𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐈𝐀 - TMR, Gally ¹

𝟢𝟣𝟨，𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

"For what?" He spits out.

He chuckled. "For holdin' your dear girl's hand all night. It's alright. I'm sure you're not the first to do that."

"What?"

His other eyebrow raises, too. "Hm?"

"Who else spent the night holding her hand?"

"Bro, I meant other kids." Jeff groans. "Whatever. Just hopin' she wakes up soon."

❀

About a day later, she does.

It's in the middle of the night. The room is so dark that she can't see a single thing, and when she tries to move, something rough scratches against her wrists and ankles. Ropes.

She twists a bit. Tries to place how sick she feels. Everything seems to hurt, and especially her wrist. A stabbing pain each time she moves it.

Panic starts to increase once she remembers the previous events. The memories, at least. They felt too real to be fake. God.

Traitor, Newt and his limp, Gally and the Griever, this Thomas, the girl telling her it's not a test for her... too much.

Fuck, she's tied up. She can't see anything. Before she passed out, she remembers a Griever. She felt like she was dying that moment. Is she dead? No, she's alive.

Tied up— no—
She resists against the ropes as much as she can. It's mostly the fact she doesn't know where she is and the darkness surrounding her that makes her this afraid. As if the air just vanished, just like the lights, and her freedom. It's frightening.

She pulls and pulls and pulls, until the ropes spring off her wrists, which are bruised and red by now. She scraped her skin off while struggling, but the fear definitely overtopped the pain.

Her hands search everywhere for a light, her breaths heaving with each step. It's so quiet that every moment she makes is perfectly audible, and it doesn't ease her mind much.

Traitor, limp, Griever, Thomas, the girl, not a test— the words repeat and repeat and repeat.

But there was more. So much more. Fires, heat, more traitors— too much to think of. It's already driving her crazy.

And she can't find anything. There's texture on the walls and furniture around her but she doesn't recognize anything or find a door handle or a light or a candle or anything proper to recognize and the panic increases and more thoughts stream and stream and they drive her crazy and they stream—

❀

"Oh, Joan.." Clint rushes over to the girl, huddled in the corner of the room with red wrists, a shaking body, and a few dark veins that still haven't completely left.

How long has she been sitting there? Is she awake or not? Why the hell would she even be sitting in this corner like this?

"Joan." He doesn't touch her. Didn't end the greatest last time they tried touching someone who just rose from the Changing. "Joan?"

A cry leaves her mouth. Her throat is so dry from inhaling the cold air all night, that the sound comes out in a weird, cracking way.

"You're safe now," he assures. It's the only thing he can think of saying. "Come sit on the bed. The floor's not awesome."

No reply.

"Joan." Clint reaches out, then stops himself. Yet he can't leave her like this either, can he? "Alright. I'll be back in a second."