Subject A250: The Fallen

Eight: FriENDs

Trace pulled herself to her feet and stumbled over to the group. None of them moved to greet her; instead they just stood there, staring. None of them looked pleased to see her-- they looked horrified. She couldn't remove her gaze from Minho's. She couldn't believe that he was actually here --alive.

"What did they do to you?" Newt asked, when the rest of the group refused to speak.

Trace turned her head away from Minho to look at him. Newt looked exhausted -- almost as exhausted as she felt. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Apparently," she added, with a sideways glance at Minho, who hadn't stopped staring at her.

Newt and Frypan shared a glance, obviously a little uneasy. Trace opened her mouth to ask them what was wrong, but found herself shutting it again, not sure of how to word it.

Minho glared at her now, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Why did you do it?" he asked, disgusted.

Trace's heart leapt in her chest. There was no mistaking what he was talking about. He knew. Minho knew what she'd chosen to do-- what she had done. The look in his eyes was enough-- he hated her now.

She didn't blame him.

The others shared shifting glances, and she realised that he'd told them too. They all knew. She had to plead her case.

"I had no choice, Minho. I couldn't go on any longer. It was too much."

"Really, Trace?" Minho raised his arms, exasperated. "Because it looked to me like you had plenty of options, and you picked the worst one. Why would you do that? How can you live with yourself after doing something like that? You had options, and you picked murder. Voluntarily."

Trace was shaking-- come to think of it, she wasn't sure if she'd ever stopped shaking since leaving that horrible room. Her breathing was sharp and panicked. "I shouldn't have done it, I know. I should've just kept going. I should've pushed through. I did an awful thing. I'm so sorry."

"You are not who I thought you were, Trace."

Minho's words seemed to penetrate right through her, stabbing her like a knife to the chest, tearing out her insides. She turned to Newt, who shook his head sadly.

"She was just a kid, Trace."

A cold shiver ran down Trace's spine. "What?" she asked, certain that she must have misheard him. A kid? Why was he talking about a kid? A girl too?

"She was a kid. You set a kid on fire, Trace. How could you do something like that and come running to us out in the Scorch like everything was bloody wonderful again? You murdered her."

Trace collapsed to her knees again, taking in raspy, panicked breaths, trying to calm herself and come to terms with what was going on. They'd found out about Rose. Not only that, but they thought she was the one who'd killed her. This couldn't be happening. This was so wrong. This was so backward.

"What are you talking about?" Trace croaked. "What did they show you? What did I do?"

Newt and Minho exchanged a glance. Neither of them knelt down beside her or even made a move to approach. Instead, Minho crossed his arms across his chest and glared down at her. "They showed me a tape. You told us you blew up a car; what you didn't tell us was that you set a little girl on fire with it."

Trace felt sick. WICKED was turning her friends against her. "I didn't do it," she muttered.

"What was that?" Newt asked her.