I do not own The Maze Runner or any of its characters

Me: *writes the ending of Déjà Vu* *hits the complete button*
My friends: Why does it cry?

Lauren
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow I was jumbled into the middle of the pack as we ran into the Maze. After a rousing speech from Newt, we all ran forward, a battle cry on our lips.

Every step I took, I felt the weight of my backpack, a reminder of everything I was leaving, and the unknown up ahead.

Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.

I thought the sound would fall in time with my heartbeat, but I was quickly corrected as we got closer to our destination.

Thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump.
Thump-thump.

Thirty minutes in, we were halfway there. I noticed that the non-Runners were looking more than a little tired. We didn't stop, keeping a steady pace, led by Minho, who ran faster than Newt did. Our steady pace, which kept us at a hard jog, now made us pick up our feet into a run.

Thump.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.
Thump.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.

Forty-five minutes, only fifteen left until we made it. The others were definitely struggling now. I wanted to let them know that we were almost there, but my voice probably wouldn't work even if I put all my effort into it.

And I didn't have any effort left to spare.

Thump.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.
Thump.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

One more turn, and we'd be there. One more turn, and some kid would meet his doom. One more turn, and-

Thump.

My backpack stopped, but my heartbeat didn't, as I ran into the guy in front of me. The quiet ow informed me it was Kenny, and I tried to apologize to the Track-Hoe.

Hushed conversations broke out as Newt and Alby pushed through us, everyone talking about Minho's exclamation.

"W—" My voice made no sound. I cleared my throat.

"Wait, what did Minho say?" I asked Kenny, my voice hoarse.

"There's about fifteen Grievers blocking our way to the Cliff." He whispered back.

"Oh, god." I gripped my bow from my back tighter, notching an arrow. Kenny had one hand gripping his spear, another on the long knife by his hip.

The unmistakable whirr, click noises of the metal monsters came from another hallway; my heart skipped a beat when I realized that it was the direction of the Glade.

We didn't have much time to dwell on it as more Grievers blocked us from the other direction, closing in on us, forcing us to get closer together. We were surrounded, and the monsters just sat there.

What kind of sick game was WICKED playing? Some of the other Gladers looked close to fainting from sheer terror.

As we all were forced closer together, I found myself next to Jonathan.

"Are they waiting for someone to sacrifice themselves?" Jonathan whispered as we stood back-to-back, watching, waiting.

I had forgotten that Jonathan was one of the hard-core-single-sacrifice voters.

"That's really sick if they are."

"Well, they have the beetle-blades, maybe they heard Thomas's idea and agreed."

"Or they're still sticking to what Gally said, taking one person each night. I real-"

A yell from Newt brought our attention to him, cutting off whatever I and anyone else was saying. Alby was running towards the pack of Grievers blocking us from the Cliff.

We all watched in horror, taking our eyes off of the Grievers surrounding us, to see our fearless leader make his last stand.

He lept into a pulsating body, the Griever obeying his dying wish. Some more came into the fray, blood covering everything, and we couldn't see the source anymore—just Griever and blood.

I heard screaming and thought it was Alby, but a struggle from the front of our group turned my head from the gruesome picture and showed me Newt was screaming for Alby.

When he finally stopped, the Grievers still going on Alby, Minho turned to us. I tore my eyes away from the mangled sight.

"Listen up! Number one priority is to protect—"

My eyes drifted towards the Grievers who surrounded us. They were poised to move.

I nudged Jonathan. "Get ready to fight."

"What?"

Then the Grievers moved.

Whirrr
Click-click-click
Whirrr
Click-click-click

They quickly formed a tight formation, one destination on their mind.

Us.

I looked over at Newt and Minho. They were looking at each other for a long moment. Every second that passed meant another couple of feet that the Grievers gained.

Newt said something, and Minho nodded.

"We head straight for the Cliff! Fight through the middle, push the shuckin' things towards the walls. What matters most is getting Thomas and Teresa to the Griever hole!"

Everyone tensed. We were all waiting for our time. For some, this would be our last couple of breaths. For others, maybe the worst thing we'd ever have to do.

