Subject A250: The Fangirl (COMPLETED)

Sixteen: Armpit Goals

A/N: Read the Gone series. It's better than this excuse for fanfiction. Plus I've become readdicted to it and have formed a cast in my head. READ IT SO I CAN FANGIRL WITH YOU.

When the doors finally opened, Trace was not disappointed with the response. There was a moment of silence as those waiting on the other side realised what had happened, as they realised all four of them had survived- Alby included.

Then Trace broke the silence. She'd been supporting Alby from behind as the others carried him around their shoulders, so she wasn't even entirely sure everyone could see her until she poked her head out over Alby's shoulder and yelled out.

"Surprise!" she screamed, to which Minho scrunched one of his shoulders up to meet his ear in an attempt to prevent himself from going deaf.

Cheers erupted from within the Glade, and the trio of Griever deceivers stumbled forwards into the clearing, trying their best to lower Alby gently to the ground as they got there.

They'd made it.

A crowd formed around Alby on the ground, and someone asked how they did it. Trace, Minho and Thomas all exchanged a look, wondering where to begin.

"We sent them off the Cliff," Minho explained. "Thomas and Trace jumped to one side as a whole pack rolled past them; that's where we got the idea to do it at the Cliff edge. Send those suckers to their deaths that way."

A few looks of disbelief were exchanged around the group, and Thomas decided to open his big mouth.

"And Trace shut one down."

Now approximately forty pairs of gorgeous eyes were on her.

"What?" Newt asked, unable to believe Trace could do anything remotely intelligent. Fair assumption to make, she thought.

"She shut it down. Reached into the blubber and found an off-switch. A lever."

"Is that true, Ace?" Newt asked her.

"Of course not. Thomas is making that up!"

"I am not!"

It was worth a try.

"Okay, he's not. But it wasn't as cool as it sounds. It was all gross and slimy and we were partway up the wall so I fell on top of the thing and now my hip hurts. It really wasn't that cool. In fact, I'd rather not do it again, thanks. Thomas can do it next time, it's more his kind of thing anyway. Plus,  I've still got Griever slime in my armpit. At least the hair there will look good, right Minho? Armpit goals, right there."

She received a warning glare from Minho, but there was a hint of pride in his gaze, as if he'd trained her to shut them down himself. Newt just shook his head, grinning in disbelief.

Gally, on the other hand,  just looked his usual grumpy self. Trace was surprised he hadn't yelled at anyone to 'look around' or 'calm' yet.

"Well, medjacks, get Alby to the Homestead. You shanks help too," Newt gestured to a couple of extras. "We should get these three heroes looked over too," he said, winking in Trace's direction.

Newt was proud of her. Trace had done well. She'd done very well. She was getting close to the Thomas level of doing well. Maybe with enough Thomasing, the tables would turn and Newt would be worshipping her instead.

The group then dispersed a little, and Trace, Thomas, Minho and Newt were left standing alone.

"How's your hip?" Thomas asked, pointing at the rag around Trace's waist, hastily tied in a knot.

"You really are concerned about my hip, aren't you, Thomas?" she said, deciding it would be a great idea to put her hands on her hips in a condescending manner. This was followed a surge of sharp pain, a wince, and instant regret. She glared at her hip as though it'd betrayed her.

"You're such a dumb slinthead," Minho muttered to himself, as Newt crouched down to pull at the makeshift bandage, but not before meeting Trace's gaze for approval to do so.

"What did you call me, Mint-Fro?"

There was a snigger from Newt. 

"A dumb slinthead?" Trace continued. "I didn't see you turning any Grievers off out there!"

"I was too busy turning them on," Minho smirked.

Trace frowned. "Are you implying you're attractive to Grievers?"

"I'm attractive to anything that moves. You should know that by now."

Trace rolled her eyes. "Well, it's nice to know your dashing looks are the reason we had to fight for our lives last night. Thanks for that."

"You're welcome."

"You're probably going to need this stitched up," Newt interrupted, still focussed on her hip. Trace groaned in response.

"Can't you just leave it? Tomato has cuts and scratches all over him too, and I don't see you offering to stitch him up!"

"Tomato?"

"Right here," Thomas waved sheepishly, answering Newt's question.

Newt chuckled, "Does everyone have a nickname now?"

"Not everyone. Haven't thought of one for Chuck yet. Or Gally. Although he doesn't really deserve one."

"Ain't that the truth," Minho agreed.

"Let's get you all inside. I don't want you to bleed out, Ace. Besides, I'm sure you all have just one thing on your minds," Newt smiled.

"Cake?" Trace asked, hopeful.

"Sleep," he corrected her.

"I was close."

"It most certainly were not."

"I'll be right someday."

"Keep dreaming, Ace."

"That's what I intend to do."

But within the next half hour, after being looked over and stitched up by Clint and Jeff, Trace had fallen into such a deep slumber that she didn't dream at all.

That's how she knew it was real. Because she dreamed of nothing else. And it felt real; she was just too exhausted to acknowledge it. Too tired to react or get excited.

As she drifted off to sleep, she heard a voice. A voice she knew well. The only voice with that particular accent in the Glade.

"Sleep well, Ace," he said.

It was just enough to put her mind to rest. Sleep came easily for the next few hours.