THIRTY ONE
「humanity,
the infaliable」
＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

SYLVIA STARED AHEAD. They were in a room, glass wall in front of her, shapes that resembled caskets littered around the area. White, shiny pods slick with slime. Grievers.

Figures in white lab coats beyond the glass. They buzzed around, like insects, talking among themselves, staring at each and every one of them. She took a small step forward without really meaning to, eyes turning wild and a snarl pulling at her lips sharply.

"I'm gonna break your faces!" Minho screamed so loud her ears popped again.

"What do we do?" She heard Thomas ask faintly in the background. "What are they waiting on?"

"They've probably revved the Grievers back up," Distinct accent. "They're probably coming right—"

An alarm blared, booming and ricocheting through the chamber. Sylvia stared at the white clad figures. The Creators.

Slowly, her hand tightened around the axe at her hip, knuckles turning a sickly white. She released the dirtied weapon from its holster, weighing it in her fingers. Someone said her name. Her jaw clenched, teeth grating. She was not herself any longer. Something detrimental had snapped inside her, her joints and bones sewed into place all wrong. More jagged, more cruel. In a blur of movement, she smashed the axe against the glass, a resounding crack blooming across the surface.

Another person shouted her name. She didn't care anymore. She simply didn't care. Her arm raised the axe again, a shrill voice causing her movements to stop mid swing,

"Sylvia!" A woman's voice, full of authority and anger, met her right ear piercingly. "That is no way for a distinguished survivor of the Maze Trials to act."

Sylvia's head snapped sharply to her left. A woman with blonde hair tied back in a neat bun had entered the room, followed by a tall boy, his face obscured by the hood of his jacket. The woman wore a condescending, disappointed expression, like a scolding mother. Sylvia felt her lips quirk cruelly, humourlessly. A twisted smile stretching her features.

The woman's expression smoothed, and she surveyed the rest of the Gladers. "Welcome back," the woman finally said. "Over two years, and so few dead. Amazing."

The twisted, snarl-like smile on Sylvia's features contorted sickeningly. She felt her skin crawl with a whispering fury.

"Excuse me?" Newt asked.

The woman's eyes scanned the crowd again before falling on Newt. "Everything has gone according to plan, Mr. Newton. Although we expected a few more of you to give up along the way." She glanced over at her companion, and reached out to him. She pulled the hood from his face. The boy looked up at them, tears glistening in his eyes.

Gally.

It was Gally.

"What's he doing here!" Minho shouted.

"You're safe now," the woman responded as if she hadn't heard him. "Please, be at ease."

"At ease?" Minho barked. "Who are you, telling us to be at ease? We wanna see the police, the mayor, the president—somebody!"

She narrowed her eyes as she looked at Minho. "You have no idea what you're talking about, boy. I'd expect more maturity from someone who's passed the Maze Trials." Her words repeated. First to Sylvia, now to Minho.

Sylvia just stared at the woman, scowl painting her features brightly, her eyes lit with a burning inferno. It was all she could do, her hatred winding and tangling inside of her. It was like every feeling of anger that simmered beneath her skin was finally coming to the surface, a devil whispering in her ear.

Minho started to retort, but Newt elbowed him in the gut. "Gally," Newt said. "What's going on?"

Gally glanced at Newt, movements jerky. He shook his head slightly, body shuddering. He said nothing.

The woman nodded as if proud of him. "One day you'll all be grateful for what we've done for you. I can only promise this, and trust your minds to accept it. If you don't, then the whole thing was a mistake. Dark times, Mr. Newton. Dark times."

"Grateful?" Sylvia spat, expression riddled with disgust and contempt.

"Yes. You'll understand one day, girl." She paused. "And there is, of course, one final Variable." She stepped back

Sylvia glanced to Gally, his mouth opening and closing, spittle gathering at his lips, His eyes bulged, his expression contorting unnaturally. Sylvia had the jarring thought that he looked like he'd been stung.

"Gally?" Thomas asked.

Words burst from Gally's mouth. "They...can control me...I don't—" His eyes bulged again, a hand went to his throat as if he were choking. "I...have...to..." Each word was a croaking cough. Then he stilled, his face calming, his body relaxing.

Gally reached behind himself, pulled something long and shiny from his back pocket. The lights of the chamber flashed off the silvery surface—a vicious-looking dagger, gripped tightly in his fingers. With unexpected speed, he reared back and threw the knife at Thomas. Sylvia saw only a blur of metal through the air, a shout, movement in front of the boy, the wet thunk of the knife finding its home.

