Finality | The Maze Runner / Newt ³ ✓

{1.9}

Disclaimer:

Thomas: CHUCK? CHUCK!

Chuck:

Thomas:

Thomas: Oh my fuckin' God he fuckin' dead

-✼-

"You know, I would help, but making fun of you is so much more satisfying."

I groaned as I pushed myself up from the ground, attempting to ignore the ache blossoming from my kneecaps and palms from where I'd hit the floor hard. My eyes glared at the ground instead of the person in question.

"Seriously," Minho continued with a laugh. "How do you fall off a treadmill?"

"Apparently, it's easier than you'd think," Newt joked.

"Shut up, both of you," I grumbled lowly, a frown pulling down my lips. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment at falling in front of the blond. Not being able to catch up was bad enough, and then my legs had failed me as well, making it worse. I hoped they assumed I was flustered because of the running.

I was twelve. Newt and Minho were thirteen. They'd suddenly decided that since they were teenagers, they were so much older and mature than I was. Older? Slightly. Mature? Not so much.

Four of us were training at once. Along with Minho, Newt, and I, a boy named Winston was running at the far end, next to the blond. He didn't say much. Instead, he focused hard on his score, eyes staring at the monitor in front of him intently. He hadn't even bothered to see if I was okay when I'd fallen off the machine.

As the Trials became closer, W.I.C.K.E.D was starting to have us endure physical training as well as mental. I didn't know what the other boys had been put up to, but my 'mental preparation' didn't stray that much from my normal routine. Maybe I'd experience more once I hit their age.

Minho ran easily to my right. Newt was to my left, his long legs working in his favor as he increased the speed. The translucent monitor in front of his face displayed his vitals as well as his distance, agility, and resistance. The score, which was written in bold numbers in the top left corner, added all of those components into one. The higher the score, the better you were doing.

I glanced at my screen. The total was two hundred. Minho's was well over a thousand.

"Aw, don't worry," Minho sympathized once he noticed my discouraged expression. "Maybe running isn't your strong suit."

"Be quiet," I muttered as I climbed back onto the treadmill, preparing to start my session again.

"I'm serious," he said. His concentration didn't break even as he spoke to me. The stupid boy didn't even sound out of breath— he was built for running, it seemed. "There's gotta be something you're better at."

I thought back to my training sessions with Brent and Sonya. How, with every lesson, I was improving and growing stronger. He had just recently taught me how to flip a fully-grown person over and I'd mastered it quicker than I thought I would. Maybe that was my strong suit.