"Ready!"

I'll survive. And if not, I'll meet everyone else on the other side.

Somehow, I wasn't scared of dying.

Just scared of dying too early.

"Now!"

Another battle cry on all of our lips, we surged forward. Thomas and Teresa stayed back; I threw a glance at them, nodding. We'd make a path for them, come hell or high water.

I tried to stay on the edges, pelting everything in sight, trying to make the Grievers stay back a bit. Whenever someone looked in a precarious position, there I was, pushing the monster back to get them a chance to survive.

Time had no concept; time had no hold on anyone. We lived breath to breath, every heartbeat a win. I couldn't even glance at my watch to see how long we'd already been fighting.

Something slashed at my back, just barely grazing my shoulder. For a brief moment, I panicked about my backpack and losing Peter's note.

Then I realized that something had slashed at my shoulder, on purpose. Whirling around, my breath caught, and I was panicking about a new thing.

The Grievers caught up with us, trapping us all at the Cliff.

"Minho!" I called, wondering if he was still alive.

A 'What?' came from my left.

"We've got some more on our six!"

"What?!"

"Grievers! On our tail!"

"For shuck's sake!" A slight pause, then I heard his voice again. "Grab another guy, try to make sure they don't stay on our blind side!"

"Alright!" Another arrow, giving another guy one more second, and I turned around, picking the Griever closest to our group to slow down, maybe even stop completely.

"I got it, Minho!" Kenny called from my right, as he somehow had heard us and was now making his way towards me.

I locked eyes with him and nodded, turning back to the horde of Grievers. Aiming a well-placed arrow at the leg, I crippled the nearest one into falling over the edge, taking another with it.

My aim was getting better.

A blood-curdling yell snapped my attention.

Kenny was now claiming the title of being our second casualty of the night.

"No!" I stupidly ran over, seeing if I could do anything, not believing he was gone. "No, don't do this, I—"

Checking his pulse, I got my answer.

He was done for, swiftly executed.

Thomas and Teresa ran past, Chuck now part of their crew, almost slipping on his blood.

Being so focused on not falling, Teresa missed the arm extending towards her.

In a split-second decision, I grabbed Kenny's spear and blocked it, shielding the group.

"Go! You're more important!" I yelled, the Griever almost sapping all of my strength.

A thank you was heard, and I wasn't sure who had said it.

"Alright bud! Just you and me now!" Another surge of power from the monster, and I was pushed onto one knee.

Kenny had a knife.

Either I just remembered an odd fact, or Crackface decided to make a guest star appearance, I appreciated the way out all the same.

I took one hand off the spear and reached behind me, trying to grab it quickly.

In the half a second I took my hand off, the Griever extended another arm, and I shoved the knife into wherever it should have a heart, making the thing stop in its tracks.

I pushed the knife deeper, to where my hand was swallowed by the Griever's skin as well, wanting to make sure the thing was utterly and completely stopped. A shower of yellow, disgusting goo started oozing out, and I took the knife out and quickly sidestepped.

The monster flopped down on the ground, useless.

I just wanted to stop the thing, not believing I could kill it.

Wait, so that they could die? By our hand?

They could die.

They could die.

"They can die!" I yelled, not sure if my voice could be heard over the battle.

"What?!" Some Glader hollered.

"Aim for wherever the thing should have a heart! Don't stop till it bleeds!"

Minho, somehow on the other side of the battle, heard me and yelled his instructions.

"You heard her! Thomas and Teresa are in the Hole! All we have to do now is survive!"

Some kid cheered, happy that we'd accomplished our goal, but the sound was snuffed out as soon as it started. We'd lost another one.

I looked around, trying to see if I could reuse some arrows, as my quiver was almost empty, but I came to a startling conclusion.

Bodies littered the floor. Kids that had entered their final battle with a Griever. Kids who had made the wrong split decision. Kids who weren't ever going to leave the Maze. You couldn't step anywhere and not turn the bottom of your shoe red. I didn't even want to check mine.