Chuck screamed. He had dived in front of Thomas, taking the knife for the boy. His body convulsed, blood spotting his lips. Sylvia spun—she was moving before she could think about it—a yell eliciting from her throat. She ran past Gally, towards the woman standing in the doorway. She jumped on the woman, tackling her to the ground, eyes feral.

Her knuckles met cheekbone with a crunch. Blood spotting, bruise forming. She straddled the woman, hands finding her throat desperately, fingers clenching around the pale skin. The woman gasped and choked. Sylvia squeezed and squeezed and squeezed harder. The woman clawed at Sylvia, leaving scratches down her arms. Sylvia lifted the woman's head, hands still around her neck, and slammed her head against the ground harshly.

Faintly, she heard screaming in the background. The cries of a boy. All she could see was red. Red, red, red. The woman's face turning red from lack of oxygen, Sylvia's hands stained red with blood.

Then, she was being hit over the head, knocked to the floor. Her vision split, blurred. Her spine digging into the floor. Hands restrained her arms roughly. Slowly, the woman stood, someone in a white lab coat helping her up. She rubbed her neck. To Sylvia's utter shock, the woman didn't seem angry, like she did before. She seemed almost...sad.

She coughed, and then looked back to the rest of the Gladers. Sylvia could see Thomas holding a lifeless Chuck in his arms, Gally on the floor, still breathing.

"All things happen for a purpose," she said hoarsely, any sign of malice now gone from her voice. "You must understand this."

Sylvia screamed animalistically and thrashed in the worker's hold. "You killed them! You killed them all!" Her voice broke. "Murderer—!"

She was cut off by shouts and commotion somewhere in the distance. The woman visibly paled. Several men and women dressed in grimy jeans and soaking-wet coats burst through the entrance with guns raised, yelling and screaming words over each other. It was impossible to understand what they were saying.

The worker dropped Sylvia and she scrambled away from him, back towards the Gladers. She looked back to see two of the strangers tackling the woman to the floor. One got up, stepped back, and aimed his gun at her. Sylvia flinched as several shots erupted from the gun's barrel, burying themselves in the woman.

A man walked up to the Gladers as the others in his group spread out around them, sweeping their guns left and right as they shot at the observation windows, shattering them. Sylvia's eyes were trained on the man approaching them, despite the screams coming from all directions. He had dark hair, his face young but full of wrinkles around the eyes.

"We don't have time to explain," the man said, his voice as strained as his face. "Just follow me and run like your life depends on it. Because it does."

Sylvia felt something brush her leg, and she looked down hastily to see Bark next to her. The dog's ears were lowered, tail between his legs. She looked back at the man but he was already running away. Nobody moved for a couple of seconds.

"Go!" one of the rescuers—supposedly—screamed from behind.

After the briefest hesitation, the Gladers followed, almost toppling over each other in their rush to get out of the chamber, as far away from the Grievers and the Maze as possible. Sylvia's hand brushed Bark briefly and then she followed the others, the dog following behind her.

They ran down a long, dimly lit hallway. Dull gray walls surrounding them that reminded her terribly of the Maze. They ran up a winding flight of stairs. Everything was dark, smelled like electronics. Down another hallway. Up more stairs. More hallways. Sylvia felt the deepening pit in her chest ache. On they ran, some of the men and women leading from ahead, some yelling encouragement from behind.

They reached another set of glass doors and pushed through them into a downpour of rain falling from a bleak sky. She saw blurs of water, flashes of light, darkness everywhere else. Her eyes adjusted enough to keep following.

They didn't stop until they reached a huge bus, sides dented and scratched, windows marred with cracks. Rain soaked her hair, her clothes. The people ushered the Gladers onto the bus.

"Get on!" A man screamed. "Hurry!"

They did, forming into a tight pack behind the door as they entered, one by one. It seemed to take forever, Gladers pushing and scrambling their way up the three stairs and into the seats. Sylvia climbed on through a blur of bodies, making sure Bark was following. She jumped into the first empty seat she saw, dragging the dog in with her. He hopped up on the seat and she grabbed a fistful of his vest to make sure he didn't jump back down and run somewhere.

Minho and Newt piled into the seat across from her, and both of them gave her a concerting look. She stared at them, pulled in a shuddering breath, and bowed her head. The bus's engine rattled the vehicle with a stutter and then they were rolling forward.

THE NEXT COUPLE of hours were a blur. Sylvia watched as everything passed by her. Abandoned buildings, withering trees, barren land. Rain beat against the windows and the roof of the bus. Bark's head was resting against her leg. Sylvia watched with a sort of detachment as everything went by.

