If asked, any Glader would never hesitate to answer "Frankie" as the toughest one of all. The true protector of the Glade. A runner, a part of the Council, one of the ten original Gladers who built the system and made all the curse words from scraps...
A/N: So... Remember that gif of blood running down a girl's arm that's supposed to be right here? Apparently Wattpad flagged it as 'promoting self-harm or suicide' when I was just trying to give a visual representation of Frankie's slashed-by-Griever injury... Oh well.
Hope none of my readers received that vibe. Wishing all of you well, physically and mentally, wherever and whenever you read this section. Remember, you are loved!
(At the very, very least by God and by me)
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NO, SHE DIDN'T pass out.
"Frank? You good?"
"Just a cut," she hissed in pain as she tried to take a look on her wounded arm. The cut was big enough for the blood to keep on flowing and she knew the Med-jacks would have to stitch it close.
"Here," Clint handed her a clean cloth.
"Thanks."
Frankie used it to apply pressure on her wound, but the cut was too long for the cloth to cover it all so it wasn't exactly working.
The two Councilmen and Marc came running into the scene just as Clint and Jeff hauled Ben over their shoulders.
"Can you stand up?" Minho asked.
"Yes," Frankie broke her gaze on the poor Runner's writhing figure and pulled herself onto her feet.
"We need to call a Gathering," Nick announced.
"We need to send her off to the Med-Jacks first, then call a Gathering," Minho corrected.
"Go," Alby motioned with his chin, "I'll call the others. Join us right after she's done."
"Okay."
Minho planted his palm on the small of her back and guided her towards the Homestead. The warmth emitted from his touch was oddly comforting and protective enough, not too much to her liking. She loved how he knew just the right move to offer her some help.
He kept his hand on her as they were climbing up the flight of stairs and finally let go when they arrived at Ben's room.
An empty syringe laid on the nightstand. Clint was already halfway through tying Ben's limbs on the bed posts —an anticipation for the Changing to come. The boy seemed oblivious to the world, but everybody knew that it was only a matter of minutes before he would feel the excruciating pain and screamed his throat dry.
"I'll take care of that," Jeff said from the back of the room, "Come here."
He seemed to be expecting her, because he had prepared the sutures, alcohol, and numbing pills on the wooden table.
"Drink this."
Frankie obliged and gulped down the pills as she sat down.
"It's better for you to hold onto something."
Frankie looked away when Jeff began to pour water down her arm. A chill went up her spine before leaving burning and smarting sensation through her whole arm. She gripped onto her pants tight, hoping that the gesture would let the pain subdue.
"I'll do this as fast as I could, good that?"
"Good that."
Frankie winced, trying to not move when the poignant dab of cool alcohol touched her skin. She gripped tighter but it didn't relieve anything.
Then an open palm rested on her thigh, offering itself for her to hold.
Frankie didn't think twice before releasing her right, uninjured hand and locked her fingers in his. She knew she must be hurting him —his hand was pale white with a tinge of red around her deathly grip. However, when she looked up to miss his gaze, he was keeping a stern gaze at her. His pupils were unwavering and strong, as if they were whispering for her to keep holding on despite the cold silence.
The procedure felt like forever. Jeff clearly took his time as he cleaned her wound, stitched it up, and bandaged her whole arm.
"Done."
Frankie sprung apart from Minho. Her arm was still pulsating with tension, so she let it hung loosely by her side and decided to not use it for a while.
She half expected him to wave his arm theatrically in a painful manner then tease her about it, but he stood up wordlessly.
"Come on, slinthead. Got a Gathering to go to. Clint?"
"Yeah, come on."
The Keeper of Med-jacks led the way down the corridor and into a crowded room where Alby and Nick had gathered the rest of the Councils.
Newt straightened his back as his best friend went through the door with a heavily bandaged arm.
"How is it?"
"Fine."
"Don't overexert —no, don't use your arm for a couple of days and don't let it get wet yet," Clint warned as he walked towards his designated seat.
"Good that."
"Frank, I think you should sit here so we can all listen clearly," Nick pointed out.
Frankie hesitated. There was a reason why she refused the position of Keeper or first and second-in-command, and that reason was she hated being in the spotlight. So she grabbed her chair with her good hand and dragged it closer to Nick's.
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"Care to tell us how did it happen?" Gally opened the discussion.
"We were running back to the Glade and the Griever was just sitting there, a few corridors away. Then it started chasing us. After it stung Ben, it just rolled away and left."
"Grievers in broad daylight," Alby commented, "Somethin' ain't right."
Frankie noticed Minho rubbing his face in frustration. Of course, he just lost a Runner.
"I don't think Runners should do their rounds alone anymore," Winston chimed in from his seat, "Ben managed to return safely only because Frankie's with him."
"I agree," Nick nodded, "Gives us better chance to search the Maze anyway. Minho?"
"Yeah, I'll pair them up," Minho replied. There was no hint of playfulness in his tone, only weariness. And for Minho to act like that, it was certainly saying something.
Zart spoke up, "Is there anything new?"
"No," Minho sighed, "Nothing new. We're running the exact same route every few days."
"Anyday now," Frankie said breathlessly.
Everybody turned quiet hearing her words.
Hope was the only thing that kept the Glade rolling and striving. Without it, they were just a bunch of kids, locked in a stupid experiment with no purpose of life. Without it, time was the only thing that kept everyone from dying.
They had to have hope.
Runners were more than just runners. They weren't just people who mapped the Maze. They were symbols that they could do it —leave. People looked at them every morning, thinking that they would bring some answers before nightfall, with which they would bring everyone closer to the Exit route.
Even if they couldn't wish for a normal teenage life with normal parents and siblings in a normal neighborhood, they could wish to get out of this shucking place soon.
Hope, prayer, wish. They were free, yet invaluable.
"Anyday now," he repeated, and Frankie smiled his way.
