Subject A250: The Fangirl (COMPLETED)

Twenty-Four: Ditch the Witch

For the first five minutes, Trace concentrated on nothing other than running. She kept her breathing steady, tracked their route in her mind, and made sure to watch her step.

Then she got bored.

"Do you think Grievers have feelings?"

If her question took either of them off guard, they didn't show any sign of it; they'd probably just grown used to her obscure thoughts.

"No," Minho replied.

"They might. I think they do. They probably just come out here each night to make a living. The maze is where the daddy Grievers come to work, while the mommies stay home and look after the Grievlets."

"There's no such thing as Grievlets."

"Just because you've never seen them doesn't mean they don't exist," Trace pressed on. "They're probably quite upset that we lead their dads off the Cliff the other night."

"This is why they didn't send girls for so long," Minho muttered to Thomas. "They're so shucking annoying." Thomas nodded.

"I'm not annoying! I'm open-minded. I'm creative."

"Great, now create a way to shut up."

Trace grabbed a vine as she ran past it and tied it around her mouth. Minho turned back to see what she was doing and sniggered.

"Thank you." He rolled his eyes and turned back. "Best thing you've done since arriving here."

Trace pulled the vine down from her mouth. "What about the Griever thing?"

"I thought you were supposed to be shutting up?"

"It got hard to breathe."

It was hard to breathe. Running for this amount of time was difficult enough on its own; Trace didn't need a vine tied around her mouth to make it even harder.

Eventually Minho reached a rather important looking corridor and slowed to a stop. "This is the end of Section 6," he explained. "We're heading into Section 7 now. The bottom-left section of the grid. Up until now the route's been the same, but Section 7 will have changed. Only the outermost walls do."

"Sounds fun," said Thomas, like the little sass queen he truly was.

"We'll see," Minho huffed. "Follow me."

"No, I think I'll just run off by myself, thanks."

"If that's what you're doing, Trace, then make sure you say 'hi' to those Grievlets for me, okay?"

Trace beamed. "So you do believe in Grievlets!"

Thomas laughed to himself. "Believe in Grievlets," he muttered.

"Shuck it. Both of you just stay close and stop being such slintheads."

"But I didn't do anything!" Thomas whined.

"You might do something, Thomas. You've got that look in your eye."

"What look?"

"Trace, come here. Look at Thomas and confirm that he has that look in his eye."

Trace approached Thomas and stared him down, scrutinising his expression.

"He does have that look in his eye."

"Guys! Seriously! I'm not going to do anything! Can't we just run?" Thomas exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"I don't know, Thomas. Where were you planning on running to?" Trace interrogated him.

"Section 7. Like Minho said."

"Oh, okay. Well that's fine then. Yeah, that's good. That checks out, right Minho?"

"Fine by me." Minho rolled his eyes upon realising he'd been sucked into their antics. "Let's shucking go."

After the first corridor, Minho cut a section of vine and threw it to the ground.

"Breadcrumbs?" Thomas asked. Trace was delighted.

"Breadcrumbs. I'm Hansel, you're Gretel."

Now Trace was offended. "He's Gretel? Who does that make me?"

"You're the witch," Thomas replied.

"I thought that was obvious," Minho agreed.

"Can't I be the wood cutter who saves them?" she tried.

"Do you own an axe?"

"No, but-"

"Then you're the witch. End of story," Minho smirked.

"Fairytales don't end without a 'happily ever after', Minho."

"I'm happy. Thomas is happy. You should be happy that we're happy."

Trace started to argue back but realised how much truth lay in Minho's words, even if he didn't know it himself. He and Thomas wouldn't be happy for long. None of them would be.

Minho got Thomas and Trace to take turns cutting the vines and leaving the trail. They were both getting pretty good at it by the time Minho called for a break.

"We'll stop here and grab something to eat," he said, pulling out an apple and his bottle of water.

Thomas started guzzling down his own water, while Trace took care to pace herself.

"Slow down there, fishhead."

Unfortunately, Minho's use of the word 'fishhead' when addressing Thomas caused Trace to spit out her mouthful of water. On to Thomas. Again.

"Hey!" he protested.

"More water for the fish," she replied, still laughing at the fact that Minho had just called Thomas 'fishhead'.

Then Thomas asked more questions. About Alby. About the Grievers. About where they went at night. The usual Thomas stuff. He asked about the Beetle Blades, and the Creators.

Then they ran again. They ran until they reached the end of the route.

Then Thomas got upset. As Thomas often does.

"Gotta head back now," Minho puffed, pivoting on the spot. "Nothing new."

"But-" was all Thomas managed to get in.

"No 'buts', Thomas. Were you expecting a trapdoor? An easy exit? A stairway out of here? There's nothing, okay? That's the end of the route. No two ways about it."

Thomas pouted. Pouted.

"This sucks," he said.

"Smartest thing you've said yet, Greenie," Minho winked. "Now let's head back. I'm sure Tracey here wants to cuddle up with Newty Cutey again."

"I sure do."

"Well, you'll have to wait. Maps take priority, remember?"

"Can we change that to 'naps take priority' for today?"

"If you'd rather be a slopper than a runner, then yes," Minho replied, anticipating Trace's answer.

She sighed. "Maps take priority."

"Good girl. Now let's head back. As much as I love you both, I don't want to spend another night huddled beneath the stars with you out here."

"Good that," Trace agreed, as they all headed back.

They arrived after what felt like forever, and Trace was exhausted. Then they headed to the map-room, compared today's map to many others, and left feeling rather unaccomplished. She didn't want to head to the Homestead just yet, so Trace sat herself under one of the trees and dozed off, sleeping right through dinner.

At some point, somebody must have carried her to her bed and placed a blanket over her, because when she woke up the next day, she was warm and comfortable.

Not that she paid it much attention. There were other, bigger, things to worry about.

Because the sky had turned grey.

The end was near.