Labyrinth

Chapter 3-

Labyrinth- Chapter 3

Andrew Leon Jameson III had never really expected much to come of his life. His mother, who had only married his father for money, had wanted a daughter. And considering that she had ended up with a son, she was almost happy when he was chosen for the maze. Drew, of course, was scared to death of going inside the maze. He was only seventeen- way too young to die.

Through the years, he'd acquired many things; a cherry-red sports car, a history with women, and exceptionally good pickup lines. However, he'd lost many things as well- the main one being his father, who'd succumbed to cancer eight years ago.

Unfortunately for Drew, he had no escape from the Labyrinth in the way he'd found escapes from his mom.

He hadn't brought anything he cared about into the maze except his gun- a light, easy-to-carry pistol- nor had he worn anything hard to run in. Grey and black sneakers of some brand that'd long since been weathered off the shoes, faded jeans, a white t-shirt. Considering the way his mother shooed him out of the house to be put in the maze, he was surprised he'd even had time to change in the first place.

Drew had no memory of what had happened after he'd been led into the center of town. He remembered former girlfriends calling his name, yelling at him to come back, screaming at the police to do another drawing. Most people were probably glad he was gone- not only did his mother, the wealthiest woman in his urban, Ohioan town dislike him, but he was not only a smartass, but also smart enough to get others to do his work.

Inside the maze, it was just like everyday life had been for him when he was nine or ten. Lonely, hard to stay amused.

And then there had been the dirt corridor. First he'd heard the shrill, ugly laughter of some psychopath who'd been stuck in the maze probably past a decade, then the heavy breathing of what sounded like a teenage girl.

Drew had rushed over, his pistol in hand, just in time to save her. He had been blocking the light, but one of the few things he'd enjoyed as a younger teenager was target shooting- he was a spot-on shot, unless he intended to miss.

It took almost no effort to hit the creep in the head before he rushed over to the girl, who'd grabbed a knife, probably out of fear that Drew would hurt her, too.

Personal experience had taught Drew that fear could make people do very rash, stupid things... So, naturally, he slammed her against the wall carefully enough so as not to cause an avalanche, and put the gun to her forehead. Possibly to get her to calm down.

But he hadn't been prepared that she'd fight back.. Or that she'd actually be able to fight back /well/.

When he was on his back, all he'd been able to see against her dark, backlit form was a sea-blue eye, a summer-green eye, and soft purple-tipped hair dangling over his face. When he finally managed to get out from under her, she was on her feet as well, her dagger drawn. However, she wasn't doing a thing.

Rather, she was just standing there. Uncomfortably close to him.

So, he took the moment to get a better look at her. Definitely heterochromatic- two different eyes. Light hair. Fair skin. Dark eye makeup.. Unless those were bruises. Black, leather cuffs around her wrist, one with the inscription of 'Imagine'. A black cord around her neck, though he couldn't see a pendant. A typical, goth-looking teenager. Not too tall, not too short, but quite lithe. Probably a fast runner. And with her facial structure and slender build, he couldn't help thinking.. Maybe she was pretty.

Except her eyes weren't leaving his, which was beginning to scare Drew to the point where he was just going to pull the gun on her then and there incase she'd been in the maze too long. So he finally asked, "Can I help you?"

And from there, it all snowballed. Rather painfully.

Now he was walking down a stoney, half-lit corridor like a cross between an Indiana Jones movie and a cave tour; the girl, Marty, walking next to him. He'd decided to stick with her, that is, until she died. Wouldn't be that long, would it? She hadn't /seemed/ like she'd be ready for the Labyrinth's other horrors. And right after that, he'd go back to being alone. He had no intention of protecting her. It was a simple, easy plan.

"So, how long've you been here?" she asked suddenly, her now-quiet voice interrupting the silence like a rock dropped into a pool of water.

- - -

"Well, let me just check my CALENDAR, which everyone brings into the Labyrinth, on my totally NOT CONFISCATED cell phone," Jake (since finding his real name isn't of much value to me, I'll just use that) scoffs, and I scowl.

"You're the real ass," I mutter, referencing his words to me earlier as I look at my worn boots. I hear him draw in a heavy breath, and I smirk. "I mean, can I have a /rough estimate/." He doesn't answer. What is it with guys and brooding? "Are you going through puberty?" I pipe up again.

He looks at me, one of his eyebrows raised slightly. "What makes you ask that?"

"Don't boys get moody- sorry, mood/ier/- during that stage?"

"That's girls, dumbass."

Our conversation stops shortly after that, though not for too long.

I catch myself staring up at the wall, which appears to be a somewhat permeated, cavelike surface, only lit by flaming, blue torches that look cold as ice, despite that it seems to be fire. "I'm sorry."

The words take me by surprise, jarring me from my thoughts about whether or not this fire's real. "Wow," comes my reply, after at least a minute. A smirk washes over my face. "You know, if I weren't so nice, I'd say it was too late for 'sorry'," I add, looking over at him.

He rolls his multicolored eyes, but makes no comment. "You know, usually people just say they accept the apology.."

With a shrug, I remark, "I think you've known me long enough to be able to tell I'm different."

"Got /that/ right." Now his eyes eyes flicker towards me, resting there. "Actually, 'different' might be an understatement," he adds.

Before I can make a retort, a noise makes my throat go dry. It sounds like footsteps. Many, many footsteps. People marching?

"Hey Jake?" It takes a moment before he asks 'What'. He must still be used to being addressed by his old name. "Do you hear that, too?"

He nods, then smirks. "It's the Black Parade."

My blue and green eyes widen in annoyance. "Now isn't the time for joking! What if they want to kill us?" I point out.

"Then we accept our deaths. Marty, this is the Labyrinth. I hope you realize we were put here to di-"

"Or for everyone else out there to see if we were strong enough to escape," I interrupt. Even though I know he's right. The pounding grows louder, and even though I know it'd be better if I just bowed my head and let them do whatever they wanted, I pull my dagger from my boot.

Jake sighs next to me. "Giving up isn't something you do often, is it, Shorty?"

I shrug, not sure how to reply. With another heavy sigh, Jake pulls his gun and stands next to me.

A small smile crosses my face as I realize he isn't abandoning my here, but I wipe it off immediately. Why do I care if this sarcastic, annoying boy leaves me? The answer is simple: Now that I'm no longer alone, I don't want the feeling of confinement anymore.

But before I can think about this any longer, the pounding drum of feet grows overpowering... And then we see it. Pale, round heads atop black shirts and pants and boots. Like a giant shadow with a white mohawk. Moving towards us.

"Should we run?" I inquire.

When Jake answers, I can tell he's holding back a laugh. "I thought /you/ were the one that wanted to stay."

For once in my life, I actually wish I could eat my words.

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