At some point during the ride, Minho had nudged Bark onto the floor by her feet and slid into the seat beside her. His knuckles brushed her arm cautiously and she turned her head away from the window. He looked at her reddened eyes, her scarred face. His thumb brushed over the bruise that had formed over her temple from when she'd been knocked over by one of the WICKED workers.

"I'm not going to ask if you're okay, because I think that's a pretty stupid thing to ask." Minho mumbled, talking low so that only she heard him. "So I'll ask you this: do you want me to sit with you? Or do you want to be alone?"

Sylvia glanced at him, then away. For a long time, she didn't say anything. She couldn't think clearly. She watched Bark as he settled at her feet, head resting on her boot. She looked back out the window. When she felt Minho begin to move, her head turned back to him and her hand brushed over his wrist.

"Stay."

Minho nodded, and resumed his position back in the seat. Sylvia watched him. Looked away. Smoothed a finger over her brow. Twirled the twine at her wrist. Stopped. Her hands were still stained with the dark red hue of blood. The rain had washed most of it away, but some still remained. Her hands trembled slightly as she took them in.

Minho reached for her pack and dug inside. He pulled out a canteen of water and a cloth. He poured some of the water on the cloth and grabbed her hands. He pulled her towards him slightly, caressing the damp cloth over her skin, washing away the rest of the blood. Cole's blood.

She closed her eyes briefly, then asked quietly. "How many?"

"What?"

"How many did we lose?" Her voice was hoarse.

Minho's movements against her hands stopped for a fraction of a second, eyes fitting to her face. He hesitated, then said solemnly, "About half."

Sylvia swallowed the knife in her throat. They had run into the Maze with upwards of forty boys. Forty. And only half made it out. Sylvia wondered who else was lost. She hadn't been sane enough to take inventory of the rest of the boys. Who had survived? Thomas and Newt. Who else?

So many had been lost. So, so many. Not just in the final battle, but overall. George, Ronan, Quinn, Nick, Ben, Zart, Gally, Troye, Alby, Cole, Chuck, and all the others who'd been lost to the Maze. Too many to think about. Too many to count. Minho's fingers were gentle against her stained skin, cloth running over every part of her hand, wiping away the past. She felt a burning heat build behind her eyes and blinked rapidly.

"Are you hurt?" He murmured.

"I'm fine."

He gave her a pointed look. "You could be shot and you'd say you're fine. Tell me."

She half-heartedly glared at him through her brows, eyes glistening. "Nothing serious."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

Minho gave her another look, and then dropped her hands, returning the cloth back into her pack. Her hands had been scrubbed mostly clean. The only areas still dirtied were around her fingernails. She ignored the aching in her ribs. She didn't think they were broken, probably just some bruising. She hoped.

Minho laid his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. She studied him.

"Are you hurt?" She questioned lowly.

He cracked an eye open, glancing at her before closing it again. "Just a couple of scrapes."

Sylvia nodded, even though he couldn't see it, and looked back out the window. They sat in silence. She listened to the slow rhythm of his breathing, the rustle of his jeans against hers. Her eyes closed every once and a while, drooping shut. She could not fall asleep though. Not with the rocking of the bus, not with the thoughts in her head.

Something pressed against her shoulder, and she turned her head to see that Minho had fallen asleep, his cheek pressed to her shoulder, hair brushing against her jaw. She didn't move, didn't shake him off of her. She leant her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

When the bus finally stopped, Sylvia had bumped Minho awake—made it seem like an accident. They had pulled into a muddy parking lot, the rain having slowed. A nondescript building sat a few yards away, lined with windows and curtains covering them.

They were shuffled through the doors to the building and up a flight of stairs, then into a huge dormitory with a series of bunk beds lined up along one of the walls. To one side were some dressers and tables.

The place was full of color. Bright red walls, ugly yellow curtains, refined brown wood dressers. It contrasted greatly with the drab grayness of the Glade. Seeing all of it, the sense of normalcy was almost overwhelming. Too good to be true.

Minho said it best on entering their new world: "I've been shucked and gone to heaven."

Sylvia noticed relief and even joy on some of the other boys' faces, but she found it hard to feel any of that herself. All she felt was the deepening blackness in her chest. Though, now that she was able to see them, she could see who had made it. Kit, and most of the other Runners. Oscar. Frypan. Winston, the rather new Keeper of the Slicers. All the other faces were of boys she had never really spoken to.

The person who had brought them in left them in the hands of a small staff—nine or ten men and women dressed in pressed black pants and white shirts. They were all smiling. Sylvia felt the urge to scoff.