Even with the information that we could kill the Grievers quickly, they seemed to be rallying, ready to go to round two. They moved quicker than ever, pushing the Gladers even closer together.

As I looked around at the boys engaged in their own battles, I realized that we didn't have the strength to go to round two. Or the Glader power.

I took a deep breath, littered with the coppery scent of blood and the stench of the dead Griever beside me, and cleaned off the knife on my pants leg.

Gripping the spear tighter, I ran into the middle of the battle, helping anyone I could.

Jonathan was the first one to grab my attention, locked in a losing battle.

I jumped over a body, Griever or Glader, I wasn't sure, and between our two knives and reflexes, Jonathan and I killed it.

The battle noises slowed down to nothing around me, and I spun in a slow circle as each Griever stopped whatever it was doing and flopped over. They looked to be shutting off, curling into themselves and turning off their lights, now deathly silent.

"What?" Jonathan asked.

"I think we won." I exhaled.

The wave of relief that spread throughout my body almost knocked me over. I reached up and tightened my ponytail, smearing it with some red and yellow.

I'd survived.

"Help! Someone, help!"

Near the edge of the battle, a boy laid trapped underneath a disabled Griever.

Hopping over more bodies to get to him, I wasn't looking at faces, sure that I'd have a breakdown because of the grief. I wedged Kenny's spear under the Griever and tried to move the pressure off the boy.

"Hey! We need someone else to help!" I hollered, knowing that almost everyone had a spear to spare but wasn't sure we'd have the power.

"Hold on!" Newt made his way towards us, bringing others. I was relieved to see some of my friends, Jonathan, Frypan, and a couple of Builders I recognized.

I handed off my spear and bent down to pull the kid out, as I was one of the more unhurt fighters. And if I bent down, I could probably stand back up in a reasonable amount of time.

Minho had found us and moved everyone to a different place around the Griever. "Alright, everybody lift in three, two, one, go!"

Groans were heard, and slowly, the monster was lifted.

"Don't let go, c'mon, kid." My arms shook, but I managed to get him out.

I fell back, and I guess the kid really did listen to what I said. Because he didn't let go, which resulted in him falling on top of me.

"Kid, you got about three seconds."

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." He scrambled up.

"Alright." I laid there on the ground for a second.

Frypan came into view. "You want some help up?"

Sighing deeply, I reached up to clasp his hand, and he pulled me to a standing position.

"Okay, I'll go first, you all just follow." Minho walked over to the Griever Hole, not caring if we heard.

Something called out in the Maze, and I looked around to see if anyone else heard.

Nothing. They were all following Minho.

I walked around a different Griever and towards the Maze, slowly, scared it was a stray one.

"Lauren? Whaddya doin'?" Newt called.

"There's something out there, I can hear it."

"It's probably nothin' good. C'mon, we gotta go to Tommy."

"Hold on, I think someone's calling my name." I threw a hand back.

A sigh was heard, amongst other things.

"Lauren!"

It was faint, but someone was definitely calling my name. Why? And who?

"We need to go through the Hole!" Newt yelled, done letting this go on.

"Go ahead without me! You've got boys, send them in!"

A crazy, hopeless thought came to my mind. Was it Peter?

"Lauren?!"

"Peter?" I called back, wanting desperately to believe it was him.

Someone turned the corner, and I recognized him in an instant.

"Peter!"

We crashed into each other, holding on for dear life. Thank god, he came back. He changed his mind; he got over his fear, he, he—

He followed us.

We stood there, wrapped in each other's embrace for eternity. I couldn't let him go, so afraid I'd lose him again.

"Holy shuck." Peter looked at the battlefield.

"I know." My voice was quiet. I still didn't let myself focus on faces. I had to leave, especially with Peter by my side.

"Alright, you got your friend, who picked a hell of a time to show up, now let's go." Newt shoved us towards the vines leading to our escape.

Peter looked at the Griever Hole than to me. I nodded.

"Just right through?"

"Follow the vines."

He stepped back, and I took a deep breath, readying myself. A jump, weird feeling, and a shaky landing later, I stood in a tunnel.

