WICKED games 3 (Newt x female reader) [COMPLETED]

1

It's dim in the transport container.

All around me, chains clink as kids move their hands, or just because of the train's motion.

Beside me, Minho stares at the ground, his chained hands holding mine. At least I have a friend in here.

Eight months of tests all day, blood taken every morning and every night, "artificially induced variables" or as I call it, torture, and being addressed as A1. The only thing I didn't hate so much was meal times, when everyone got to sit together in dining room much like the one at WICKED's facility in the scorch. Minho, Aris, Sonya and I always sat together, though we barely ever spoke. We were all too drained – quite literally.

Up the front of the carriage, there's a hiss and a bang, then footsteps. I don't raise my head – too much effort. Besides, if something's going to happen to us, there isn't much I can do about it. I learned that in the first week at WICKED through a broken nose.

"A7."

I do look up this time, a WICKED guard is standing right next to Minho. He looks up too, confusion penetrating through the haze of exhaustion on his face.

The guard takes Minho's arm, basically dragging him out of his seat, swiping a card through the lock on his chains. His hand slips from mine.

A second guard grabs me, doing the same thing with my chains. If I wanted to fight back, this would be the ideal moment. I tell the voice in my head to shut up, I'm not fighting back. There isn't any point.

"Hurry up," a voice crackles from the guard's walky-talky, "there's another one coming up behind us."

Another what? I wonder dimly.

"Sir," the guard replies, "we have A7 and A1, we'll be coming shortly."

"There isn't time, just grab one and go, A7 will want A1 back, A1 will want A7 back, A5 will want A1 and A7, as will A2."

"Roger that, sir." The guard clips my chains back onto me, shoving me back down.

The guards lead Minho away, down the aisle and towards the door at the front of the carriage.

"No!" I shout suddenly, jumping to my feet. They can't take Minho, not Minho. I jerk against my chains, the shackles around my wrists rubbing against already raw patches of skin. I pull, ignoring the pain and the trickle of blood running down my hand.

"(Y/N)!" Minho brings his wrists up, smashing the heavy iron fastening into the guard's helmeted head. I can get out into the aisle, but that's as far as my restraints will allow me.

The second guard grabs Minho from behind, pulling his arms back as far as his linked wrists will allow.

"No, Minho, no!" I scream, "You can't take him!" The guards ignore me. "I'll break every bone in your shuck bodies then kill you!" The threat seems kind of pathetic when I can't even get within a metre of them.

"Good luck with that," one of the guards says, pulling Minho out the door.

I keep pulling at my chains, maybe somehow, I can break them. Outside, I can hear Minho yelling and fighting the guards. It's amazing what we can do when we're this bloody desperate.

Eventually the sounds stop, maybe they got too far away, maybe they knocked him out. I sink back into my seat, staring at the head in front of me.

They took Minho. I look at my hands, dark purple bruises already forming where I pulled on the manacles. Blood dribbles down my wrists from the cuts made by the shark edges.

I don't know how long I sit there, staring at my bloody wrists, but at some point, footsteps sound overhead.

I look up, two pairs of feet thud across the small skylight in the roof. A moment later, I hear gunshots through the walls. A bang, then the carriage slows suddenly. I'm thrown forward onto the seat in front of me, my forehead bashing against the rail.

Someone is banging on the side of the container, shouting Minho's name. Thomas. 

I don't reply, but everyone around me shouts. Two more bangs on the walls, then a buzzing, grinding sound.

More footsteps on the roof. The slapping of some kind of rope, a clinking hook, then more gunshots. I look around nervously, I hope that none of our rescuers get injured.

"Newt, go!" someone – Vince, I think – yells outside. Newt? He's here? My stomach churns. He shouldn't have come, it's too dangerous. None of them should have come.

More gunshots and footsteps on the roof, more muffled shouting.

Then, out of nowhere, the sounds of helicopter blades. Either they have a chopper, or WICKED is sending reinforcements, and I know which is more likely. My heart sinks. They'll all be caught, because they tried to rescue us.

Bullets are still pinging off the side of the container, making me jump every time. The whole thing lurches, and I hit my head on the seat again. A little drop of blood runs down into my eye.

We're rising, slowly at first, then faster, we're rising into the air.