For a brief tranquil moment, the world doesn't return to me.
Allowing me just a moment's rest before overwhelming me once again—though no amount of rest can relieve the ache that has chiseled deep into my bones.
The first thing I feel is cold.
Not the kind that brushes against your skin, but the deep, sterile chill of metal pressing against my back. My arms refuse to move. My legs won't budge. Panic threatens to rise, but it's dulled—slow, like it’s swimming through molasses in my veins.
A soft whir fills the room. Machines humming. Lights buzzing overhead.
I blink.
Blinding white walls.
A ventilation shaft humming above me.
Then the sting in my arm.
I twist my head weakly.
Teresa.
Her pale fingers are wrapped around a syringe, her blue eyes fixed on the slow drip of crimson trailing down into a vial.
My blood.
She doesn't look at me at first. Doesn't speak. Just watches the needle like she's afraid it'll speak louder than either of us.
My throat is dry. It takes effort to force out the rasp, but I manage.
"Teresa…"
Her gaze flicks to mine. For a moment, her expression falters. Her breath catches—but only slightly. Almost imperceptible. But I know her. I used to know her. Enough to spot it.
She doesn't answer.
"Where are we?" I croak, trying to lift my head but failing. The leather restraints are snug around my arms, my legs. My body still sluggish from whatever the hell Janson stabbed into me.
She says nothing. Just presses another button on the side of the machine and watches the numbers flicker on a small screen.
"I know you’re still in there" I whisper.
Teresa doesn't move.
"Whatever WICKED’s filled your head with, I know it hasn't erased everything. You and I were—"
"Don't" she says quietly, almost too soft to hear. "Don't make this harder than it already is".
I let out a bitter, shaky breath "harder for you?".
Her shoulders stiffen.
"I was your friend, Teresa" I say, voice cracking.
Flashes of our brief time together flash across my eyes as I stare at her face. How relieved I was to have another girl in the Glade. How she used to tease me about Newt.
"We shared secrets. We laughed together. You helped comb my hair before mission briefings. You told me once that you hated the thought of someone testing others at a cost—now you're sided with the very people who took everything from us".
"I'm trying to save lives" she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
"No" I hiss. "You're letting them take them".
She pauses.
There it is again—that flicker of something behind her eyes.
Doubt.
Regret.
Maybe even shame.
She glances at the vial, the red nearly filling it now. Her grip trembles.
I press forward. "You don’t have to do this".
"I do, Rose" she breathes, not looking at me. "We're too close. The world's on the brink. And Thomas… he's the Cure".
My heart aches at the mention of his name. I turn my head just enough to see him on the table beside me—still unconscious. His head turned to the side, lips parted. Pale.
Defenseless.
Teresa follows my gaze. Her eyes soften. "He doesn't know what he could do. What he can do. All of this—the chaos, the pain—it ends if he just lets us work".
I swallow hard. "Work? Is that what you call it? What Janson does?".
At the sound of his name, her expression shutters.
"Neither of you realize just how lucky you are". I watch as her jaw clenches and her lashes bat furiously to refrain the tears from sliding down her cheeks. "You especially, Rose. That ability of yours is something that could possibly heal the world".
"You don't know what you are talking about" I scoff, rolling my eyes at her.
"You think I wouldn't notice? I saw it back in the Glade. In the Scorch and even now", her eyes flicker down to my leg "you can't lie to me, Rose, I know you too well".
"I know you, Teresa" I say quietly. "At least I thought I did before you decided that killing people was a reasonable cost for a Cure".
She says nothing.
"You know WICKED's crossing a line" I plead. "That whatever this was meant to be—it's not that anymore".
For one fragile second, Teresa lowers the syringe. Her eyes meet mine fully. Unshielded. I see the tear in her armor. The part of her that remembers. The part of her that still feels.
Her lips part slightly. Her hand loosens around the vial.
Then the door hisses open.
Teresa straightens so quickly it's as if she’d never wavered at all.
Janson strides in, clipboard in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbow. There's blood on his knuckles, dried and crusted. His cold gaze sweeps the room "progress?".
Teresa turns, smooth and robotic. "One vial collected".
"Good" Janson says, walking toward her. He casts a brief glance at me, his eyes cool. Dismissive. "She's awake, then".
"I just came to" I say, my voice sharper than I intend.
Janson doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Thomas's table.
"Wake him" he orders.
Teresa hesitates.
"I said wake him".
Her fingers hover near the sedative dispenser. Pressing the command to release Thomas from his sedated stupor, then shift toward Thomas's arm. She rolls up his sleeve, exposing the inner crook of his elbow, and prepares the needle.
I watch her the whole time.
She doesn't look at me again.
Not once.
And just like that—she makes her choice.
Betrayal, for the second time.
The sedative finally begins to slacken it's hold.
Thomas twitches faintly, groaning as his eyelids flutter.
My heart shatters.
Because I thought maybe—just maybe—she would choose us.
That she'd remember what it felt like to care.
To hope.
To be human.
But all I see in her now… Is a ghost of what we lost.
YOU ARE READING
The Extirpated
FanfictionWICKED promised it was the end. No more tests. No more lies. But SHE knows well the statement could never be true. The Scorch was only the beginning. The group will witness horrors that will dominate over the towering Maze Walls. They will endure so...
