Chapter Text
It was all hazy, a cold and dark luxurious apartment. There was a tall man holding a knife, his other hand wrapped tightly around a woman's neck. Then he dropped her limp body, turning his head up. Suddenly, he directed the blade at the spectator—and it all faded to black.
The boy gasped for air, grasping at the ground. His shaky hand grasped over his brown shirt to make sure his heart was still beating, he blinked too many times before his vision became clear. His eyes darted around wildly. He was inside a shack, lying on the ground beside an empty cot. There was some clutter on the table in the middle, most notably bandages.
"Shuck," his neck hurt from lying on the ground. Now he recognised the place—he was inside the Med-Jacks’ shack, still in the Glade.
The door suddenly swung open, "Ash?" the other boy scratched the back of his neck, his dark curly strands sticking out everywhere. "What are you doing here?"
"Huh?" It took a while for Ash to respond. It was Clint, the Keeper of the Med-Jacks. "Oh, I uh," he recalled last night, there was somebody lying on the cot. "I was- there was someone, I was on watch."
Clint hummed, walking to the table to put things in order. "What? Did Chuck get a boo-boo again?" he grinned.
"No, no," Ash groaned, stood up, and patted the dust off his butt. "Gally."
The Keeper turned around, eyes widened. "What? Actually, don't tell me. Hah! No wonder we couldn't find him," he slapped his knee, plopping down to a chair. "Did you know that the Greenie pushed him? Oh, I should've been here earlier."
Ash was preoccupied with the empty cot Gally had slept on. "Heh, yeah."
———
Ash walked out of the shack. He felt the morning air prickling his skin, shaking him off the drowsiness. He yawned, splashing his face with water from a nearby drum and smoothing out his auburn hair. Looking around, the Gladers scattered with their own chores. Ash sighed and started strolling towards the garden. Maybe he could run an errand for the Track-Hoes.
He saw Newt, Zart, and the Greenie chatting among the gardeners. "Hey," Ash stared at the new guy, remembering the Gladers cheering his name last night. "You must be... Thomas, right?" He offered his hand. "Ash,"
"Yeah, hey—" They shook hands briefly. Thomas seemed more interested to continue his chat. "And what about the Box? You know, next time it comes up-"
"No, we tried that. The Box won't go back," Newt shot him down.
Ash lifted his brows, turning to Zart. "Greenie wants to be a Runner." The latter shrugged. Ash made a quiet "O" with his mouth, pulling the rolled up sleeves more before grabbing a shear. He half-listened to Thomas' persistence while snipping the dead leaves off the vines.
This guy must be stupid or mad, he thought. What kind of shank is willing to dive into danger? Does he want to be a Griever's bait? Maybe he wants to die? He couldn't really grasp the motive. Still, his determination intrigued Ash. Usually a Greenbean would give it up, distracting themselves with work.
"Go dig us up some more fertilizer." Newt sent Thomas off to the woods while Ash and Zart shared a look of amusement.
"A bit peculiar, huh?" Ash commented. Newt narrowed his eyes. "Tell me about it, just hope he won’t be making any trouble." Well, that was one way to kill the humour. Everyone had seen what happened to trouble-makers. Ash sighed, looking off to the Maze's dark and gloomy entrance.
Suddenly, a raspy scream shatters the silence. "Help! Help!" It belonged to Thomas. All eyes landed on the source. Ben burst from the woods, hunting Thomas down before tackling him to the ground. The Gladers came flocking toward them. Ash could see Gally holding the Runner, lifting his shirt to reveal a nasty puncture—roots of blue veins surrounding it.
"Shuck," Ash stepped forward to help the Med-Jacks haul Ben off, grabbing Ben's abdomen from the side. The crowd dispersed in the background.
Ash tried avoiding the troublesome pleas, keeping his eyes on their destination. "No, no, please! I can change- please let me!" They threw the jacked Runner inside the Pit.
Gally struggled to lock the woven wooden bars—if you could call the flimsy thing a door. "Hold the damn door!" Fry jumped in to help, finally letting Gally secure the bike lock. As Ash started walking off, he noticed that Gally was the last one to linger—figured, Ben was a former Builder.
He checked on Thomas, returned to the garden—ignoring Ben's banishment—and finally lay on his hammock, hoping he could rinse the bad memory away with sleep. He knew nothing of Ben. There was no need to fuss. Ash used his soiled hands to ruffle his auburn hair. He could still shucking hear the ticking sound of Ben's name—now crossed on the dull wall of their cage.
———
