Quiet is Violent {Newt | The Maze Runner}

6. Panic or Serenity

TRIGGER WARNING: PANIC ATTACK and VIOLENCE

“Get up, find Ben.” Clint, who blocked out the steady light from the ever-blue sky, was the first thing Tasha saw when she woke up, not entirely hung over, but definitely feeling the after effects of drinking a helluva lot of Gally’s brew. A headache made itself painfully aware in the base of her skull as she wedged her arms beneath herself in an awkward attempt to propel herself upwards. It, of course, didn’t work, and she ended up flat on her back once more feeling as though there was a rubber band wrapped too tight around her skull.

“What?” Tasha mumbled, as she struggled to sit up in her hammock, a thick fog hovering over her mind. Clint took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he was trying to harness some other worldly force to deal with Tasha’s sleep-induced idiocy.

“Ben; we haven’t been able to find him around the homestead and you’re the only Runner left.” Clint looked away from her, his gaze turning to the forest as he huffed out a sigh. “No-one’s seen him around the Glade, so head into the Deadheads as soon as you can.” There was silence apart from the whine of the ropes as Tasha moved herself into a more upright position. At her lack of response, Clint turned back to her, “Tasha…” He sighed.

“But food-” Tasha began, and subsequently avoided his gaze to look for the best way to get out of the hammock with the least movement possible. Clint sighed, giving her a pained look.

“Fine, OK, I’ll get Frypan to get you some toast or something…” He shook his head, drawing Tasha’s attention, and she finally diverted all her focus to him. He swallowed, sighing, “this isn’t your fault I just… He’s not the same. I think he was stung yesterday.” Clint admitted, his voice low, as to not alert any other nearby Gladers.

“What?” Tasha’s head felt clearer than it had ten seconds previously and her eyes narrowed. Clint took a deep breath, realising what he had said, and chose his next words carefully.

“I don’t know for certain,” He began, “OK, it’s just… He’s just…” He struggled for a moment, before he resignedly bit out, “Not the same.” Tasha clambered out of her hammock, large, oversized shirt hanging off her shoulders as she clapped Clint on the back and nodded. Her mind raced to the maze yesterday, Ben being hurt, saying it was nothing; he barely let her help… It was that, she knew it was, he was going to die and it was all her fault. It took her a moment, where she frowned and tried to process her thoughts, before she looked to the doors of the maze, her hand fell from Clint’s shoulder.

“Runners?” Her voice betrayed none of her own self doubt and anger at not realising Ben was unwell earlier; after everything, she would still blame herself for all of the flaws of the others. Ben’s mood suddenly shifted at the question, to more jovial, almost knowing.

“Gone, Minho didn’t want to wake you.” He snorted, his own eyes followed her gaze to the stone entryway, before he walked off, satisfied that Tasha would be heading off to find Ben soon enough. Tasha shook her head and searched for her non-Runner clothes, stuff that she normally wasn’t allowed to wear; tank tops and loose, drawstring pants, all in brown or cream or grey, whichever she picked up first. The creators never sent up any spare sets of clothing specifically for her, so she shared the smallest of the boy’s clothes; usually Newt’s. She slung her satchel over her shoulder, filled with only her water bottle and switchblade, thick, leather strap across her chest, instead of her Runner pack, watch on her wrist, glinting in the light.

Despite the rough look of the place, Tasha had realised during her first week that it was actually quite pleasant to walk across the entire Glade barefoot, grass between her toes. Frypan rolled his eyes at her, but handed her a slice of toast, which she took with a smile, feeling uncharacteristically pleasant despite her hangover. Newt gave her a small wave, as did Thomas, when she walked to where they were currently helping out the Track-Hoes for the day, trying to help Thomas decide on a roll within the Glade. Thomas seemed to be fiddling with the vines, unsure of what he was doing, Tasha nodded curtly at him, dropping her satchel onto the ground  beside one of the other poles, before Newt wrapped his arms around her, perched his chin on her shoulder and took a bite of toast when she offered it to him. Tasha couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy the morning off, the freedom it granted her, despite the growing concern of Ben’s whereabouts. But here, in Newt’s embrace, the warmth of him pressed against her back, his fingers linked over her stomach and eating her toast (which, of course, resulted in Thomas getting instructions on his unsuccessful vine-fiddling filtered through a mouthful of food), everything felt right. There was another new Greenie, the sun never shone and the maze was still horrifying but it was familiar and it was right. She grinned, soaking in the serenity of it all. Then it was gone.