Subject A250: The Fallen

Eleven: Not Right to Be Left

A/N: This chapter and the next one are a little longer than usual, so enjoy the drama/action/chaos!

She was standing at the back of the group and the second her name was mentioned, a dozen heads flicked around to stare at her. Her eyes made contact with only one other pair, deep brown and wide with shock. Not even Newt --the wise and perceptive-- had foreseen this. Trace's gaze descended slowly to the floor as that unsettling feeling of dejection seeped in.

She was so used to experiencing things from Thomas' perspective, so used to feeling special, to being different, that she'd started to believe she was. Trace had really, deep-down, convinced herself that she was immune. Now that dream had been crushed by one name, two syllables, three simple letters from Ratman's mouth.

Ava. She was not immune.

She didn't allow herself to cry. She wouldn't. She may not be immune, she may be succumbing to the Flare, and she might lose herself, but she was still going to try her best to help her friends. Even if that meant dying in the process.

Despite the news, nobody approached her. Minho had a strong influence over this group, and apparently his word was enough to keep them away. It was fine, she decided. She didn't want comfort. She didn't need comfort. She needed to get on with things.

Ratman folded up the list and, after allowing a few minutes for everyone to compose themselves, he spoke again, insisting that he'd gone through the list primarily to remind everybody of the point of the Trials: to find a cure. He assured them they'd find that cure before anybody succumbed to the Flare. Trace wanted to assure him he'd be dead before she succumbed to it, and that would be enough of a cure for her. Instead, she remained quiet. She just wanted to get this over with so that she could get out of here.

Ratman turned on his heel and strutted out of the room, mentioning that this was the time for them to make their decision: to remove to Swipe, or to keep it. The sturdy metal door slammed shut behind him, sealing them in with a click and a beep. Immediately, groups began to form, discussing their options. Trace knew that none of them wanted to speak to her, so she remained where she was, on the outskirts. She considered marching around the room, destroying the Retractors one by one, but that would almost certainly result in another little meeting with the Launcher, and Trace was not in the mood for that.

She moved over to the nearest wall and leaned against it, crossing one ankle across the other, folding her arms. Trace had the Flare. She was sure of it. Sure, she'd been impulsive before, but now it was like this strange, violent side of her took over every now and then, and her old self had to fight to rein this new psychopathic girl in. It was an ongoing battle, and she knew that one day --soon-- the psychopath within her would win.

"What's your opinion?"

She jumped a little, startled by the voice that had come from much closer than she was expecting. Newt stood there, arms crossed. Behind him, in the background, she could see Minho and Frypan watching intently. Minho was scowling, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes that told her that he wanted to hear her opinion. Cautiously, she returned her focus to Newt.

"There's no way I'm letting them touch me with that thing. They lay one hand on me and they'll never see that hand again. I'm done with all of this."

Newt nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less. "Minho, Frypan and Thomas said much the same. Sounds like Teresa and Aris are going to go for it, though. Not sure about the Group B girls."

"And you?" Trace asked, willing him to tell her the plan, to mention the escape, to include her.

Newt smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "They've taken enough from me. Good or bad, WICKED's not taking anything more."