In a slow circle, I spun, looking at Thomas and Teresa's own battlefield. Two or more Grievers lay disabled, and another one looked dead. By some miracle, no human bodies littered this one.

"You took forever, and for what?" Minho complained.

"It wasn't even two minutes, Minho, I counted." Frypan replied, his voice quiet. I noticed no one spoke louder than a stage whisper.

"Sorry, I picked up a stray." Stepping back, Peter fell through the Hole, followed by Newt.

He waved sheepishly. I noticed that he was the only one not covered in blood and still had most of their clothing.

Thomas waited for a moment. "The rest?"

"Half of us. Dead." Newt answered, looking too tired for a teenager.

"And where did he come from?" Teresa asked, motioning to Peter.

"He came in at the end of the battle, as Minho and crew were going down the Griever Hole." I explained. "And it doesn't matter, we have one more Glader that's with us, and that's all that matters, really." I was talking in circles, and honestly, I was too tired to care.

The room went quiet, and some Gladers looked back up at the Hole, remembering the ones we lost. Looking around the room, I mentally erased names off the list of guys that went into the Maze. Too many. Too many holes, too many lives destroyed, by the people who left and the people who had been left behind. Was this all really worth it? Leaving the Glade, surviving the Maze, at the expense of twenty-something lives?

A tear ran down my cheek, and I turned away to wipe it. Peter, noticing it, slipped an arm around my shoulder, and we stood there in silence, mourning.

Some tears later, Minho broke the silence. "You know what? Half of us might've died, but half of us shucking lived. And nobody got stung—just like Thomas thought. We've gotta get out of here."

I thought it was a really aggressive way to be positive, but Minho said the cold hard truth. We were all too nice to admit it.

"Let's get out of here. Right now." Newt agreed.

"Where do we go?" Minho directed at Thomas.

Thomas pointed to the right down the tunnel. "I heard the door open down there."

There was a collective inhale as our too-small group collected themselves and pushed away everything that had happened.

Peter grabbed my hand; Minho was the first to respond.

"Well—let's go." He left, leaving us all to catch up.

Pulling Peter behind me, I followed, wanting to leave this place as soon as possible. The Grievers and stench of death were getting too powerful. As I walked, I remembered I had a flashlight, and I flicked it on. Still, I wasn't able to see much.

For a while, the tunnel went on, making us walk a minute or two down to this door Thomas heard.

Minho stopped at the end of it, his flashlight doing almost nothing to illuminate the room.

"What is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, gimme a second." He stuck his head into the—

Wait, what?

"It's a slide."

"Huh?" Peter asked.

"See ya at the end." Minho went down without hesitation.

I looked at Peter, then back at this "slide," waited until I couldn't see Minho's light, and followed. Sitting down at the top of it, I tightened my backpack straps and leaned forward, almost excited.

"Whoo!" My hands went up as I went almost straight down. The slide was steep.

Hazy memories of sliding down at parks and down banisters popped up as I tried to enjoy this nostalgia.

"I'm not gonna die, I'm not gonna die!" Peter was pleading. He must have gone down quickly after me.

The slide picked up some speed, and I tried to slow down, knowing that if I ran into Minho, I'd pay. But coating the slide was this thick oily stuff, and my hands were now coated in it. Yet another thing to add to "stuff that will never get out of my clothes." 

I twirled and gained speed and twirled and went down at an alarming rate for what felt like forever, but it was really only about 5 minutes. Peter got closer and closer with every spin, and I hoped that he wouldn't hit me when we got to the end of this.

As we went further down, I finally noticed the smell. If it were coming from the oil or the slide itself, I'd never know. It got more powerful, and I wasn't sure I could smell anything else for the rest of my life.

Finally deciding that the smell was coming from the goo, I tried to categorize it. Overheated plastic, like when you microwave something that shouldn't have been microwaved; And machinery that's been overworked or overused. 

What a wonderful combination. Between the blood of the battlefield and the Griever blood, it got potent.

