Subject A250: The Flame (COMPLETED)

Eleven: Walking the Walk

Trace ran for a whole hour before stopping. She stumbled to a halt and turned around to see how far she'd come. She couldn't even see the shelter in the distance; she'd come that far.

It was hot. So hot. Hotter than Minho's general day-to-day appearance. Which- come to think of it- she sorely missed.

She slumped to the ground and lay on her back, decided to make a snow angel. Unfortunately, considering she was in the shucking Scorch, there was no snow. All she had was sand and dirt. So she made a sand and dirt angel. A sirt angel.

Needless to say, it wasn't very majestic. It looked a whole lot more like an awkwardly-shaped cloud than an angel. Actually is was more like smog than a cloud. Either way, it didn't really give the 'snow angel' impression she'd intended.

Trace sat up and sighed, wondering if rolling in the dirt had been a good idea. A great time-waster, maybe, but now she was coated in it. She supposed it would provide better camouflage if she needed it.

And, let's be honest, she was going to need all the help she could get.

The man hadn't followed her, thankfully. Not that she'd expected him too, but the Cranks were very zombie-like and some part of her believed they could never die.

She thought of Newt.

No! No, she didn't think of Newt! Not after that thought!

But, regardless of any Death Cure scenarios, Trace really missed him. She missed her Glader buddies. She missed annoying the hell out of them with her ingenious puns and sensational song-writing abilities. Plus, she could really use a little guidance right now. Or at least some company that wasn't going to try to kill her.

Although she did admire Cranky's attempt at rapping. 'No right, no sight' was a good start, but he needed to work on it a little more. Maybe he should've gotten in touch with the 'Rose got my nose' guy. Started a little collab going.

Cranky ft. Noses.

No, he needed a better name than 'Cranky'.

Dwight. Dwight would do it.

Frightening Dwight. Not right with no sight. What a plight.

Maybe she could use that in one of her own songs. She'd give Dwight some credit, of course. After all, he did come up with the bulk of the rhyming so far.

Not that he was likely to come up with any more. Not now. Not unless he gave a new meaning to the term 'ghost writer'.

Trace shuddered and shook her head. She'd killed him. She knew she had to, of course; she wasn't stupid. She wasn't going to go strolling hand-in-hand through the desert with a naked, disease-ridden man, no matter how much how much song-writing potential he had. But some part of her still felt guilty. She tried hard not to think about who he'd been before. How much he would have gone through before she met him. How his life could have been so different if he was immune.

She stared ahead of her, towards the mountains. Squinting into the haze, she thought she could see something, but was unsure if her eyes were just playing tricks on her. It looked like a building- a very small one- but it was there nonetheless.

"Time to probably almost die again," she muttered. "Possibly, perhaps, maybe. Who even knows? Nothing's ever predictable out here."

She heaved herself back up to her feet and started the trek towards the building. Though it was a long way away, and the sun was now much lower in the sky, she estimated she could still make it by sunset.

"Oh I would walk 500 miles and I would then have a long sleep," she sang.

"Because walking that far would be quite exhausting and I'd be tired.

Da da lat da! (Da da lat da)

Da da lat da! (Da da lat da)

Da da da dun diddle un diddle un diddle uh da."

Trace frowned. "If I had friends here, they could do the backup part, but I guess I'll just have to do all of it myself. As always. Taking one for the team. Trace No-Last-Name, the real MVP."

She stomped on through the dust, muttering to herself about how she should at least be given one companion who wasn't naked. She'd even accept a Griever at this point.

"Although I suppose they're naked too," she pondered, trying hard to recall seeing any clothed Grievers during her brief time with them. She didn't think she had. She would have noticed any Griever garments.

Although she was still far from reaching it, Trace could tell that the building wasn't big. In fact, it looked a lot like a small shack. One room, maybe two at the most. She hoped it would be empty when she got there. Trace really didn't feel like killing anyone else just yet, and she really just wanted a safe place to spend the night.

However, if Thomas, Newt, Minho - or any of the boys for that matter - happened to be inside, Trace wouldn't complain. Well, she would complain, just not about them being there. She'd probably just complain about the general inconveniences of the Scorch instead.

She guessed she still had another ten kilometres to go, but the sun was getting much lower in the sky. She'd have to run if she wanted to make it there before dark.

"Why didn't they call it The Maze Walker?" she wondered aloud as she got back into the rhythm of jogging. "That would make everything far easier for me right now."

She didn't know what she'd been expecting exactly, but the shack was barely even a shack. It was more of a shed, in size at least. A wooden shed with one room, half its slats missing, completely glassless windows, and no door at all. The porch outside had gaping holes dotted across it, including one directly in front of the doorway.

But Trace loved it.

"Home sweet home," she smirked, stepping inside. Immediately, the plank below her snapped and broke off, and she had to hop to avoid getting stuck in the floor of the building.

It was perfect. She loved it.

"I could grow old here," she considered. "All it needs is a bit of love and care. Some paint. A few renovations here and there. I could build a rocking chair and sit out on the porch, watching the tumbleweeds tumble by, rocking back and forth while yelling 'get off my lawn, you pesky Cranks!'"

Unfortunately, she sort of had to do this thing known as 'The Scorch Trials' first. How inconvenient.

It was getting dark quickly, so Trace tiptoed to the corner of the room and sat down, admiring the orange hue cast across the walls by the setting sun. Her stomach rumbled and her lips were dryer than book Thomas' attempts at jokes, but she did her best to ignore it, knowing there was nothing she could do about that until tomorrow.

"Goodnight, Scorch." She lay down, already succumbing to physical exhaustion. "Please don't kill me in the night."

"Good night, Trace," said the Scorch.

Well, it didn't really, but Trace put on a deep voice and pretended it did. "Sleep well. You deserve it for being so athletic and impressive and cool."

"Oh, Scorch. You do know how to flatter me."

She fell asleep within the next minute, thankful to have finally found some luck in this rundown shack.