"Let me tell you what I wish I'd known when I
was young and dreamed of glory. You have no
control who lives, who dies, who tells your
story."
—FROM HAMILTON
CONTROL,
CHAPTER NINE
AND WHEN YOU'RE GONE, WHO REMEMBERS YOUR NAME? WHO KEEPS YOUR FLAME ALIVE?
She told Alby what she remembered about helping to design the Grievers. He thought she was crazy.
"I'm not locking you up yet. But only because, whatever you know, whatever you did, I want you on our side and not theirs. You have to promise me you'll stay on our side, Ruby. Please." She promised. Whoever she was then didn't matter now. She and Alby would work on a solution when he got back. Then he asked if she could just switch them off. "Help us."
Ruby didn't think they worked that way. She told him so. In fact, she was pretty sure she'd designed the beasts to be damned near invincible. She just couldn't explain it. This made her sick with worry. Had she forgotten to give them a weakness or had she done that on purpose?
She prayed that she had simply forgotten.
Deep down though... Well, she couldn't shake the feeling that the disgusting creatures not having a weakness was no accident. Ruby knew that, before, she had no time for accidents. Her? Make a mistake? Never. Somehow, she knew she wasn't allowed to slip up. Ever.
"Oh, Ruby, I practically designed you. I chose the best possible suitor to create you. Everyone wanted to work for WICKED, you know. Everyone."
WICKED. What did she know about that? Somehow, she imagined that the name must have been ironically accurate. She searched her mind for any answer, any sliver of a memory. All she knew was that it was a fall safe put into place long before she was born. Or perhaps her mother had always just hoped for it. She wasn't sure... but she knew she was made for it.
Ruby felt sick with the thought. Made to design something so wretched that did nothing but hurt and torture her friends. Friends. Were they her friends? Did she always have these friends? Ruby's head throbbed.
She had reached too hard again.
She wished she knew what was blocking her memory. She wished she could rip it out. Claw her way through her skull and dig it out. Or maybe she should grab a shovel and hope to dig a tunnel out of the Maze. Had they ever tried that before? Going under it? Probably. It sounded stupid.
This wasn't a prison. It was a game. A horrible, horrible game. Game. That was it. She was looking at the Maze as exactly that, a maze. She needed to start thinking about it like a game, a puzzle. She had to start thinking of this all like a game. After all... life was a game.
DECEMBER 12, 2019
life is just a game so come as you are. dress it up
or dress it down, don't forget your guitar. 👀