Subject A250: The Fallen

Twelve: Operation Uncooperative

A/N: I really like this chapter. I hope you do too.

Also, this song is incredibly anti-WICKED and I love it.

A minute later, Trace opened the fridge. She groaned when she saw that it was practically empty; Trace was hungry enough to eat an entire horse as well as its saddle, bridle, and stirrups-- hell, she'd eat the rider too...possibly the whole stable if she was left without a decent meal for any longer. Instead, she had to settle for some cheese sticks, a bunch of grapes, and a pitifully small bottle of orange juice. Still, it was food, and for that she was grateful.

She checked her watch. 4:53pm. Surely that was dinner time? Surely they'd bring her food soon? Cheese sticks and wrinkled grapes weren't going to cut it, especially after four weeks of being fed through an IV. Trace wanted actual food.

She sat down at the table set which, for some twisted reason, had two chairs. After an incredibly brief internal debate, she put her feet up on the tabletop. She wasn't here to please or impress anybody, after all. She came close to swallowing each grape whole, and the cheese sticks were gone within a minute. The juice followed soon after, and she drained the bottle of every last drop before bouncing it against the wall and back to herself a couple of times. Then she tried flipping it over, trying to get it to land upright.

She wished, more than anything, she could've shared a room with the others. From memory, they were supposed to have two bunks in there anyway-- there was room! But apparently WICKED still valued the whole girls-and-boys-must-sleep-in-separate-quarters klunk. Either that or they still valued the whole Trace-must-sleep-in-separate-quarters klunk, which went hand-in-hand with the whole Trace-must-be-kept-away-from-her-friends-at-all-costs klunk. Ultimately, what it came down to was that WICKED still valued klunk.

She wished she'd gotten to do the Scorch Trials with her friends. Maybe then that whole ordeal with Rose wouldn't have happened, Minho wouldn't have seen any incriminating, made-up tapes, and her friends would all still support her. This --the alternative-- really sucked. She was anticipating this next part of her adventure to be bad, but not this bad and not this quickly. Not in this way.

At 6:30pm, a woman knocked and came in. She was carrying a plate with pork chops and potatoes. Trace licked her lips, barely muttering a 'thank you' to the worker before she left. Although they too were gone in record time, Trace didn't believe anything had ever tasted so delicious as the components of this meal did right at that moment. She could practically feel herself gaining energy with each bite and, when she was done, she scraped the plate clean of any crumb or grain of salt. She went to the kitchenette and turned on the tap, filling her empty --now dented-- bottle with water to wash it all down.

At 7:30pm, she climbed into the cot, pulling the soft cotton sheets over her. She touched her head to the pillow, and freaked out for a second when it felt cold, coming into direct contact with her head.

"Right," she muttered, remembering the reason behind that. "Bald."

She'd anticipated being awake for hours, wondering about tomorrow and how she might fare. In reality, however, she fell asleep within minutes, not even bothering to get up and turn out the lights.

---

A loud knock sounded out the next morning, stirring her from one of the deepest sleeps she could ever remember having. She pushed herself up to her elbows as Ratman stormed in, followed by two armed guards, Launchers pointed in Trace's direction.

"Good morning to you too," she grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"Spare me the pleasantries, Ava," Ratman urged her. "You're getting your memories back whether you like it or not."