Subject A250: The Fangirl (COMPLETED)

Thirty-Seven: A Famous Lieintist

A/N: If you don't understand one of the references in this chapter, I linked the opening theme above XD

Also I couldn't find a picture of TBS eating chicken so enjoy the above image instead.

The next few hours passed in a flurry.

Trace and Newt worked as a team, telling members of the Glade the plan, and convincing them to come along. Sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

To be fair, Trace wasn't helping much.

"It'll be fun!"

"You might survive!"

"The outside world's lit!"

They didn't really get the last reference, but she enjoyed saying it all the same.

Newt had to do a lot of the recovery, swaying people away from what Trace had just said and convincing them that it was better to leave than stay here and face the Grievers. He was actually shucking good at convincing people, apparently, because only a few people chose to stay behind.

Next, everyone was equipped with backpacks stuffed full of food and essentials, including the Grief Serum, just in case. Each member of the Glade also carried a weapon with them, and a few had to be improvised on the spot with bits of broken glass and branches. Trace had been given a long-blade knife to take with her, and had immediately swung it around to show off to Newt, coming very close to clipping him across the nose with it. He made sure she had a sheath to keep it in after that.

Trace felt like a badass nonetheless, and she'd made sure everyone around her knew just how badass she was by collecting mud from the pig pen and streaking it across her face as war paint.

She wanted to ask Teresa to plait her hair to make her look more prepared for the battle, but Trace hated Teresa so that wasn't happening. Instead, she scraped it back into a high ponytail and flicked it into people's faces if they came too close to her. If they protested, she just said she was preparing for the Griever fight, and her hair was a weapon.

Frypan cooked them all one last meal before door-closing time, and Trace sat down with her best bud Newt, to enjoy what could be their last meal ever.

"Hey, Ace?" he asked, taking a bite of a somewhat overcooked chicken drumstick.

"Yes, Nutter?" she replied, nibbling at a stalk of broccoli.

"Thomas said we were named after people. After famous scientists. I'm Isaac Newton, he's Thomas Edison, Alby's Albert Einstein, etcetera." He paused, swallowing his bite of food. "And I know you weren't called Trace, but I can't think of a single famous Ava..."

Trace frowned, thinking hard. She had to come up with something to convince him, at least in the meantime.

"Aang."

"Who?"

"Aang. I'm named after Aang. The Last Airbender. The Avatar. That's gotta be it."

"The Avatar?"

"Yes."

Newt gave her a knowing look. "You're not named after a cartoon character, Acehole."

"Could be."

"He's not a famous scientist."

"He probably did know some science. Physics probably. Gotta know that when you're airbending."

"You're not named after Aang."

"The Avengers?"

"No."

"Avada Kedavra?"

"No, Ace."

"An Avocado?"

Newt grinned. "Yeah, that'll be it. An avocado. 'Hey, let's name this one Winston Churchill and this one Avocado."

"Sounds about right. They probably called me that because everyone loves me."

"Or because you're soft and wrinkly."

Trace gasped. "They should've named you after Rudolph. Because you're rude."

Newt shrugged. "Escape-the-maze stress must be getting to me."

Trace sighed. The stress was actually getting to her too. In less than an hour, she'd be fighting Grievers with nothing but a small knife that she didn't really know how to use properly without hitting people near her.

Hang on. There was something else she could do.

"Hey!" she yelled, jumping to her feet and gathering the attention of those around her.

"What are you bloody doing?" Newt asked, standing up beside her.

"Hit mute, Newt," she replied, shushing him by forming a closing mouth with her fingers in front of his face. "Everyone listen up! If you end up behind a Griever -which I wouldn't recommend because gross, they probably poop from that area- the off-switch is back there. Under all the blubber. I guess it's kind of where you would reach to milk a cow, only there are many layers of slimy fat in the way and you're facing this giant slug thing and you might die and the lever's actually kind of hard to find at first and Grievers don't 'moo' although they are the size of a cow and-"

"Okay, Ace. I think that's enough," Newt interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What Trace means to say is, if you get the opportunity, reach for the lever. Take them out that way. It seems to be the most effective way of dealing with them. If we have to deal with them, that is. We're still relying on the idea of them taking one shank a night."

An awkward silence fell over the Glade as every member was left wondering who that unlucky soul would be, and hoped it wouldn't be them.

Newt made eye contact with Alby, who gave a subtle nod and stood up.

"Alright, time to go. Grab your stuff. Meet by the West doors when you're ready. We leave in ten."

Butterflies fluttered in Trace's stomach and she glanced at Newt, who pressed her a thin smile, and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

"Time for Trace the Griever Chaser to make a comeback," he said.

Trace cringed. "That's a terrible nickname."

"I'll come up with a better one when we're out of this bloody prison," he smiled.

"Good that," Trace replied, and they headed over to the Doors, remaining close enough to brush against each other every so often. It was their own way of reminding themselves of the other's presence. A subtle reminder of their promise to each other two days earlier: that they'd never choose to leave each other.

But they both knew the Grievers wouldn't give them a choice.

And Trace knew by now that she couldn't rely entirely on the plot she knew and loved.

Not as long as she was part of it.