Beds were assigned, clothes and tolietries were passed out. Her and Teresa were told they'd be put in a separate room, away from the boys. She didn't protest. Dinner was served—pizza. Real cheesy breaded, greasy-fingered pizza. Sylvia found she didn't have an appetite. Even if she wanted to eat, she didn't think she'd be able to. The other Gladers devoured the food happily, even Minho. She felt a bit of happiness somewhere inside the deep, dark hole of her chest at the relief on each of their faces. Not a lot of them talked, simply relished in their gratefulness for having survived and ate. A couple of them were playing with Bark, feeding him some of the pizza. Sylvia had gotten so used to looks of despair, it was almost unsettling to see happy faces. Especially when she was having such a hard time feeling it herself.

As they continued eating, Sylvia just began to feel worse and worse. A churning in her gut, a dizziness in her head, a pounding behind her eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed as Minho and Newt kept glancing at her as they ate. Newt suggested she try to eat, even a little. She fixed him with a look that made her answer clear.

The pounding in her head built until it was nearly unbearable. She felt the acidic tang of bile in her throat. Her face paled. Someone said her name as she rose and bolted to the nearest dorm room, and into the bathroom inside. She hastily slapped the light on, knelt over the toilet, and emptied her stomach.

Hands pulled her hair away from her face, smoothing back the strands stuck to her forehead and neck, caressing her back as she heaved.

"I got you." Minho whispered. "Shh, I got you."

She weakly pressed a button on the side of the toilet and it flushed. She fell back, Minho's arms circled around her.

"I know I said I wouldn't ask this, but you okay?"

"Fine." Sylvia bowed her head, voice strained. She pushed away from him. "I just want to be alone."

He stood as she did. She swayed a bit. He said, brows furrowed, "Try to get some sleep, okay?"

Sylvia nodded dazedly. Walked to the girls' dorm, then the girls' bathroom and left the light off. Stripped her clothes from her body. Stood beneath the scalding water in the darkness, letting the heat burn her skin. Stood for a while. She washed her hair, her body. Stepped out of the shower and picked one of the two piles of clothes that had been placed in the room. She couldn't really see which she picked. Left the room.

As she walked out of the bathroom, she was met with the sight of Teresa, who had just entered the room. Bark was already curled up on one of the beds.

"I brought him in for you." She said, gesturing to Bark.

Sylvia nodded appreciatively. Teresa studied her. Then, to Sylvia's disbelief, walked forward and wrapped her arms around her. Sylvia stood still for a second, then tentatively placed her arms on the girl's back. Sylvia's posture was stiff, a bit uncomfortable, if only from the shock of her touch.

"I'm sorry, Sylvia." Teresa whispered, then pulled back.

Sylvia nodded, eyes widened a bit with shock. Teresa smiled sadly at her, then went into the bathroom. Hazily, Sylvia climbed into the bed Bark had settled on and closed her eyes. Her body sunk into the mattress, the tension in her muscles relieving. Without really expecting to, she fell asleep.

BLEARY VOICES SWALLOWED her hearing, she slept restlessly. Flashes of the battle, of Cole, of Chuck, filled her dreams. She wrestled the images, fought against them. She woke cold, sweat slicking hair to her neck and ears ringing.

She blinked, vision adjusting to the bright lighting of the room, her eyes stinging. The lights had already been turned on in the dorm. Sylvia wasn't sure of the hour. She checked her wristwatch. It was late morning. She wondered if any of the others were up yet.

She glanced quickly at Teresa's bed, but she was obscured by the blankets around her, head buried halfway beneath the covers. Sylvia ran a hand over her face and stood. She opened the door to the dorm as quietly as she could, hoping to see if anyone had come out into the lounge room yet. When she stepped out of the room, she looked around confusedly, then blinked. She rubbed her eyes.

Where the door to the boys' dorm should've been, was just plain wall. There was nothing. Not the doors they came in, not the doors to the boys' room, just the lounge area they'd eaten in the night before. Panic swelled in her chest. She ran back into the girls' room to wake Teresa. She stopped short.

Bark was on the bed Sylvia had slept in, chest rumbling lowly in a silent growl, teeth bared. His eyes were on Teresa's bed. She looked over to her sleeping figure and noticed mussed, curly brown hair peeking out from beneath the blankets instead of Teresa's long, black hair. Sylvia stared, then moved towards her boots which she'd placed by the bed, slipped out the switchblade she kept in the sewn pocket.

She grabbed the foreign boy's shoulder, pushed him down harshly against the bed so that he was laying on his back. He woke with a start, brown eyes shooting open and widening as she placed the knife against his neck roughly.

She growled, lips pulling in a snarl, "Where the hell are my boys?"

END OF PART ONE.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

and the first part is over! thank you all so much for commenting and voting and all your support <3

scorch trials soon 😉