//------------------------------// // 3: Maze Runner // Story: Crystal Apocalypse // by leeroy_gIBZ //------------------------------// Found Lemon Zest today. In bad shape. Heatstroke. Dehydrated. Eyes gouged out. Got trapped in a reservoir with her. Possessions stolen while I was down. Started building ramp out. Ran out of bricks. Running low on food. No water. Need to get out. That all Sugarcoat made a mental note of once she had awoken from her nightmares. Like all inhabitants of the Wasteland, she suffered from them: Chaotic visions of jagged blackness, circling and chanting disturbances. Last night they had chased her – through the now-destroyed grounds of her high school, screaming her name in Sunny Flare’s voice. Her eyes opened with a scream of her own on her lips, and it had escaped once she had caught sight of her friend, barely alive, chapped lips and black sockets contorted unwillingly into a sick grin. Sugarcoat got up, laid her second jacket over Lemon Zest to prevent any further sunburn, and started her morning routine. Lacking her own journal, she scratched the day’s experiences with her screwdriver onto the wall, and then did her daily exercises. Ballet stretches and light jogging mostly, and her stomach growled in protest. Yesterday’s lunch had been all but forgotten about, yesterday’s dinner had been shared and her friend needed breakfast more than she did. After completing a circuit round the concrete pit, Sugarcoat started back to the stairs. Minutes were spent fruitlessly, rearranging the bricks into a steeper variation. And then another, and another after that. No matter what she did, the grate – and freedom – remained mockingly out of reach. Eventually, she collapsed again against the wall – preparing to tell Lemon Zest of her failure. The girl spoke as she slept, pleading and begging for some unknown mercy from some unknown horror. “Please.” She mumbled, “Don’t go. Need here. Don’t go. Alone. Deaf. Miss you. Don’t. Don’t go.” This went on, as the pale sun climbed steadily, and Lemon’s whispering and pleas grew more and more desperate. She was crying, sobbing tearlessly against the nicked leather of the satchel. Eventually, Sugarcoat decided enough was enough, and shook her gently. That didn't work, so Sugarcoat flicked her on the ear. “Ah! Go away!” She screamed, now awake. “Calm down. It’s Sugarcoat.” “Oh… oh yeah. You’re here too.” “Yeah. I can’t get us out. I can’t climb high enough, and even if I could, you’d still be stuck here.” She sighed. “Oh… I thought, since you were still here, you’d find a way. I mean, if I was lucky enough to see you again, I figured you'd be lucky enough to find out how to leave.” “I can’t. It’s against the laws of physics. Nobody can jump nine feet upwards. Not even me.” “But I saw you do it. Remember the Friendship Games?” Lemon argued, “You jump like three metres straight up – winning us the athletics section.” “That was pole vaulting. I don’t have a pole. Besides, I came third. Rainbow Dash came first. We won based off points that year, not individual performance.” “But you still have a spear, right?” Sugarcoat looked over to her stolen weapon. She’d only dared to take it as her last one – a javelin looted from a sports store – had snapped while being pulled out the corpse of a feral rottweiler. Sneaking up to somebody as well-armed and armoured as Lightning Dust was nearly suicidal – but she was distracted, and trying to untangle herself from a lasso, trying to breath through what was either tear gas or a smoke bomb. The spear itself was long and unwieldy, reminding her of a phalanx’s spear meant for three Spurtans, but it was made of a light and springy length of jointed fiberglass – almost like vaulter’s pole. If said piece of sporting equipment had a wicked sharp butcher’s hook hanging off one end. “You know, Lemon. I think I have an idea.” “Great. Are you going to try and jump over the wall?” Sugarcoat looked at the wall – a brilliant white tower of bleached brink and calcified concrete – and decided against it. She was good, yes. But nobody alive was ten metres good. Not even Rainbow Dash. After trusting Lemon Zest with half a pack of spiced beef jerky – the last of the stuff she had taken off a South Zebrican butcher months ago – she went back to inspect the grate. It was still two metres away. However, the spear was two metres long. It hooked into the rusted steel as it the two were forged for each-other. Shimmying up the spear was almost easy on comparison to rappelling down an almost-shear surface, and the remaining rope, as mangled as it was, still held strong enough to keep the spear in place. Hanging off the weathered metal – it’s diameter was about that of a fairly short person – Sugarcoat got to unscrewing it from the wall. Although rusted, and painted over, Doc Hooves’s stolen tool proved reliable, as it always did. One by one, they came undone, and clattered proudly to the floor below. Soon the grate itself could be hinged open – and pulled down to makeshift a ladder. “I did it! We can leave!” Sugarcoat yelled triumphantly. Lemon Zest sat up, looking as best she could in Sugarcoat’s general direction. “You mean it? You mean Heart was wrong?” “Of course, this Heart person is wrong. They haven't met me.” Sugarcoat climbed down after that, and polished off the remains of the jerky. Getting Lemon Zest up was the next challenge: Half guiding and half pulling her up the unstable pile of loose debris, and then lifting her up into the tunnel itself. Following her was the spear, and it was folded in on itself to accommodate the cramped confines of the dark tunnels. “Alright. We’re inside the tunnel. Just follow me, and we should be alright. Try not to get lost.” Sugarcoat said, handing Lemon Zest the tattered rope, and trying the other end of it loose around her waist. That left both of her arms free, to hold the spear and the torch respectively, while not letting her friend get lost behind. They made slow progress up the murky tunnels, Sugarcoat’s torch flickering and spluttering as it chewed through its batteries. The catacomb-like maze led slowly upwards, and its floor – curved, and half-paved with shifting stone and smoky sands – made for tough walking. Both girls were panting by the time natural light came into view – promising and golden bright against the blackness of the tunnels. “I see a light, Lemon. We’re getting close.” Sugarcoat announced, stopping a few feet away from the next grate, peering through it with binoculars. “Great! We can finally leave this damn place!” Lemon’s cheer echoed throughout the steep curves and bends, and it was soon joined by frantic shouts from up above. Men scrambled, yelling and receiving orders, swishing swords and cocking rifles. “You know, you really should consider not yelling in future.” Sugarcoat said, as a pair of boots stamped past the tunnel’s exit.