Griever Tamer|| The Maze Runner¹/ Minho

|C.41|

She stared at it for a long moment before she smiled and extended her hand towards Minho. "Take it as a gift from me."

"It's yours. I'm not taking it," Minho stammered, crossing his arm.

"You already gave me the notepad. It's my turn to give you something. Besides you obviously have a thing for clocks."

"Actually I have a thing for watches." At that, they shared a small weak laugh.

Minho's expression sobered quickly as his brows frowned. He stared at Blake, then without a word he slowly took the watch from her hand. "I won't break it. Thank you."

Blake nodded. She then settled her gaze on her hands, the surface of them skinned and blooded. She started to regain the sense of feeling from the sting of her cuts, the soreness in her muscles, and the throbbing of her bruises. All a reminder of—

Her thoughts were dismissed in a heartbeat as she felt Minho's fingers grazing a loose lock of hair, pushing it behind her ear. She sat there for a moment, her eyes lingering upon his hand. Then, with his same hand, she watched as his fingers wiped away the blood that had spilled from one of her many cuts.

"What do you think will happen after this?" Minho asked. Their eyes found each other once more. Neither said a word, knowing that now was no time to speak. They both shared something. Maybe it was the trauma of what just went down. Maybe it was the loss of their friends.

She leaned her head against his broad shoulder.

Blake did know that whatever was going to happen after they got off this bus—they were going to face it together.

+++

Blake was close to sleep when she heard voices on their quiet bus. She listened but her eyes remanded closed.

"What's going on?" She heard Thomas ask.

"That's a very long story." A woman's voice said, coming in a kind husky tone.

"Please," Teresa said. "Please tell us something."

The women signed. "It'll take a while before you get your memories back, if ever—we're not scientists, we have no idea what they did to you, or how they did it."

Blake had already accepted the fact that she would maybe only get a few of her memories back, but hearing it out loud still was a shock. "Who are they?" Thomas asked.

"It started with the sun flares," the woman said, her voice growing distant.

"What—" Teresa said, but Thomas shushed her.

"The sun flares couldn't have been predicted. Sun flares are normal, but these were unprecedented, massive, spiking higher and higher—and once they were noticed, it was only minutes before their heat slammed into Earth. First, our satellites were burned out, and thousands died instantly, millions within days, countless miles became wastelands. Then came the sickness."

She paused, took a breath. "As the ecosystem fell apart, it became impossible to control the sickness—even to keep it in South America. The jungles were gone, but the insects weren't. People call it the Flare now. It's a horrible, horrible thing. Only the richest can be treated, no one can be cured. Unless the rumors from the Andes are true."

Now Blake knew what it was called. The virus that took her mother away from her. Blake hated that the only thing she remembered about her was that she was twisted into a sorrowful crazy woman all in the hands of the Flare. Even the word caused a sparked rage to engulf her.

"As for you, all of you—you're just a few of millions orphaned. They tested thousands, chose you for the big one. The ultimate test. Everything you lived through was calculated and thought through. Catalysts to study your reactions, your brain waves, your thoughts. All in an attempt to find those capable of helping us find a way to beat the Flare."