tough love ✔️ | pre-the maze runner minho

02

"ALRIGHT, SHUCKFACES! LISTEN up," the Keeper of Runners announced as he made his way into the Map Room. His team was strewn across the small space, some tying up shoes while the others were stuffing weapons on random parts of their bodies. "Marc, Joe, you having problem with Newt's section?"

"We're fine!" A voice came from the back of the room.

"Good that. Ben, you're covering Section Six today."

"Wait," Frankie interjected with a tone of objection, "That's my section."

"Not after what you did yesterday," Minho shrugged, "Someone need to keep you from dying of stupidity, and right now that someone is me. You're staying in the Glade."

"Minho— You can't do that."

"Of course I can. I'm your Keeper."

In a blink of an eye, Frankie had her face one inch away from Minho's, one hand gripping the front of his T-shirt. The two stared into each other's eyes, daring their opponent to look away first. The rest of the Runners took a sharp intake of breath in worry and anticipation.

Frankie was the first to speak, surprisingly in a low whisper.

"If this is about what you saw the other day, Minho, I'm still the same old me. It doesn't make me a hopeless, weak lady—"

"Whoa. Who said anything about you being weak?" Minho paused, his expression softening, "You know you're the last person I'd consider weak in this whole shucking place. Bit wrong in the head, well, that's another thing completely."

He saw her fury subsided, replaced by a look he would dare to identify as relief for a quick second before her usual look returned. She almost looked annoyed now.

Slapping the back of Minho's head just like he did to her yesterday, she spat in a louder voice for everyone to hear, "Eat your klunk, shuckface."

Minho laughed, also raising his volume, "You first, slinthead."

Frankie unclasped her running vest, threw it carelessly, and proceeded to exit the room. She was still wearing her running shoes and everyone could see tips of knives peeking from both her boots and the right side of her jeans.

Minho waited for the door to close with a very loud bang! before he returned his focus back to the matter at hand.

"Be back thirty minutes before the Doors close, or you'll be working with the baggers by tomorrow morning."

〰️

THE STAIRS CREAKED under her weight.

After wandering around, wondering what she would do for one whole day and came up with nothing, Frankie decided to face a place that she had successfully avoided for days.

Newt.

As her feet approached that one room, standing in solitude at the end of the corridor, the memories of her friend's loud cry ricocheting within the Maze walls became so vivid she swore she heard it over and over again.

And when he was carried into this structure, God, so battered and bloodied.

Frankie stood in front of the door silently, probably for two whole minutes. Her hand ready to knock but her heart wasn't.

Then she decided not to knock at all.

She swung the door open. "Newt—"

"GET OUT!"

A metal glass made its way towards her forehead, drenching her in cold water, and she shut the door close once more without having even one good look at him.

Frankie turned back and ran, heart hammering hard against her chest. What did she expect? A warm greeting? A huge smile? A "Hey, it's Frankie"? Certainly not being thrown out with a glass of water.

She found herself sitting alone at the dining table minutes later. Her left hand rested over the wooden surface while her right propped up her chin, eyes glued to the opened South Door (her door). She was struggling to keep her mind empty.

"Heard Minho benched you."

Frankie let Nick took the spot next to her without sparing a glance his way.

"Thought he was joking when he told me about it," Nick continued, "I mean, it's you."

"What do you mean it's me?" Frankie looked at Nick accusingly, almost feeling offended. Usually, her gender difference was never an issue. Everyone had grown accustomed to having one girl and forty-ish boys crammed in one compound and she had no time to even think of being shy or coquettish. No one treated her differently (or her friends didn't let anyone treat her differently) and she demanded to be considered as nothing but an equal being —hence the masculine nickname.

But what happened a few days ago had driven her self-preserving instinct wild.

"It's you. We look up to you, even Minho."

She greeted the remark with unfathomable silence.

Nick pushed the bridge of his glasses up. He knew that troubled expression of hers, so he pointed towards the Blood House and tried to make small talks, "Greenie's with Winston today. He doesn't look like the Slicer type, though."

Frankie sighed, "Newt kicked me out."

Well, his attempt didn't work.

"Oh, yeah," Nick unhooked a fabric from a belt loop of his pants, which Frankie hadn't noticed before, "Find a Med-jack if your head's troubling you."

She took it to wipe the remaining droplets of water on her hair and face.

"Good that. Thanks."

"The shank'll get better, I promise."

"Hope so," Frankie looked down onto her lap, "What do you do? Being cooped up in here everyday."

"Your first benching, isn't it?" Nick chuckled, "There's always something to do 'round here. Think of it then talk to the Keeper, you'll get the spot. Perks of being first-in-command."

"I'm not the first-in-command."

"You're part of the Council, that's gotta mean somethin'."

Frankie stood up suddenly, "I'll just go."

"Where?"

"Study the maps," Frankie said. She handed the fabric back to Nick with a small smile, "Thanks, Nicky."

"Anytime."

Nick kept his eyes glued to her retreating figure until she entered the Map Room, expecting her to change course and head towards the Maze against order instead. When he was done confirming that she didn't (he watched the round handle for a few more minutes), Nick raked his sandy brown hair with his fingers and repeated to convince himself, "The shank'll get better."