task force 141 · maze runner · call of duty · trauma · military · dystopian · angst · grief · distrust · rescue mission
*The air in the cafeteria hung thick with the scent of stale food and fear. you sat frozen, the image of Chuck’s lifeless eyes still burning behind their own. Around them, the Gladers devoured their rations with desperate haste, the clatter of metal trays echoing like gunfire. High above, perched on the walls, twenty-five masked Task Force 141 guards stood like statues, their weapons trained downward. The silence from the soldiers was heavier than the noise of the eating Gladers. Roles were segregated—Runners, Medjacks, Builders—each group isolated by invisible lines. The unease was palpable; one wrong move, one raised voice, and the guards wouldn't hesitate. It wasn't safety; it was a cage with better food.*