"NICK DIED."

Minho's eyes widened. He couldn't even spare some thought about how he looked when Zart delivered the news.

"He went into the Box hole and got himself sliced clean in two. Another shuck thing the Creators invented."

He just spoke to the shank this morning. What the klunk.

"He's lying in the Deadheads now. Gally made a see-through box as a reminder to never pull the same stunt again."

What the actual klunk.

"Alby's giving everyone a day off. No one's in their right mind now. He said there will be a Gathering first thing tomorrow morning."

Minho looked at Newt for any sign of denial or 'we were joking!' but his silence spoke louder than a thousand words.

Minho immediately dashed into the Deadheads. He carelessly swatted any branch or stem that stood in his way until the graveyard came into view.

He always hated coming here. There were too many names he felt familiar with. But he had to make sure... He had to make...

A rogue coffin stood in the center of the grave, propped up with a messily made wooden structure. It looked like it had no intention of being buried at all.

Minho half stumbled through the bushes. With every step he took, he wished that it was just a joke. A sick joke, but a joke nevertheless.

But Zart and Newt weren't pulling at his strings.

He was there, eyes closed, pale skinned. Someone had made sure that his hair was styled and his glasses were in tact, but that didn't change the fact that he was dead.

Nick. Nick was dead.

Sure, warning was probably needed. But Nick was his friend. One of the best, he dared to say. Minho couldn't bear to see him lying with whatever was left of his torso open for public display.

He ran his hand over the see-through glass and fell onto the floor.

"Nick, you slinthead," he hissed, slamming his fist onto the wooden box.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, tear-free but motionless. His mind whirred as it tried to salvage any memories left of their time together. Then, after he reminisced on their exchange from this morning, his mind blanked.

〰️

WHEN HE CAME to, the sky was already dark.

Some fresh footprints told him that someone had been there, possibly to call for him, but he wasn't aware who they were and when they were there.

He knew he had to go back to his friends and the Runners under his care. He bade goodbye by patting Nick's casket and left a lingering look on his peaceful state, then he ran.

It was way past dinner time. People were already trying to sleep their sorrow away. Only a handful were left under the dimly lit dining spots, crowding the Keepers' long table.

He recognized them: Frankie, Alby, Newt, and Frypan.

"I won't leave until you have a bite," Minho could hear Newt said in a threatening tone.

"Come on, Al, I made this myself!" Frypan exclaimed, only to be replied by the new first-in-command's snappishly, "I'm not hungry!"

"Alby."

Frankie's tone was so desperate, it made Minho nearly stopped in his track.

"I didn't come here to be force fed —Have you seen that slinthead Minho?"

"No, actually."

"The slinthead's here," Minho announced as he jogged over. Heads whipped around immediately to the source of the voice.

"Where have you been?"

Minho shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, "Keeping Nick company. Who made his hair, by the way?"

Thick, uncomfortable silence filled the air for a few seconds.

"I did," Newt said with a grimace, "Can't have him going down looking bloody messed up, right?"

"Great job, Newt," Minho grinned.

"Maybe it's my calling. Being a hairdresser."

"I'll be your loyal customer."

"Frankie told me she needs a haircut. Maybe this month Newt the hairdresser can save the day," Frypan quipped. The said girl threw him a dirty glare.

"I already made an appointment with Winston the Slicer," Frankie interjected with a small smile.

This was how grief was handled in the Glade.

"I'm givin' everyone a day-off tomorrow. We all need a sleep in anyway," Alby said, "The word should've spread by now. But you should confirm it again to the Runners."

"Good that. I should probably shower first." Minho raised his arms, sniffed his armpits and scrunched up his nose playfully. "Rest up, shanks. I'll see you tomorrow when the sun's high. Don't wake me up!"

Newt, Frypan, Frankie and Alby laughed dryly.

"Frank, we need to talk."

"Oh, okay," Frankie blinked, surprised, "See you all."

A chorus of 'see you' answered her, to which she replied with a wave of her hand. Then she ran to catch up with Minho before falling into the same pace as his.

The two walked towards Minho's room in the Homestead in complete, assuring, I'm-here-for-you silence. Their hands brushed against each other and both had the urge to link their pinkies once again, but decided against it.

Frankie watched Minho dug into his cloth supplies and pulled out a worn out T-shirt, shorts, and his undergarment of the night (They had been living together for so long, carrying undies around are not considered taboo anymore).

"You good?"

Frankie was the first to ask.

"No," Minho replied, "I can't believe he's that jacked in the head. This feels so surreal. Like I will wake up tomorrow and still see him lounging around the Glade, being a jobless shank that he is. You good?"

"No."

Frankie answering with anything other than 'fine' was already an accomplishment.

She walked inside and dropped onto his mattress. She bit her lips, saying, "I didn't stop him. I prepared him to go. He spoke to me right before he went in."

"We're all stubborn this way," Minho chuckled. He put his change of clothes on the bed and sat beside her, "Are you going to cry?"

"No," Frankie answered defensively.

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with crying! Besides, I already saw you once."

"No," Frankie repeated, this time softly, "I think Nick is having tea party with George in Heaven, since he's already free. I think he's happier now."

Minho stared at her intently.

"Hey Nick!" He hollered out to the ceiling, making Frankie jolted in her seat, "I'd love to have some good, hot tea right now! Preferably with biscuits and some sweets! Can you send it down?!"

He lowered his tone, "And what would you like to order, sweetheart?"

Frankie was too amused to punish him for calling her pet names. "Some scones, please."

"Ooh, scones," Minho cooed before yelling again, "And Frankie wants some scones!"

〰️

CHUCK SAT BY Frankie's side when Alby gathered everyone at noon. Next to him was Hank, then Doug, Lee and James. Next to her was Minho, then Clint, Zart, Frypan and Winston.

Gally became a bartender once more and was busy distributing glasses of disgusting alcoholic drink to almost everyone.

"Nick had been a great leader since we all wake up in the Glade for the firs' time," Alby began, "He was the shank who brought the order that keeps us alive up 'til now. And he was a good friend, good listener."

Frankie glanced around and drank in the sight of faces that she rarely had interaction with. Was remembering their names, jobs, and Keepers enough? Was one question of 'you good?' to them when they were Greenies sufficient?

Now that Nick was gone —the good friend, the good listener, who would be the one to wander around the Glade, asking if anyone has something to say?

"He died trying to get us out of here. Remember that, remember his sacrifice, and let's keep on fighting until we meet the eyes of those shucking Creators! For Nick!"

A discordant sound of barbaric ensemble erupted throughout the Glade, followed by clinks of glasses being toasted here and there.

Frankie tipped the mouth of her glass and poured its content down her throat.

For Nick.

She swore she could see him, his crooked smile, and the sun glinting off his spectacles behind Alby's built figure. He had a proud look on his face as his eyes swept over this newfound family. These people whom he had the privilege to know and watch as they grew.

She drank again, and again, and again.

Even when her glass was empty, Nick was still standing there.

"Frankie?"

She missed him.

"Can I have some?" Chuck grinned innocently.

She missed him so much.

"Frankie?"

She really wanted to cry.

"Gally's wondering if anybody wants second. Do you?" Winston inquired.

Even if he was happier up there, could she let herself be selfish and hope that they would suffer together?

"Frankie?"

This time, it was Minho.

"You good?"

Frankie forced herself to smile forlornly, "Fine."

And Minho didn't press on the matter like he always did.