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: what if i told you that this is the last chapter?
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MINHO KNEW SOMETHING was terribly wrong when Frankie failed to show up during breakfast.
Thomas was there, looking a bit pale and full of thoughts. Probably since Newt had just shown him how a Griever looked like through a small window.
Chuck was there, yapping away by the Greenie's side.
Newt was there, Alby was there, Frypan, Winston, Zart, Gally...
"Where's Frankie?"
"I don't know," Clint replied, "Haven't seen her since we said goodbye last night."
"I didn't pass her in the shower like I usually did, though," Adam the Runner shrugged, "Is she sick?"
"Probably just slept in," Alby said assuringly, despite knowing that 'Frankie sleeping in' was quite impossible.
"I'm gonna check the Map Room," Minho said, standing up. It was the most plausible place for her to be.
"I'll check her room if you can't stay still, lover boy," Newt said smugly. He stood up as well and went into the Homestead while Minho went towards the Map Room.
A few seconds later, Minho came out of the structure looking confused. Everyone in the Keepers' table who were paying attention knew that meant Frankie wasn't there.
A few seconds later, Newt's horrified screams and shouts reverberated into their ears.
Minho was the first to ran up the stairs. He didn't realize that a lot of boys were making a beeline behind him to find out what happened. Newt's voice suggested that something bad had happened, and boy did he hope nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. Please, nothing is wrong.
"Newt!" He called out as he hopped over two tiers of stairs at a time. The door to Frankie's room was left ajar and he couldn't see any movement inside.
"Frank—"
It truly felt like air was knocked out of his lungs. Or, more precisely, life was knocked out of his body. He wanted to walk in but he couldn't move his feet. He couldn't move his arms or his head. Shuck, he couldn't even close his slightly open jaw.
Alby bumping into him on his way in finally brought him back to his heightened senses.
"Newt! Newt, what's wrong with her?!" Alby hollered over the blonde boy's hunched figure. Newt was crouching by Frankie's bed, one hand slipped under her neck and the other thrown over her shoulder, like he was awkwardly hugging her.
Minho knew it was her. It was her long, wavy, black hair and her worn out blue pajamas with a small tear on of its sleeve.
Then her head lolled over and her eyes were open, but glossed over. Unblinking and staring at nothing.
