennedy swung around.

"Chuck!"

"Help!" He yelled, hanging over the edge with the fallen key in his sweaty hands. He started kicking furiously, "Oh, no— help me! Pull me up! Pull me up!"

Kennedy and Teresa yelled for him and raced forward, taking a leg in each hand and giving him a yank. They peered over the side to see why he was panicking, but quickly wished they hadn't. Both girls paled and started to yank his legs harder. Grievers.

"We got ya!"

"It's okay, Chuck!"

"Pull me up!"

"Oh, my shuck..." Kennedy breathed. There was so many; too many for her to count. Grievers were coming from every side, the creatures shrieking and scuttling up the walls. She let out a scream when one tried to swipe Chuck from their grip and, with one burst of strength, she and Teresa hauled him back over the edge. Chuck rushed to get up, stumbling, and the two girls stabilised him. With a hand on the key and the other in Kennedy's, they darted towards the boys — they were successfully pushing a griever over the edge, a cheer echoing, but their excitement was cut short when the three started screaming and waving their arms. Kennedy didn't dare look behind her; Minho had taught her to never look back. "Tommy!" It was a shrill scream, "Tom! There's more! Tommy!"

"Kennedy...?" He turned around.

Thomas' eyes widened, and panic flared in his chest.

Kennedy, Teresa and Chuck were almost surrounded. Multiple grievers sprung up from the drops, scuttling after them with loud, vengeful shrieks and snapping pincers. Thomas yelled and forced his legs to run, grabbing Kennedy's arm in his hand and using the momentum to push her behind him, sending her closer over to the griever hole. It sent Chuck with her, and Minho did the same with Teresa.

"Go! Go! Go!"

"Hit it!"

"Push them back!"

Kennedy panted heavily, tugging Chuck with her. She almost fell when the wall suddenly lifted, but Teresa supported her from behind. They watched in awe as the key chimed.

"It worked!" Chuck squealed.

They all hesitated, briefly looking back to the boys who fought off the grievers with nothing but knives and sticks. It really worked!

"Go!" Thomas yelled.

"But—"

"Go!"

Kennedy took it as the final warning, and made the first plunge into the griever hole. She watched as every wall lifted for them, an audible beep coming from the key each time, until it presented the trio with an actual hole — a circular shaped gap in the last wall, a metal door standing beyond all the darkness.

They rushed towards it and tried to push it open, but nothing happened — it didn't open.

"No! C'mon!" Kennedy groaned, slamming her hands.

"There has to be a way!" Teresa tried to pry it open at the edge with her fingernails, while Chuck waved around the key and tried to make the door open. They were unsuccessful, however. "Ugh!"

"C'mon!"

"It won't open!"

"Hurry!"

"There's gotta be—"

Before Kennedy could finish, a loud whoosh! sounded. They all sprung back and covered their eyes as the door lit up, and a neon red circle twisted into a keypad. No one said anything, stunned at what had just happened, blinking at the numbers that swirled in a nauseating fashion. Kennedy nearly screamed, they needed a code? A freakin' code? She wanted to murder the bastards that threw them in there! When she got her hands on them, they were dead!

"A code?"

"Eight numbers..." she glared.

Wait—

Eight sections to the maze.

"Eight numbers!" Kennedy realised, "The maze!"

For a moment, Teresa and Chuck were confused. But, despite that, they urged her to explain herself, and she did that — quickly!

"There's eight sections to the maze! It changes, and every night a new section is unlocked!" She yelled over the shouts from gladers fighting the grieves, "It repeats! It— it's like a pattern! It repeats in the same pattern, over and over! Always the same!"

"What is it?"

"Uh—" Kennedy tried to recall it, "Seven, one, five, two—" her mind went blank, and she glared at the numbers, helplessly. What was the rest? God— think, Ken! What was the rest of the patten? It had been a long time since she was a runner, and her memory was failing her. "I— I can't remember! I can't remember the rest!" She cried, beginning to panic.

"Just think, Ken!"

"I can't—"

"Think!"

"Seven, one, five, two..." Kennedy muttered.

She counted on her fingers but quickly gave up, rushing to the entrance and cupping her hands around her mouth; "Minho! The sequence! What is it?"

"What?" He yelled.

"Eight sections! The maze!" She hollered, "What's the pattern? Seven, one, five, two...? What is it?"

"Seven! One! Five! Two! Six!" Minho shouted to them, and the trio quickly returned to the buttons. Teresa pressed them, finishing the pattern from where Kennedy had stopped. Minho continued, over the grievers shrieks and squeals; "Four— ah!"

"Minho!"

"Minho, no!"

Kennedy span and rushed back, her eyes wide when she spotted her friends stuck under a griever. He yelled and screamed, trying a good bet to push it away. She cried his name, and jumped over the small wall that lead to the griever hole. Swinging her spear around her head, she hurtled herself past the boys and ignored their shout — Kennedy had almost lost Minho in the maze, and she had done nothing. He almost died that night in the maze, and Kennedy could do nothing to help him. Now, however, she could. The girl let out a battle cry and stabbed the griever in the head, driving that spear in so deep that it nearly hit Minho's face on the other side. It tugged; screaming; but Kennedy did her best to hold on. Her arms burned at the effort, and she yelled for Minho to roll out, but that creature was strong — it squirmed and held him tightly, trying to strike her, pincers flailing. Kennedy kept ducking and screaming out.

"Minho, move you shank!"

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder!" She heaved.

"Kennedy!"

"Ken!"

As she turned her head to the boys, Kennedy felt a heavy force strike her down. She flew metres, nearly rolling off the edge, with two sets of arms pulling her back up.

She was dizzy, vision hazy, but Kennedy could see clear enough to spot Jeff let out a yell and grab the spear she had once held. He fought with the griever, giving Minho time to wriggle out. But the med-jack wasn't so lucky, and the griever snatched him in the grip; pincers wrapping around his torso and pulling him away.

"Jeff!"

Kennedy fell to her knees, "Jeff! No—!"

Jeff screamed out, and she tried to get to him, but Thomas was keeping a tight grip on her arms.

He forced her up and into his side, holding one arm around her while the other stabbed at the grievers. Thomas yelled at Minho to finish the sequence.

"Uh— four, eight, three!"

"Keep going!"

"Everyone back!"

"Got it?" Minho yelled to Teresa.

Newt forced one final blow to the griever, his stick snapping. His balance wavered, and Minho grabbed the back of his shirt, and gave it a good yank. He fell back into the hole as the walls started to fall back down, crushing the grievers one by one. Thomas gave a loud holler and threw his spear, impaling the last griever and he flinched as it roared in anger. But, it wasn't able to lash out. All of the kids fell into darkness, and all Kennedy could recall was feeling Thomas' hand in hers. She didn't let him go.

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