Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He began his new life standing up, surrounded by cold darkness and stale, dusty air.

Metal grated against metal, emitting a loud screeching noise as the world around him lurched upward. Already on the ground, he attempted to stand up, only to fall down, and a sharp pain shot through his hands and knees. Again, sticking out a hand and leaning against the metal wall next to him for support, he tried to stand, but all attempts proved futile as he fell a second time. He sat up against the wall, pulling his legs up tight against his chest, and screamed for help as the world shook around him.

Another harsh jerk upward, and the boy soon came to his senses enough that he realized he was in some sort of metal box shooting upward at breakneck speed.  But what would happen when it stopped? Sparks shot out from the friction of the metal against metal, dimly illuminating the world around him. Sure enough, he was trapped in a small metal cage, and as he narrowed his eyes to see better, he was able to make out a stack of boxes sitting on the floor across from him. Supplies? So people had to be at the receiving end. He gave up on calling for help and sat there silently, waiting for whatever was to come.

He racked his brain desperately, searching for anything, a name, a face, something, that could connect him to his life. All he had was…knowledge. His mind functioned flawlessly, and the world he understood. He could recall distinctly the taste of peanut butter and chocolate, but for the life of him, he could not remember a single thing about himself.

He groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, letting his head fall back and hit the wall of metal behind him. Hot and cold flashes ran through his body, causing him to shudder violently, and he vaguely registered that he was experiencing a panic attack. He pulled his legs closer to his body and gasped in short and shallow breaths. He felt like he was drowning. A voice in the back of his head whispered to him take slow, deep breaths, and after inhaling, long and slow, once, twice, three times, he felt the muscles in his body slowly relax.

And then, he saw something. A flash of blue; green eyes. Strawberry blonde hair. Light, teasing laughter. The smell of earth after rain.

“Lydia,” he heard himself whisper.

The cage abruptly stopped its ascent, and he lurched forward, catching himself on his hands. Cautiously, he stood in the pitch darkness and flattened his palm against the wall for support. He heard a loud creeeeeeeeak and looked up at the double doors above him slowly opening. Light came rushing forth, and he found himself being forced to squint and turn his head away in response to the sudden contrast against the darkness. Looking above him and lifting a hand to his eyes, he saw at first only moving shadows standing around him as the doors fully opened, and then, he heard voices.

“Look at that shank.”

"How old is he?”

“Looks like a klunk in a T-shirt.”

“You’re the klunk, shuck face.”

“Dude, it smells like feet down there!”

“Hope you enjoyed the one-way trip, Greenie.”

“Ain’t no ticket back, bro.”

A variety of feelings ran through him – anxiety, confusion, fear – but one coherent thought echoed its way through his brain and out his mouth.

“Lydia. Where’s Lydia?”

Martin.

“What?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the boy who had spoken, squinting in a vain effort to get his eyes to adjust faster. As the shadows turned into solid shapes and then into bodies, he saw that the boy was barely a teenager, short and pudgy. He looked around at those around him, blinking, trying to make out someone’s face, anyone’s face, and soon their features gradually grew clearer to him. He realized that they were all just teenagers. Kids.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

"Where’s Lydia Martin?”

There was a pause, and then someone yelled, “Oh great, they sent us a barmy one this time!”

Some of the boys laughed. Some muttered a what?, and some murmured among themselves, pointing at him. He suddenly felt very small and self-aware and wished everyone would stop staring and jabbing their fingers at him, like he was an exhibit in some kind of zoo.

“W-what?” He stammered.

Someone dropped a rope from above into the hole he was standing in.

“Ain’t no girls in the glade, Greenie. And there certainly ain’t no Lydia Martins around.”

He looked up at the boy who has spoken to him in confusion. He was dark skinned, and his hair was cropped short in a buzz cut.

The dark-skinned boy sighed. “You put your foot in the loop, grab onto the rope, and we’ll pull you up. Unless you’d rather stay.”

Hesitantly, he followed the instructions and held tightly onto the rope as he was yanked out of the hole and toward the sky. He shut his eyes in reflex at the sudden movement and felt hands, lots of hands, reaching down and grabbing at him and his clothes, pulling him up. A swirl of voices and faces and colors flooded his vision as he opened his eyes.

Whoa. Sensory overload.

He felt like he was going to be sick as a wave of emotions and stress and turmoil hit him, and he pushed away the bodies surrounding him once his feet were solidly on the ground. He needed to be alone; he needed a breather. He was the emotional equivalent of a very long and very loud scream. The voices around him had grown silent, but someone spoke after they had pulled him over the sharp edge of the dark box. And he knew he’d never forget the words.

“Nice to meet ya, shank,” the boy said. “Welcome to the Glade.”

