So, we didn't escape apparently.
I still barely know what's going on, but I know more now:
W.I.C.K.E.D. is a real pain in the ass, walking through sand dunes should be considered a sport, and searching for a mysterious rebel group is like searchin...
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TW: PTSD, Anxiety/Panic Attack __________
"MY NAME IS JANSON, I run this place," Rat-Man said, striding through the skeleton of the fortress like an unyielding force.
He led us through the core, feeding us answers that we so desperately sought as we slipped from hallway to hallway—aimlessly shadowing Rat-Man through clouds of steam and showers of golden sparks as construction workers feverishly worked on the structure around us, building the Compound to be stronger and sturdier.
And we, clueless and directionless, followed "Janson" like a group of wary ducklings—cagily trailing in the man's complacent shadow.
"For us it is a sanctuary—safe from the horrors of the outside world." He continued.
We kept our distance but we soaked everything in.
Everything from the words that slithered out of his upturned mouth to the construction workers flitting about in my peripherals—maneuvering around us like November wind.
From my left, Thomas spared me a quick glance—knowing that he and I both shared a troublesome curiosity, especially with unanswered questions.
Behind us, the Gladers followed keenly.
Newt, Minho, and Frypan stuck close to my right as Teresa, Chuck, and Winston stayed close to Thomas's left—everyone else tightly trailing behind like lost and traumatized puppies.
And as we padded through the fortress, my blue eyes drifted to our surroundings—studying the unknown environment with a careful eye as I searched for signs of potential danger.
Honestly, this entire section of the "sanctuary" seemed like a hazard.
Steel beams protruded from the dull concrete ceiling and stretched to matching grey floors, reflecting the white flash of construction lights and the plethora of orange-yellow hues from the sparks of machines drilling into the thick metal. Scaffolds dotted the wide space as wires hung from pipes lining the ceiling, billows of steam and gas blasting rhythmically from loose spouts. Plastic drapes separated the construction zones as the pale artificial lighting added to the throbbing behind my eyes—my brain pulsating with lingering exhaustion.
Honestly, if this is our new home—I'm not impressed.
"You all should think of this as a way station. Kind of a home between homes—" Janson stated, his dark blue eyes glued forwards as he briefly pointed to the scaffold on my right, "—watch yourselves."
Tiny fiery particles rained from the man on the scaffold as he drilled into a silver beam above us, showering our sore frames with golden sparks.
Newt—walking a few steps behind Thomas and I—hastily curled a large hand over my right shoulder before pulling me out of the way as the sparks tumbled towards our heads.
