Chapter Text
Erik Forger is not immune.
At least… that's what he was thinking right then, as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling after waking from another nightmare.
I am not immune.
He knew he wasn't. How could he be? His parents showed him the documents—he wasn't immune to the Flare.
They won't take me, they don't want me.
Erik turned onto his side, facing his bedside table. A small picture of his brother sat there, young and bright and full of life, squinting as the sun beat down on him and his soccer ball.
I'm being paranoid, he thought as he picked up the photo, folded it, and put it under the band of his bracelet. What am I even doing… just go back to sleep, Erik. You're fine. You're not immune.
The room was completely silent then, the only sound being the occasional chirp of a cricket from somewhere outside. Erik sighed as he stared out the window, the full moon shining through and illuminating his small, plain bedroom. He glanced at his clock. It read quarter to two in the morning.
"Damnit…" he muttered, shutting his eyes and burrowing further under his blankets. He tried to go back to sleep, but found it impossible. His eyes refused to stay closed, and his mind refused to quiet down. He glanced at the clock again. It now read half past two.
"Come on…" he whispered to himself. "Just go to sleep…"
***
Erik was jolted awake by the sound of shouting and crashing coming from downstairs. Then, gunshots. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"What the hell…?" He muttered, looking at his clock. Four in the morning. "What the hell?" he grumbled again as he heard more shouting, though this time it was more out of panic than confusion, his heart racing as he listened to the chaos unfolding below; the loud crash of something being knocked over, the sound of footsteps running around, and the panicked voices of his parents. He jumped out of bed, ignoring the way his body protested the movement. What the hell is going on down there?!
He crept over to his bedroom door, carefully opening it and peeking through the crack.
Then, he heard it.
"No, please, please, he's not immune, don't take him, please—"
"Where is he, Mrs. Forger?! Where's the boy?!"
Erik's heart leapt into his throat. His mind raced as he listened to the shouting downstairs. They're looking for me...
He could hear his mother sobbing, the sound of boots against the hardwood floor, and the deep, cold voice of whoever was looking for him.
"He's just a kid, please, he's not- he's not immune!" His mom cried out once more, the desperation clear in her voice.
Erik could feel a wave of panic wash over him, and without thinking, he quietly crept out of his room and across the small hallway to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him and leaned against the sink, his heart pounding in his chest.
Downstairs, he heard the sound of things being thrown around, the shouting getting louder. "We know he's here!" the deep voice boomed. "Where is he?!"
No, no, no… Erik's mind was in overdrive. He tried to calm his breathing, but it felt like his lungs were being squeezed. Just stay quiet, just stay hidden…
He looked around the bathroom, desperately searching for some kind of escape route, some way to get out without being seen, but there was nothing. Just a small window, too small for him to squeeze through. The sound of footsteps began to get louder, closer, and Erik's mind began racing. What do I do? What do I do?! What the hell do I do?!
He frantically looked around the bathroom again, but there was nothing, nothing, nothing that could help him. I'm screwed, I'm so screwed—
The footsteps stopped outside the bathroom door. Erik backed up, his back colliding with the bathroom wall that was opposite the door. He slid to the ground, staring at the door while he shook with fear. The doorknob jiggled.
They're trying to open the door...
Erik pressed himself against the wall, his body shaking uncontrollably. He could hear his own labored breathing, the sound loud in his ears, echoing off the walls of the small bathroom. The doorknob jiggled again, the person on the other side seemingly trying to open it more forcefully.
They know I'm in here, he thought, his heart racing. They're going to find me.
The door shook as someone pounded on it. "We know you're in there, kid," a deep voice—the same from earlier—shouted from the other side. "Come out, and no one gets hurt."
In response, Erik covered his mouth with one hand to try and stifle his panicked breathing. He was shaking so badly, he thought he might pass out—but the pounding continued nonetheless, growing louder and more persistent. "We just want to talk, kid! Just come out, and we won't hurt you!"