Chapter Text

Panic swelled up in him like a tidal wave. Still disoriented and feeling slightly sick, he shoved away the hands that were brushing the dust from his shirt and pants and slowly stepped back, eyeing the strangers warily like an animal backed in a corner. He staggered a little, which caused some of the boys to giggle. One of them took a step forward, and he turned around and ran.

Behind him, he heard the boys bust out in laughter.

“Oh no, looks like we got ourselves a runner!” Someone called out.

He ran as fast as he could. No, he sprinted, feeling the air rush past him, tugging at his clothes and filling his lungs. He didn’t know where he was going. All he understood was that he needed to get away, far, far away. Away from these people who laughed at him, away from pointing fingers and blank stares, and away from his missing memories.

I don’t even know my name.

He gasped, the thought causing him to lose his footing, and he fell to the ground hard with an “oomph”. For a brief second he just lay there, stunned, and then slowly, he pushed himself up with his hands and sat on his legs. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand furiously, spluttering, trying to get grass and dirt out of his mouth. The sound of laughter echoed faintly behind him but faded as he finally looked up to take in his new surroundings.

They were, in a word, bizarre, and he found himself overwhelmed by a strange mix of excitement, curiosity, and terror. In front of him lay several yards of grass, interrupted by an enormous stone wall blanketed in ivy. As he turned his head side to side, the boy realized that he was in a vast enclosure, miles across. Three more walls stood around him, and together, the four of them formed a perfect square. They had to be at least a hundred feet tall, each divided in the middle by an opening, beyond which, from what he could see, led to several passages and long corridors. He felt an odd impulse to draw nearer, to go inside and see more of what lay behind those giant stone walls, like they were calling out to him.

“Look at the Greenbean,” a scratchy voice said, jolting him back to reality. “Gonna break his shuck neck checkin’ out the new digs.” Far behind him, several boys laughed.

“Shut your hole, Gally,” a deeper voice responded.

The boy swiveled his head around in the direction of the approaching footsteps. He started to get up and then staggered on his feet.

A dark-skinned arm came into view, extending towards him. He recognized the owner as the same one who had spoken to him earlier.

“Need some help?”

The boy shook his head, pushing his arm away, and carefully but steadily rose.

Eyeing him closely, the dark-skinned boy asked, “You gonna pull that again?”

The boy shot a quick glace over his shoulder, then shook his head.

“Wh-where am I?” He mentally cursed himself for stammering again.

“Nowhere good,” came the response. “Just slim yourself nice and calm.”

The boy looked around him as more strangers came into view. A tall, lanky kid with blond hair and a square jaw sniffed at him, his face devoid of expression. A short, pudgy boy, the same one he’d seen from earlier, rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking up at him with wide blue eyes. Countless others stared. Unsurprisingly, he felt the urge to run again.

As he further drank in his surroundings, the boy felt a surge of emotions rush through him – excitement, confusion, panic – but most of all, he felt hopeless. Hopeless that he was trapped. Hopeless that he knew no one. Hopeless that he couldn’t even remember a thing about himself, not even his name, and hopeless that he couldn’t find Lydia Martin. He could feel himself beginning to spiral into a pit of despair and breathed in deep, willing himself to snap back into focus. Being miserable was not going to help him in any way.

The scratchy-voiced boy was talking. “-even do that much, bet my liver on it.” He still couldn’t see his face.

“I said shut your holes!” the dark boy yelled. “Keep yapping and next break’ll be cut in half! Showtime’s over, anyway. Go back to work.” He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, the annoyance in his voice evident.

That must be their leader, he realized. Hating how everyone kept gawking at him, he concentrated on studying the place the boy had called the Glade.

“Now!” The dark boy yelled. Most of them scattered off in various directions, muttering to each other and shooting a final glance at the boy.

Large stone blocks made up the floor of the courtyard they were standing in, most of them cracked and filled with long grasses and weeds. Over by one of the corners of the square lay a dilapidated wooden shanty that sharply contrasted with the massive stone wall behind it. A few trees surrounded it, their roots clenching at the rock floor as if searching for food. In another corner of the enclosure were the gardens, laden with fresh fruits and vegetables. The boy was able to locate the course of the sweet, rotting smell filling the air when wooden pens standing in another corner of the compound caught his eye. They held sheep and pigs and cows. Somehow, he knew this was the smell of a farm. A large copse of trees filled the final corner, some looking crippled and nearly dead. Above him, the sky was a bright, cloudless blue, but there was no sun in sight, which was odd. He couldn’t determine whether it was late morning or late afternoon.

The leader of the group suddenly took a step forward, jerking him out of his thoughts. He wore ordinary clothes: a black T-shirt, pair of jeans, tennis shoes, even a digital watch. The normalcy of his clothing surprised him. Judging from where they lived, the boys should all be wearing very basic garments at best. Someone has to be sending them supplies, he thought, remembering the stack of boxes that had been in the metal cage with him. Which meant, that if there was a way in, there had to be a way out.

