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It’s the third time this week he’s tried to run away. It’s also the third time this week that they’ve caught him. The total since he’s been here is about 19 attempts. He hopes that if he just keeps trying he’ll eventually find some crack or flaw that he can use. Or that they’ll let their guard down and he can exploit that. If he’s failed so many times, they’re bound to get soft. That’s when he’ll really make a break for it.
In the meantime he has to stay strong. Which means ignoring everything they throw at him. The simulations are bad but they aren’t real. He just needs to remember that. What’s real is him, trapped here by WCKD because of their hunt for a cure. What’s real is the other kids, all of them working together to keep morale up. What’s real is Thomas and Newt and Frypan, out there somewhere, looking for him. What’s real is the belief that they’ll find him, that Thomas will come through like he’s always promised to do, and he’ll get him out. That they’ll be together again.
If Minho can just make it that long.
But they aren’t making it easy. Every time he thinks he’s ahead they knock him back down. Every time he tries to fight back they just chain him down and laugh.
He’s like an annoying bug to them. Something that just won’t stop buzzing.
How long until they decide to just squash him?
He’s shoved into a room, a solo one this time. The bed is a single steel bench with a sorry excuse for a mattress on top. The blanket looks just as scratchy as the one he had before. There’s not even a pillow this time
.
“You wanna be the big tough guy? Wanna use the others to try and slip away? Or were you planning to free yourself and leave them to rot?”
They throw all these questions at him, sneering all the while, but he tries to ignore them.
There was a plan, he had got the other kids to help, but he was not going to leave them behind. They’re in this together.
One of the guards lowers himself down to face Minho, eye to eye from his position slumped on the ground. He even raises his visor so Minho can look him in his eyes.
“Listen kid, you’re on your own here. No one is coming to save you. No one is planning a rebellion. You have to get with the programme. The other kids? They get back from the trials and get to sleep on a soft bed and eat a decent meal. We’re not evil, okay? Tell you what. You behave for a week and we’ll give you a pillow again.” The other guards snicker behind him, but this one looks almost genuine.
Not that Minho cares, he spits in his eye, quickly washing away any tolerance that remained for his attitude.
“Thomas is coming. He’s coming and he’s not going to stop until you and all of WCKD have been destroyed.”
The guards laugh again. “Your little friend isn’t coming. Not if the assistant director has anything to do with it. All of our power is out there to stamp out the rest of your little rebellion. So get on board, make life easier for yourself.”
Minho tries to lash out, headbutt the guard in front of him, anything to show that he will not give in. But they shove him back down again before he even fully makes a move.
“Have it your way, kid.” The guard stands up and nods at the one to the left of him, who promptly cuffs Minho’s hand to his bed post. There’s a semi long chain, he’ll be able to move around the room, but not do anything worthwhile.
“You get one hand free to eat, try us again and we might not be so nice.”
As the door shuts behind them, a solid clang that goes through him, Minho shivers and sits back against his bed, shutting his eyes against the images they’ve conjured for him.
“He’ll come,” he whispers to the stone walls. “He promised me. He won’t abandon me.”
He’s left there for days, not even taken out for testing, just left chained to a bed with plates of… something pushed in three times a day and a bedpan left in the corner.
Nothing changes. No one comes. He doesn’t even fight when they finally take him back to the labs, just so grateful for some change in the routine, some reminder that he’s still alive.
When he returns, as promised, there’s a pillow on his bed. It’s pitiful and limp and he cries at the sight of it. He holds it close when he sleeps, trying to remember the feel of a warm body against him, the feel of hair under his fingers instead of scratchy sheets, and the sound of a steady heartbeat instead of distant screams and bangs.
Thomas’s face fades in and out of his dreams, getting further from his grasp each time. He’s not even sure how long it’s been since they were ripped from each other.
He’s not sure how much longer he can make it here alone.
But he has to try. For Thomas, for the others, and for himself.
“He’ll come.”