Subject A250: The Fallen

Nineteen: Cry, Sis

A/N: I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY

Again, listen to the song. Please vote and comment. Please draw me some cute lil pictures to make up for what I just had to write </3

The door the the Berg slammed shut with a loud clang, echoing throughout the ship as though it had been yelled from the edge of a canyon, repeating on and on until it disappeared into oblivion. The sound seemed to reverberate in Trace's chest, beating at her insides, each time reminding her of how little time she had, and how she may have just said 'goodbye' to her friends for the last time.

She stood, motionless, in the cargo hold, paralysed as the air pressed in, holding her in place as her mind ran away, following the path that her friends had taken.

Fear. It gripped her so tightly she thought she might break. It propelled through her veins, heavy like lead-- cold and compelling. It consumed her.

Where was there to go from here? What was there to do other than accept her fate? How could she save Newt if wasn't even going to survive, herself?

There were footsteps. Somewhere. Not close. They got quieter as Newt walked back through the Berg-- towards the cockpit, she assumed.

Trace still didn't --still couldn't-- move. Thomas, Minho, Brenda, Jorge, and Flint-- they were all having their documentation checked over; they were being tested for the Flare; they were walking into Denver.

Trace wondered if Gally would be there. Things had been different back when they'd exited the Maze; Gally hadn't killed Chuck. Thomas hadn't beaten Gally within an inch of his life, but Minho had. Trace wondered if, somehow, Minho had beaten him too far that day. Maybe Gally wouldn't return to them after all.

Either way, it didn't matter. Trace wouldn't be involved in any of that anyway; she'd be too far gone by that point. Insane. Crazy. A lunatic. Mad.

A past-the-gone Crank.

Unless, of course, she had her way. It had been sitting at the back of her mind-- a thought that hadn't quite surfaced long enough to become an actual, tangible plan. Only now was it bubbling up long enough for her to grasp it and pull it into focus.

Death.

The only cure for this jacked-up, awful, infuriating, wretchedly heartbreaking disease was to kill its host. The only cure for the Flare was death. Trace knew it; Newt knew it; WICKED knew it too. Only now were the others starting to realise it as well.

The only way to save herself-- to preserve who she was, despite of who she could have become-- was to die. Trace hated it. She didn't want to die. She wanted to live and help her friends topple WICKED's walls once and for all. She wanted to pull the new immunes from the maze, set off the explosives, and escape to Paradise to live out her happy ending.

But there were no happy endings in this world, were there?

A happy ending would involve her hand in Newt's. It would result in no more death. It would involve everyone getting along, or WICKED once and for all realising their awful mistake. Happy endings were impossible. They were a dream never to become a reality.

Trace knew her days of dreaming were over the second she woke up in that box, heading up and into the Glade on that very first day.

But she wasn't ready for it to end. She didn't want to say 'see you later', knowing that she was really saying 'goodbye'. All those futile promises of returning, and those pointless smiles and pats on the back as they left were all in vain. Of course she wouldn't see them again; she had no reason to. The trials had somehow kept them together and --now that they'd ended-- the group with which she'd fallen in love was already falling apart at the seams.