“It’s a long story, shank,” the boy said. “Piece by piece you’ll learn – I’ll be showin’ you all of it tomorrow. Till then… just don’t break anything.” He held a hand out. “Name’s Alby.” He waited, clearly wanting to shake hands.

He refused and instead crossed his arms in front of his chest. Slowly, he began to pace back and forth in front of Alby.

“Look,” he started, clearing his throat and running his tongue across his lower lip, “I’m sure that for you, this is just another day out in the field. Another new kid, you have your fun, you put off explaining anything to the poor guy for as long as possible. I get it. You’re bored,” he waved his arms all around him, then crossed them again. “It’s all fun and games. However, I,” he jabbed a finger at himself, “just spent the last thirty minutes trapped in a very loud and rickety metal cage, and then I was basically turned into both a laughingstock and an exhibit at the zoo. Simultaneously. And, not gonna lie, I was terrified, and I’m still pretty terrified. I have no idea who I am or what I’m doing here. All I remember is a girl, five foot three,” he held his hand up to his shoulders, “strawberry-blonde hair. And I’m not even sure she’s real. So please, help me out a little. I have time. Tell me. Tell me the long story.”

He stopped walking, arms still crossed, watching him and taking a moment to catch his breath. Alby looked at him for a second, then turned his head to glance at the ones still standing by him, probably his seconds-in-command. The boy observed the people working around him. There were maybe fifty to sixty of them, ranging from boys in their early teens to young adults like Alby. At that moment, he realized with a sickening lurch that he had no idea how old he was. Great.

He didn’t allow from any of his thoughts to register on his face as he continued to watch Alby with a blank stare. He had a feeling that, whoever he is, he was used to hiding a lot of things. He filed away that thought; there was a chance it might be useful later on.

Alby looked at him and sighed. “If you ain’t scared,” he started, “you ain’t human. Act any different and I’d throw you off the Cliff because it’d mean you’re a psycho.”

“The Cliff?” He asked, raising his eyebrows and feeling some of the blood drain from his face.

“Shuck it,” Alby said, rubbing his eyes. “Ain’t no way to start these conversations, you get me? We don’t kill shanks like you here, I promise. Just try and avoid getting killed. Survive. Whatever.”

He paused, and the boy realized his face must’ve grown paler at what Alby had just told him.

“Man,” Alby said, then ran his hands over his short hair as he let out a long breath. “I ain’t good at this – you’re the first Greenbean since Nick was killed.”

He nearly choked, and a blonde-haired boy playfully smacked Alby upside the back of his head. “Wait for tomorrow, Alby,” he said, his voice heavy with some sort of strange accent. “Kid’s gonna have a buggin’ heart attack, nothin’ even been heard yet.” He stretched his hand out toward the boy. “Name’s Newt, Greenie, and we’d all be right cheery if you’d forgive our klunk-for-brains new leader here.”

The boy reached out and shook his hand – he decided he liked him better than Alby.

“Pipe it, shuck-face,” Alby grunted. “At least he can understand half of my words.” Newt huffed, shaking his head, but the boy could see a hint of a smile on his face.

“This place is called the Glade, all right? It’s where we live, where we eat, where we sleep. We call ourselves the Gladers. And now you’re one, too. That’s all you-“

“No,” the boy interrupted, slightly taken aback by the firmness of his own voice. “No. That can’t be it. Who sent me here? And how the hell did-“

“Hey! Hey,” Alby abruptly raised a finger, cutting him off, and the boy shrank back a little. “No interruptions, boy! Whacker, if we told you everything, you’d die on the spot, right after you klunked your pants. Braggers’d drag you off, and you ain’t no good to us, then, are ya?”

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

Newt reached out and grabbed Alby by the shoulders. “Alby, lay off a bit. You’re hurtin’ more than helpin’, ya know?”

Alby stepped back, his chest heaving with breaths. “Ain’t got no time to be nice, Greenbean. Old life’s over, new life’s begun. Learn the rules quick, listen, don’t talk. You get me?”

The boy kept his arms crossed and narrowed his eyes at Alby. He looked at Newt and then Alby again, not saying anything.

Newt nodded. “Greenie, you get him, right?” He nodded again.

Clenching his jaw in frustration, the boy gritted out a “sure”, but he didn’t sound very sure.

After a pause, Alby said “Good that. First day. That’s what today is for you, shank. Night’s comin’, Runners’ll be back soon. The Box came late today, ain’t got time for showin’ you around. Tomorrow mornin’, right after the wake-up.” He turned toward Newt. “Get him a bed, get him to sleep.”

“Good that,” Newt said.

Alby’s eyes returned to the boy once more, studying him. “A few weeks, you’ll be happy, shank. You’ll be happy and helpin’. None of us knew jack on First Day, you neither. New life begins tomorrow.”

With that, Alby turned around and headed for the wooden shanty in the corner, leaving the boy standing there, overwhelmed with frustration and annoyance.