The slide ended up spiraling down, down, and even further down while making you nauseous at the same time until it finally spit us out. I managed to land on my back, almost knocking the wind out of me.

"I'm gonna die—!" Peter shouted, almost at the end of his ride.

Peter was right behind me. I'd forgotten that. I rolled to the side as he landed flat on his back.

I stood up and wiped my hands on my pants, picking Peter up off the ground.

"You okay?" I asked as more guys came out of the chute, falling onto each other.

"Gimme a second." He slowly walked to the side, and I looked away as he emptied whatever he ate in the last 24 hours.

As I waited on Peter, I scoped out this latest room we were all thrown into.

It was huge, maybe about half as big as the Glade. Hundreds, maybe a thousand, pipes, tubes, and other long things ran along the top of it, snaking down to the ground, connecting various machines and computers. I noticed these large white things along one side and looked away as I remembered they housed Grievers.

Thomas came out of the tube and landed on Teresa. And then promptly followed Peter's reaction to the slide.

"Is that the last of them?" I asked Newt.

"Did Tommy come out?"

"Yeah, he's over there."

"Then yeah, we're all here." Newt paused. "Wherever here is."

Another voice, Jim's, joined the confused whispers. "Look!" He pointed to a row of glass, tinted black, protecting us from the people who sat inside. I moved closer as others moved back.

A woman behind a pane of glass had vibrant red hair, even noticeable through the tint, and looked much older than she probably was. She moved closer to our group, writing fast notes on a tablet.

"Amelia?"

She stopped writing, shocked, and looked straight at me. I took another step, not a part of the group anymore.

"You know them?" Minho spat.

"Who's 'them?'" Chuck asked.

"The Creators." I don't think I'd ever seen Minho look so angry.

"We all know them, don't be—"

He cut me off. "I'm gonna break your faces!" He screamed, causing a large percentage of us to recoil.

"What do we do? What are we waiting on?" Thomas asked no one in particular.

Newt answered. "They've probably revved the Grievers back up. They're probably coming right—"

A beeping noise echoed throughout the chamber, seemingly having no source. It reminded me of the Box noise, but not as screeching. Some looked over at Thomas, and he shrugged his shoulders. No one moved to try and find the source. We all stood in our little group, trying hard not to go deaf.

I turned to look at Amelia and saw she was staring at the doors with a scared and anxious look on her face. Others in the group starting looking at the doors, gripping whatever weapons they had left tightly.

When the noise stopped, everyone took a collective inhale.

Then the doors opened, and two people came out.

One was a woman who looked very familiar, with extremely basic clothing that just spelled WICKED on the right of her shirt. She had nothing to show on her face; she was neither happy to see us or shocked. It almost gave nothing away. And the other was someone who looked our age and had a masculine frame. The guy had a comically large sweatshirt on, and the hood pulled up to where we couldn't see any facial features.

Giving a glance to Amelia to see if she had anything to tell about the woman or guy, she had her head buried in her tablet. She knew she couldn't hide what was on her face.

"Welcome back. Over two years, and so few dead. Amazing." The woman said.

The group almost simultaneously had their jaws drop, and most moved from shock to anger in a second.

"Excuse me?" Newt was the first to respond.

"Everything has gone according to plan, Mr. Newton. Although we expected a few more of you to give up along the way." She glanced at Peter for a slight second before looking at the group again, then at the guy next to her.

In a swift motion, she pulled off the hood, revealing none other than Gally.

Wait, Gally?

"Gal—" I rushed forward, only to be pulled back.

"Don't." Peter whispered, finally joining the group.

"But, I—" Turning back to look at my not-dead friend, I actually saw him for what he looked like, and not whatever half-glance I saw before rushing forward. And he surprisingly didn't look much different than the last time I saw him.

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

I was wondering the same thing. Gally had died. He ran into a Griever, and we all counted him dead. But know he's standing here, alive and...

Very much not well.

"What's wrong with him?" I whispered to Peter.

"You're safe now. Please, be at ease." The woman tried to soothe us.

