Subject A250: The Flame (COMPLETED)

Thirty-Six: Party-Pooper

A/N:

*says she'll update less and updates three nights in a row*

 I took ages to get to sleep last night and while I was trying to I had this really cool idea for a Maze Runner fic that I'll eventually write (probably after I finish this series, because it may loosely tie into it...)

"We have to get there!" Minho yelled, having to cup his hands around his mouth to be heard.

Newt nodded. Trace threw up a little bit inside her mouth. This was all far too intense for her.

"Ready?" Minho yelled. Trace couldn't hear him at all now. She had to ready his lips to work out what he was saying. She supposed he could have also said 'reggae', possibly suggesting a new style of music for her to try. But shortly afterwards, his mouth made an 'oh' shape and he leapt out of the pod, so unless he'd just yelled 'no' and run away, disgusted by the thought of reggae music, she believed he was telling her to 'go'.

Newt jumped over the edge after him, so Trace made an attempt to do the same. Unfortunately, Trace had been too coordinated as of recently and her body decided to remind her that she was not, in fact, a coordinated person. She stood up, slipped on the water in the bottom of the pod as she tried to leap, fell onto her stomach on the ledge and completely flipped over the top, landing on her butt in the mud.

Newt stared at her for a second, trying to work out when and how she could have gone so extravagantly wrong. He shook his head and snapped out of it, helping her to her feet. Minho was already halfway towards the Berg, not looking back.

The second Trace had made it to her feet and started running, a horde of the monsters appeared from around the back of the Berg. Trace wondered if they'd come along with WICKED for the journey, or if they'd simply been hiding this whole time.

Another group ran somewhere to her right. From where they were headed from, she could only assume it was Thomas, Teresa, Brenda and Jorge. The less cool pod. They weren't like Trace, Newt and Minho. They weren't pod goals.

Trace pulled out her knife, and for a split second she considered whether she could stab Teresa and pretend it was an accident or one of the bulb monsters did it. She probably couldn't get away with that one, try as she might.

Instead, she focussed on the monsters ahead of her, willing them to go away with her mind.

Turn back. It's not too late. You're all just going to die anyway; we're Team Thomas. We're the Griever Deceivers. You've got no chance.

Minho reached them first, swinging his knife wildly. Another group came in from their left. Then another. Trace couldn't see who they were through the thick filter of rain. Soon, though, both Groups A and B- the survivors, anyway- had joined the battle. Knives were swinging. Monsters fell. People fell. Some got up again, others didn't.

Trace and Newt reached them, and Trace had to make a mental note to herself not to swing her knife around too enthusiastically. Newt probably wouldn't appreciate being stabbed very much.

Newt clipped two of the bulbs in record time, watching as both of them popped with a satisfying hiss. Trace got one too, purely by accident. She'd been aiming for one of its legs and hit one of the bulbs on its back. Sometimes failing was convenient.

Brenda appeared beside her, helping them both to pop the remaining bulbs. It didn't take long; somehow she was a pro at scary monster bulb popping. She'd probably win a medal for it if it was an Olympic sport. Thankfully, it wasn't.