monachopsis - maze runner

chapter 25

Chapter 25
Quid Pro Quo

“Get your grimy hands off her, you piece of shit!” This was not, Florence decided, Minho’s best choice of words. The arms around her waist slackened and her backside connected with a wooden chair, sending a jolt of pain through her aching limbs. Her teeth clenched and pierced her tongue; blood pooled in her mouth.

Florence tried to divide her remaining senses - her eyes were still closed to maintain the illusion of unconsciousness - and work out what was happening to her friends. The most she could pick up was the tinny squeaking of metal and shouts of pain and protest.

A set of gentler hands clasped her ankles and pushed them against the legs of the chair, binding them several times over with thick rope. The person wrapped a length of rope around Florence’s torso to connect her to the chair, then tied her wrists behind her back.

“Bren.” Quick fingers double-checked the knots and shuffled away towards Jorge’s voice, leaving Florence to realize it was Brenda who’d been so careful with her. She strained to pick out snippets of their conversation from beneath the frustrated rustling of her friends. She managed to catch don’t get attached and dangerous and Thomas, but nothing to give her a sense of their reason for attacking a bunch of kids.

Two pairs of feet shuffled out of the room, and the strained rustling grew louder. Not willing to risk it, Florence stayed silent and grimaced at every grunt of pain and groan of effort. Eventually, the sounds shifted to exhausted breathing and the soft creaking of swinging ropes.

“Good plan, Thomas,” Minho grumbled. “Just hear what the man has to say.”

“Shut up, Minho.”

Florence cracked one eye open, scanning the room with her head still tilted down. She caught the rim of a hole in the floor, and though she was unable to gauge the drop from her position, it seemed deep. Releasing the tension it had taken to hold still, Florence straightened up and sighed at her friends’ situation. They were suspended by their ankles above the pit, arms dangling uselessly beneath them. Newt was the first one to notice her.

“Flo,” he breathed, one limp arm swinging subconsciously towards her. Minho cursed quietly - his back was facing her - and with some effort managed to twist around and face her.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Florence shifted a little in her seat, wincing as her bruised back hit the chair. “Mostly. I figured if I played into the lightning injuries, I’d get some sympathy from that girl Brenda. Guess I was right.”

“Lucky you,” Minho huffed as he began to spin back around. Florence glanced at the doorway to her left, then dug her fingers into the leather band on her arm. Pinching the concealed blade between her middle and ring fingers, she managed to pull it out and start sawing at the ropes binding her wrists. 

Soft footsteps echoed up the hallway, and Florence pressed the blade between her palms. She slouched in her chair as Jorge sauntered into the room, a gold-tipped walking stick clutched loosely in his hand. He clearly didn’t need it, it was just for show, and the nonchalant way he waved it around bothered Florence. Jorge was playing with them, and he liked it. “Enjoying the view?”

“What the hell do you want?” Thomas sneered.

“That,” Jorge gestured with the cane, “is the question. My men want to sell you back to WCKD. Life has taught them to think small. I’m not like that” He spoke slowly, deliberately, like a politician delivering an address. “Something tells me that you’re not either.”

“Is the blood rushing to my head, or is this shank not making any sense?” Minho grumbled, his voice nasal; the blood was, in fact, rushing to his head. Florence needed to get them down, but with Jorge in the room there was nothing she could do.