"At ease? Who are you, telling us to be at ease?" Minho retorted. As much as we all wanted Minho to stop, we also were silently cheering him on. "We wanna see the police, the mayor, the president—somebody!"

The woman slightly recoiled but gathered herself quickly as she glared 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."

I'm not sure what set us off more. The way she spat the word 'boy,' or the condescending way she talked down to us.

Minho started to respond but didn't by some unknown force. Probably Newt or Thomas. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned to see Newt gesturing towards Gally as if he wanted me to talk to him.

Peter let go of my arm, and I made my way to the front of the crowd again. The woman watched me with intent eyes, and it took a lot from me not to glare.

He was looking down at the ground, focused solely on the concrete.

"Gally, can you hear me?" I asked, wanting more than anything to look in his eyes again.

Slowly, as if it took everything in him, he looked up.

"Hey." I smiled, knowing how much he liked it—anything to bring him back to his real self.

The world fell away as I stared into his eyes, trying to see what happened to him. What series of events had to occur to bring Gally to such a state of anguish. This, this, I don't even know what to call it, this shell of him wasn't the person I'd met three months ago. Wasn't the person that had been by my side, protecting me from the dangers of Glade.

His face contorted, trying so hard to say something to me, but he couldn't.

"It's okay, you're fine," I said, trying hard not to cry. I couldn't believe I'd lost him, only to have him back, but not really. He'd lost some part of himself out there in the Maze.

"Lauren." He said it so softly I thought I imagined it.

"Y-yeah?" I reached out my hand.

"That's far enough, Miss Lauren." The woman commanded.

The spell broke as I looked away from Gally, pulling my hand back. Taking in my surroundings, I realized I'd slowly been walking closer to him.

I took a second to collect myself. "You don't get to tell me I'm not allowed to move closer to my friend." I snapped.

"As your superior, I'm very sure I can."

"What did you do to him?" I started trembling with rage.

"We saved him." She simply said.

"What the hell?! No you didn't!"

She looked away from me and back towards the group. "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. These are dark times. Dark times."

Waiting a second for us to try to figure out what she said, she talked again. "There is, of course, one final Variable." She took a step back.

There was that word again. Variable.

A voice piped up from behind me.

"Gally?" I heard Thomas ask.

"They . . . can control me . . . I—" He spat every word out, not knowing if he'd get another one. He talked loudly, effectively making sure everyone knew what he was saying, but he still looked straight at me.

A hand flew up to his mouth as if his body wanted him to stop, but his mind kept pushing forward. I took a step back.

"I . . . have . . . to . . ." It stopped. Whatever force was controlling him won. He looked peaceful, and it killed me.

I'd lost him.

Walking backward, trying hard not to cry, tripping over my own feet, I blindly searched for the comfort of Peter. I had thrown my hand back earlier, and now it was a feeler to find my best friend.

"I, I, I lost him," I started crying into Peter's shirt as he wrapped his arms around me, trying to make this all okay. But this wasn't even close to being okay.

Something metallic clicked, and the mood of the room shifted as the whole group tensed. I couldn't move. Peter had me trapped.

"No—!" I heard Peter say, along with others.

An ear-splitting bang and the thud of two somethings hitting the floor echoed through the chamber.

"What?" I looked up at Peter's face.

He looked to the front of the group, horror-struck. I followed his eyesight to where—

"No!" My screams joined the chorus.

Peter's grip slackened, and I took my opportunity to shove through the group.

"No, no, no, no, no, you're not doing this to me," I dropped and slid to the ground where Gally laid, a spear through his chest.

He wheezed and coughed, unable to form any type of words.

"You're not allowed to leave, not again," My eyesight blurred, and I couldn't clear it; my hands were covered in blood. His blood.

"You gotta, get," Gally spluttered, and I moved to where I could hear him better, setting his head on my legs, trying to elevate him.

Vaguely, I heard Thomas's voice, pleading with something or someone. And in the back of my mind, I wondered who had thrown the spear into Gally's chest.

"Wh-what? Get what?" I grabbed his hand, squeezing some of my life force into his.

"Gotta get . . . your thing . . . out 'fore . . . it's too—" He stopped.

