nostalgia ✔️ | tough series bonus

↳ 4.1

I DIDN'T HATE Teresa. The correct phrase would be ... distrust, and I really really disapproved of her life choices.

(Rest in peace, Teresa, no offense. And I'm so sorry for calling you a witch back then)

As I kept an eye on Frankie's back, deep in discussion with her Scorch gang, Thomas began to retell the story of his kidnapping slash betraying ... thing. About the knife, the make out (ew), the cave, green light, weird smoke, and how she apologized profusely the next morning.

"What is it with W.I.C.K.E.D. and betrayal, anyway?" I wondered out loud, "It's what they did to Frankie and Reggie, too, right?"

"Yeah, I dunno. I don't understand a shuck thing they're doing," Thomas muttered.

Brenda's face turned furious as she barked something at the other three, then she stomped away with Jorge. Frankie continued her talk with Reggie.

"They went through all that, all that planning and acting, just to make you feel betrayed?" Frypan asked. Newt added, "Doesn't make any bloody sense, if you ask me. And you just forgive them?"

The Golden Boy remained silent, but it spoke louder than words. He still couldn't deny the connection he had with Teresa, no matter how weird or despicable she acted. I mean, I could handle Frankie the way she was, no matter how unfriendly and snappish she was. But if she suddenly threatened to hurt my friends, tried to kill me and, worst of all, kissed Aris, I would at least seriously reconsider my feelings.

I crossed my arms and scoffed, "Whatever those shuck WICKED people wanna do, fine by me. Whatever you wanna do, fine by me. But I don't trust her, I don't trust Aris, and I don't like either one of them."

Frankie suddenly appeared. She claimed the empty spot between Newt and I, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"Do you have a tattoo, Frank?" Thomas asked.

I felt her went rigid, and she stuttered, "Huh?"

"A tattoo, on the back of your neck—"

That was the first time I saw the scars on her nape —pinkish, crisscrossing line-like growths of tissue. They seemed inflicted not too long ago, though looking already quite healed.

She had been through a lot, I remembered Jorge said.

(FAST FORWARD:

"The Maze was a lot," I said in reminisce when the two of us were finally left alone in the Berg. Newt, still recovering from the injection, was fast asleep in his room. Thomas, Brenda, and Reggie were accompanying him. Jorge was in the cockpit. "The Glade was a lot, but you persevered for nearly three years. Why did you give up in the Scorch?"

Mindlessly, I ran my fingers on her scars. She doesn't mind me doing that now. In fact, the move seems to have a soothing effect on her. But back then, whenever I touched them, she always shuddered visibly.

Frankie stayed silent, trying to arrange the correct choices of word.

"I had something to fight for, back in the Maze," she confessed, "To leave with all of you shanks. But I didn't have one in the Scorch."

"Can you tell me how did this happen?"

"I just hate the shucking mark. It's like I'm barcoded or something," Frankie muttered bitterly. Her tone sounded final and I didn't want to work her up over the past, so I didn't ask any further.)

"I think..." Thomas interjected, "I think you are still a part of W.I.C.K.E.D.. I mean, you saw what Teresa and Aris did for the sake of the experiment. Killing you, then putting you in the Scorch ahead of us so we meet here, that can be a part of the experiment as well, right?"

That actually made so much sense.

Subject A0. The Affliction —could it be associated with that? W.I.C.K.E.D. knew that making her one of the first Gladers would strengthen the bond between us, and those shuckfaces wanted to inflict maximum amount of pain by 'killing' her off right before the whole drama started. Right when we needed her the most.

I looked at her, she looked back at me, and I reached for her hand.

You're not an affliction to me. Never.

If only I had Thomas and Teresa's telekinesis ability. The wind had continued to pick up, and its rushing roars and whips now made it harder to hear each other anyway.

Right at that moment, a series of movements on the sand over Frankie's shoulder caught my attention. A large section of the desert ground was... opening.

"What's that?!" I shouted, jumping to my feet. Grievers' pods began to emerge along with the piercing sound of groaning, twisting steel.

To be honest, at that moment, I felt... empowered. Maybe it was because I was getting accustomed to fighting in order to survive, or maybe because I knew that W.I.C.K.E.D. would never let us hop into the so-called-Safe Haven easily. Whatever it was, I wasn't scared. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I was impatient to get the action done.

I'm not the same Minho who wept when I first saw the shape of a Griever three-years ago, I remember thinking. Channeling every hatred and hurt that I had kept in store for them, I pulled out two knives and smirked. Bring it on, shuckfaces.

I looked to my left, "Frankie!"

She didn't hear me.

"Frank!" I called again, then once again, but she was probably too absorbed with our final challenge. Honestly, she looked like a little kid, brought into a toy shop for the first time in her life. Cute.

"Frank!" This time, I grabbed her wrist to capture her attention, "You good?"

"Good."

"Good. You better be alive when I'm done."