Clara plunged her hands into the pail of lukewarm water, scrubbing at her hands and lower arms hard with the bar of rough unscented soap, until the skin was pink. Shaking her hands off, she turned, drying them with a towel, before finally turning to face the small row of beds.

The Right Arm had rescued a train car full of subjects a few days before they had arrived at the blockade near the current camp. Most of them were okay-- traumatized, but okay. Still, there were a few who were sick or had broken bones, or a variety of other ailments inflicted by WICKED guards during their travel.

It turned out that the Right Arm was just as underprepared and understaffed as Jorge and Brenda's crew had been back in the city. She had gotten a brief explanation upon their arrival about their setup-- they were planning to move somewhere more remote and secure soon but had been delayed by transports through the area. 

Clara exhaled once and proceeded to the first bed. Most of the subjects that had been liberated by the Right Arm were young-- below ten-- and were on their way to start experimenting. Too young to be away from home, and subjected to psychological torture. 

Clara crouched next to the bed, where a young boy was lying, staring at the ceiling of the cloth tent. His face was pale, lips tinged blue, despite the mounds of thick wool blankets on top of him. Early, she had managed to get him to take a few spoonfuls of warm broth-- more than he had eaten in a week-- but he still maintained his vigil. 

"Hey Benji," Clara spoke, keeping her voice quiet. One of the other new subjects was sleeping at the other end of the tent. "I've got something for you."

Clara pulled out a small pill. Benji had no physical ailments, but Clara was trying to keep him relaxed enough so he could sleep. Gently, she made him swallow it, before moving to the next bed. 

Another injury-- this time a broken leg. The young girl was 8, she proclaimed, and loved the colour violet. Clara made sure to praise her while she braced the leg and wrapped it tightly. The girl may have a mild limp, but she'd be able to walk and run.

Each kid seemed younger than the rest. All immune to a virus, all captured in hopes of curing the already finished generation. 

Her rounds completed, Clara exhaled, her breath pooling in the chilly air. The night had been cold, and even though the sun peaked through thin clouds, spilling weak light onto the stony outpost, the heavy chill still lingered. 

Clara clenched her hands into fists in the hopes of warming her fingers and tucked her nose into the collar of her jacket, turning back to her stash of supplies, which was already beginning to dwindle.

As she leaned over the bag, sorting through pill bottles and bandages, there was a shuffling behind her. Clara twisted, peering over her shoulder.

Brenda, her dark eyes unusually dim, had appeared behind her. Her nose was tinged pink-- though everyone's likely was from the cold-- and she was sweating. Beside her, Thomas stood, his hands deep in his pockets. 

"Hey," Clara greeted. "What do you need? Are we leaving soon?"

Vince had recruited Jorge and Brenda into his little crew of organizers almost immediately upon realizing what crew they had run back in the city. Thomas had been put in charge of the supply organization. They were the oldest group of subjects that WICKED had used in their experiments-- no surprise considering their group labels-- and most of them had been in the maze for a few years. Clara wasn't sure of her own age, though she knew she must be cusp of adulthood.

Brenda and Thomas exchanged a glance and Clara's heart dropped. She knew what that look meant; she was going to be asked to do something.

"I need your help," Brenda started, taking a step forward.

Clara clenched her jaw and crossed her arms, shoving her hands in her armpits-- for warmth or comfort or confidence, she wasn't sure. 

"What's going on?" Clara asked, keeping her voice semi-quiet, hoping that her new patients would stay asleep or weren't nosy.

Brenda exchanged one more glance with Thomas and turned back to her, rolling up her sleeve. 

Clara inhaled sharply, tightening her fingers. On Brenda's arm, a long dark cut was spreading-- the Flare. She had seen the same black veins on Winston, the same feverous symptoms. 

Brenda wasn't immune.

Jorge would be devastated.

Compartmentalize. Doctor. Patient.

"When did it happen?" Clara asked, looking between the two. She had her suspicions, considering they were together and nobody else had arrived. 

"While we were separated from you guys in the city," Thomas replied, stepping forward to join Brenda. There was something there, a hint of warmth or something. 

"What do you want me to do?" Clara asked. "The Flare isn't treatable, or at least, that's what WICKED says."

Thomas frowned, and for a moment, Clara was frightened that he would argue with her. Maybe she could convince Tris to vet any visitors when they eventually made it to the safe haven and she was able to treat people in peace.

Brenda looked at Thomas again. Clara could see the signs more now that she knew. Black veins were beginning to sprawl around her neck and she kept shifting as if she couldn't get comfortable. 

"I was a scientist for WICKED before I was sent into the maze," Thomas replied. "I got my memories back after being stung by a Griever. I don't remember everything, but I know that blood transfusions from an immune can potentially help prevent someone from becoming a crank."

Clara nodded once, glancing between the two. "That's great and all, but do you expect me to just keep giving Brenda daily infusions of blood until a cure is made? How do we know that your blood is a match? How do we know that you are immune, Thomas?"

"Please, Clara," Brenda begged. "I can't become one of them, and I'm willing to take the chance that the blood might help. It's either that or I go out into the wilderness and put a bullet in the back of my head."