"No, no, no," He couldn't stop. That meant—no, he couldn't stop talking. Blindly searching, I tried to feel his heartbeat and every second I didn't meant that there wasn't one to be found, but I wasn't going to allow that because I can't accept the fact that—

"He's gone." Peter came up behind me.

"N-no, he's not, he's just," I sniffed and tried to clear my eyesight, while my free hand started to shake while I still was on my quest to find his heartbeat.

The woman spoke again, softly, as if she shared any ounce of our sadness, our pain, anything.

"All things happen for a purpose. You must understand this."

The mood of the room shifted. We couldn't believe this stick.

She could not say something like that after we had just survived, something most adults would be unable to.

She could not say something like that after we had just lost some of the closest things we'd had to family members.

She could not say something like that after we had just been through the worse experience we'd ever have, while all of us were still unable to vote.

I slowly looked up at her; my eyes still wet from the tears I'd shed. Peter tensed; his own hand was on my shoulder, trying to show his support, or stop me from doing something stupid. I looked terrible, and I felt even worse. But I focused everything I was feeling into my next sentence. The anger, the sadness, the exhaustion, everything. I said what we were all thinking.

They did this to us; they ripped us from our homes and killed our friends.

And they were the ones that deserved it.

I sniffed. "Go to hell." 

She looked affronted, obviously shocked at my blatant disobedience.

Shouts and footfalls came into the chamber as the doors behind this stick of woman exploded; that's the only word I could think of, releasing a dozen or so people.

A quick look back at the woman's face as it drained of color told me that they weren't on her side.

They quickly cleared the room, and two of them shoved the woman to the floor, and one aimed what looked like a really rusted gun at her head.

For a brief and fleeting second, I wondered how I knew what a gun should look like, and then I realized what they were doing.

I pulled my head to Gally's chest and braced myself. Several shots echoed through the chamber, and I knew the woman was dead.

Then I remembered that the chest I was resting on was covered in blood. Fresh tears ran down my face as I gave his hand another squeeze.

"He's not . . . c-coming back, is he?" I whispered to Peter.

He knelt beside me. "No, he's not."

I grieved for a few more seconds, then heard more gunshots.

Looking up, I saw that the newbies were shooting at the tinted windows.

"No!" I screamed, standing up and slipping on Gally's blood as I ran towards Amelia, the only family I had, who was now about to die.

I couldn't lose her too.

"Someone get her! We gotta leave!" Someone shouted from behind.

"No! Amelia!" A hand snaked around my waist as I watched her window shatter and her vibrant red hair getting splattered with dark red blood. She fell out of sight as I was pulled, dragged away from her and through the doors.

With every step I took, Peter right next to me, being my only sanity and person I had left, more tears were shed over the people I had just lost.

I wanted to ask where we were going, why I couldn't have one last moment with my fallen friends.

And then I thought maybe it was better this way.

I was leaving. The Glade, my old life, and the horrors that were associated with it. I detached myself from the grieving of Amelia and told myself I'd do it later. I'd say a proper goodbye for Gally, my "knight in shining armor."

I'd do it all later when I was safe.

Away from WICKED.

And as we climbed onto a bus, rain-soaked from the journey to it, and I climbed into a seat with Peter, I dropped my head onto his shoulder, and I heaved a sigh.

"I can't tell you how glad I am you're not dead." Peter said.

"Neither can I." I responded. "So let's just appreciate each other for right now. Tomorrow's gonna come with all of it's problems."

Frypan sat down opposite us.

"I am also glad you're not dead." I turned my head slightly, looking at his too-tired face.

"As am I." He tried for a smile. I tried to return it.

We all looked out our windows and tried not to think about what we left behind, what was going to be in front of us, and just what was happening right now.

Tomorrow was going to come, with all of its problems.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
so. um. the end?

we've still got the epilogue, but that's like 300 words.

i was going to include lauren at the new building, but I realized it would be better in book 2. (and this chapter was getting wayyy too filled anyway.)

but yea! on to the epilogue, which is FILLED with information.