Bullshit, Erik thought, shutting his eyes tightly. They're going to take me. They'll take me away and send me to a damn Maze or something, and I'll never see my family again.
Even as he thought it, the door shook violently, the hinges creaking as whoever was on the other side tried to break it down. Erik could hear them muttering to each other, the sound of multiple voices now, all shouting at him, telling him to come out. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he tried to hold them back, knowing that crying now would accomplish nothing.
Despite knowing that it would happen, the sound of splintering wood still startled him as it filled the bathroom, the door shaking one last time before being kicked open. A handful of men stood there, wearing tactical gear and carrying large guns.
The men looked around the bathroom before their gaze landed on Erik, who was cowering on the ground. Immediately, two of them advanced towards him, grabbing his arms and lifting him roughly. Erik struggled against their grip, fear and adrenaline coursing through his body.
"No! No, no, let me go!" He screamed, thrashing and twisting his lanky limbs as the men dragged him through the house, trying desperately to escape their grasp. "Bastards! Let me go! No! No, no no no!"
"Shut up, kid," one of the men growled, gripping Erik's arm tighter in an effort to stop him from struggling.
"Damn, this one's a fighter, isn't he? Feisty little guy," the other man chuckled, a southern-sounding drawl woven into his words as he helped drag Erik down the stairs and towards the front door.
Erik continued to struggle, kicking and squirming and screaming, but it was futile. The men were much stronger than him, and there were two of them. They easily overpowered him, their grips like vices on his arms. He could hear his mother crying out somewhere behind him, and he twisted around to look at her.
"Mom?!" he called out, his voice desperate as he was dragged out of the house and towards a black helicopter. "Mom, Mom, please, help me! Tell them to stop! Don't let them take me away, Mom, Dad!"
He saw through tear-blurred vision that his parents had gathered at the front door, watching helplessly as he was dragged away. His mother was crying hysterically, her hand clutched over her mouth, and his father looked like he wanted to charge forward, but was held back by one of the men.
Erik screamed and cried some more, but the men dragging him ignored his pleas, shoving him into the helicopter and buckling him into one of the seats. One of the men sat across from him, while the other moved to the cockpit.
"Just shut up, kid," the man in front of him snapped. "You're not doing yourself any favors by acting like a damn brat."
But Erik just thrashed, yanking and pulling at his restraints as the helicopter started up. He struggled fruitlessly, but before long, he felt a prick on his neck. Suddenly, everything went fuzzy—then black.
***
How long was I out?
Erik's head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his thoughts were sluggish, and his body felt heavy. He groaned softly, blinking slowly as his vision gradually came into focus. He was no longer in a helicopter, but instead in a small, sterile-looking room. His wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed he was lying on, and he felt strangely warm and fuzzy.
What kind of drug did they give me...? he thought. A few seconds after he pondered it, though, he saw a doctor come in, holding a clipboard and smiling at somebody he couldn't see. He vaguely heard them talking about him being 'ready for the maze', or whatever that meant. He didn't get to hear more, however, because he suddenly slipped out of the bubble of consciousness he'd been in.
Over the next hour or so, his consciousness faded in and out, snippets of conversation catching his attention at random intervals.
"... ready for the Maze..."
"… his test results look promising..."
"... one of the smartest kids we've seen yet…"
The words washed over him, only partially registering in his drugged state. All he was aware of was the growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach.
And suddenly, water.
Water, water, so much water.
Surrounding him. Choking him. Drowning him.
His eyes shot open as he gasped for air, his lungs on fire. He was submerged in water, the world around him a hazy, blurry mess. He could vaguely make out the outline of figures outside, watching him, studying him. Panic took over, and he started thrashing, desperately trying to free himself, to get to the surface. The water felt like it was crushing him, and he couldn't think straight. The only thing that he could grasp was something that he hoped wasn't true:
Is this what dying feels like?