Clara winced. Charlie's face swam in front of her for another split second. Michael ripped through the roof of a shack. Freddy torn apart by cranks. Winston begging for death.

Clara paused, considering the reproductions. Sure, it was unauthorized medical experimentation, but if the world still ran on ethics, WICKED wouldn't have been allowed to lock a bunch of children in a maze filled with monsters.

"Okay," Clara responded. "But I need you to understand the risks you are taking and the possible outcomes,"

Brenda nodded once and Clara gestured to the nearby empty bed. It creaked as she sat down.

"Thomas, I need you to sit over there," Clara ordered. 

The boy nodded and took a seat. Clara placed her hands on her hips and clenched her jaw. It was just a blood transfusion. She had done them before in the Glade in emergencies. This couldn't be much difference.

Clara rooted through her bag until she found a sterile needle and IV bag. Quickly, she set up the IV to Thomas collecting blood, before transferring another IV into Brenda, and letting it begin to drip into Brenda. Red liquid dripping like a leaky tap.

Clara turned away from the IV, letting the two exchange quiet words. She left the tent, her feet crunching on the gravelly ground. 

She did one lap of the camp, but couldn't find Tris, only to learn that she had been sent on a supply run with Leo and Vince. 

Clara paused in the kitchen, grabbing a piece of fruit, before beginning the slow walk back to the tent. Every step towards it felt leaden and like walking through quicksand. Maybe she needed a distraction.

"I've never seen anyone so enthusiastic about their role before."

Clara snorted, taking a bite out of her apple, bitter juice on her tongue, as Minho fell into step beside her. His burns had healed well, and there was no sign of any further complications. She was infinitely thankful that she hadn't needed a defibrillator or anything else. Maybe one day she would have enough equipment to train more people. 

It wasn't as if medical school were still a thing, and they would need more doctors with the way the camp's population was exponentially increasing. 

"What have you been doing?" Minho asked. Clara could sense he was trying to engage her in conversation-- likely to keep her from falling into a spiralling pit-- and she was grateful.

"Committing medicinal experimentation," She replied, taking another bite of her apple. It crunched beneath her teeth. 

Minho's eyebrows quirked up. "More interesting than my morning, which was spent loading boxes onto trucks."

There was a consistent stream of trucks heading beyond the mountains towards the ocean, where a massive ship was supposedly waiting to take everyone to the safe haven, whenever they could get away from WICKED. 

Clara nodded in response, finishing the last of her apple and chucking it into one of the blazing fires. It crackled before beginning to blacken. 

"Are you avoiding going back to the tent?" Minho asked. He had a crooked smile on his face, looking at her with smiling eyes. 

Clara shrugged, holding her hands out to the fire in an attempt to warm them. They were so cold that they had turned white. She could feel her ears freezing as well. Snow covered the landscape around them, deafening any activity that threatened to escape and warn their hunters.

As if he could sense her silent grumbling, he handed her a toque and a pair of gloves. Clara raised an eyebrow, looking at him. "What are these for?"

He shrugged, placing his own gloved hands into his pocket. Clara wasn't sure if the pink on his face was from embarrassment or the cold.

"I thought it might be chilly in the med tent, and you've been up since dawn, so it wasn't like you got a lot of sleep. I was thinking of bringing you tea or something, but I didn't know if you drank it, so I figured these were a better option."

Clara paused, somewhat stunned. The toque was a bright blue, and lined on the inside; the gloves matched. To avoid the embarrassment of not responding, she tugged the toque on, relishing in the almost immediate relief. She shoved her hands into the gloves, and clenched her fists. 

"Thank you," She responded, rocking back and forth on her heels once. "It was a nice gift. It is freezing in there."

Minho's half smile became full, lighting up his face, only to grimace as he stretched the burn on his jaw. 

Clara stifled a laugh, before pulling away from the crackling fire. She really had to get back and check on Thomas and Brenda, but leaving Minho was somewhat disappointing. 

"I'll see you later, okay? I have medical experimenting to get back to."

Clara didn't give him a chance to respond, breaking into a jog towards the tent.

A brief thought popped into her head, and as she reached the entrance flap to the tent, she turned back.

"Minho!" She called. When he had turned to look at her, a curious look on his face, so continued. "For future reference, any black tea is good."

She didn't wait to see his reaction, ducking into the tent.

Brenda and Thomas were where she had left them, blood dripping slowly. A rosy flush had entered Brenda's face, and it almost seemed as though the black veins were retreating.

Clara brushed her gloves on her thick cargo pants and stepped forward, leaning over to look at Brenda's arm. Her eyes widened.

"What the fuck?"

Thomas snapped his gaze to her, bouncing between Clara and Brenda's arm. "What's wrong?"

Clara hooked her head, blinking a couple of times, an incredulous smile spreading across her face. Were her eyes tricking her?

"It's gone," She said. "The cut is still there, but the signs of the virus have visibly vanished."

Brenda's eyes widened with worry, flicking over Clara's face. "What does that mean?"

"It means, we might have a way to treat the Flare."

~~~

Hello lovelies!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please feel free to vote and comment, I love hearing from you all!

Until next time,

Indigo