MARLA.

HER BIRTH name was Marla.

And she did have a family.

"Mum, she finished the whole pack of cereal! What am I supposed to eat for breakfast?!"

She merely stared at her eight-years-old brother with her mouth full, not really caring about his pointing finger or his tone of accusation.

A middle-aged woman with visible worry lines stomped her way into view, clad in a midi dress and floral apron. She clamped the boy's mouth shut with her wrinkled hands and looked up towards the window, fearfully straining to hear any noise or see any movement from the ground floor ahead.

Except from the much, munch, munch from the little girl's mouth, there was nothing.

The small family of chestnut brown hair and thick eyebrows lived in a spacious underground shed they stumbled upon after the death of their breadwinner. They had to keep a low profile, in case the house owner returned or a band of Cranks infiltrated the place, hoping to find something to eat or, at least, something to kill.

After the disastrous sun flare, other than her mother and brother, the only human beings she interacted with were a pair of runaway brothers, two streets down.

"MARVEL! WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT KEEPING QUIET!" Her mother screamed hysterically, quite contrary to the words she was saying. But then her eyes glossed over and she took a few deep breaths, trying to recollect herself.

"Mum, are you still sick?"

"I'm fine," she replied, "Mummy's going to be fine. Marla, aren't you gonna share?"

With her mouth still chomping, Marla —Frankie, shook her head no.

Using a forced, sweet tone, the mother smiled, "Come on, honey. Be a good girl and share with your brother."

〰️

WHEN THE DREAM-LIKE memories finally faded and her consciousness returned, Frankie found herself lost in a hurricane of emotions and thoughts. There were confusion, longing, excitement, and an endless string of questions about her life as she told herself, over and over again, to never forget a thing. Not a single thing.

But she was not lost enough to realize that she was not in the operating room she fell unconscious in.

Reflexively, Frankie sat up and looked around, trying to drink in her current surrounding. The sudden jolt combined with the residue of anaesthetic caused her vision to swam. It felt like a strong claw was gripping tightly onto her head.

"Oh, you're up."

This chamber was the exact replica of her previous hospice, except for the fact that there were two beds instead of one.

"...Reggie?"

Reggie was sitting up on his bed himself, facing her. "I was just about to shake you awake."

"Where are we? Where are the others?"

"No idea. I woke up, like, two minutes before you did."

Right at the end of his sentence, the white plastic door swung open rather abruptly. It collided against the wall with a loud bang before bouncing back slowly. Dr. Lebeau caught its handle so she wasn't hit, and made her way fashionably into the room.

"Hello," she said curtly, "Subject A0 and B0."

Apparently, her rudeness hadn't changed.

"Before we start, I don't take any questions until I say I do. I'm sure the two of you are wondering why you're here while your friends are currently reminiscing about their past in their respective bedrooms —please refrain yourself from saying anything."

Reggie had a retort ready to be thrown at the tip of his tongue. He had his mouth agape.

"Dear Lord, please."

He closed his mouth, but not without a reproachful frown etched on his face.

Dr. Lebeau acknowledged that with an approving nod, then continued, "Here's the thing: I'm sure you remember now that once, Frances was Subject B25 and Reggie was Subject A16. There is a reason for the change in your tag number, your assigned Maze, and there is also a reason on why you two were the ones we chose to undergo the Second Trial ahead of time."

Yes, she remembered.

She remembered being more acquainted with those girls from Group B instead of her boys during her training in WICKED. She felt weird about it at first, but then she thought maybe the girls were trained together no matter which Maze they would end up in.

Now she realized that Teresa was never around. Aris, on the other hand, did.

Frankie glanced at Reggie and found him nodding his head along. That would mean he was a friend of Thomas, Minho, Newt, and the rest of the Gladers.

"We couldn't categorize you as Immune, but we also couldn't categorize you as not Immune."

"Wait," Reggie couldn't stop himself from saying despite Dr. Lebeau's warning, "But the weird nosed stick said that we're Immune to the Flare! Now you're going back on your own words?"

"I don't get why I have to explain this thing to the subjects," Dr. Lebeau muttered grumpily to herself, but it was audible enough for the two teenagers to hear. Maybe she intended to do so. She fixed the black rim of her glasses, saying, "Listen, when you're Immune, it doesn't necessarily mean that you're not infected by the virus. It just sits there, rooted somewhere, without causing any effect. In a Crank, it spreads slowly until it consumes every blood vessel and every tissue of its host's brain, destroying their ability to think, to talk, to act like a normal sane person.

"Initially, you two were labeled as not Immune. I don't know if you remember, since you were given to us when you were just children— and I don't care either, but your participation in this Trials were just as control variables.

"However, while observing your brains, we found out that though the virus was spreading, it was just... How do I say this..." Dr. Lebeau made a weird movement with her hands, "Enveloping your brain instead of consuming it. And there are no visible signs of behavioural, nor physical changes like those we identify in Cranks. Only recently did we finally agree to label you as Immune."

She paused for a moment, waiting for her (incredibly scientific, long, and hard to understand) message to sink in.

"You're not candidates for the final cure. But since both of your brains are works of wonder, we are still studying to determine if there are delayed symptoms, or are you only Half-Immune, or is the virus evolving again, et cetera, et cetera. Halfway through the research, we realize that we need a few more tubes of blood and one spinal fluid tap to complete our data. Now that you remember your past and the significance of these tests, we hope you can give them willingly. That's all."

Dr. Lebeau pulled out a pen from her coat's pocket and clicked on it repeatedly, "So, you'll do it, right? Right? Come on I don't have all day —I'll take that silence as a yes. Someone will bring you your change of clothes. No food and drink after 12 p.m.. We'll perform the procedure tomorrow morning. You'll join your friends again right after. Alright then."

Like a bolt of lightning, the doctor was off and her two patients were left alone with their thoughts.

"That was..." Reggie faltered, "Fast."

"She doesn't like doing errands," Frankie said as she massaged the bridge of her nose.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a little headache."

"What the doctor just said is bound to bring headache," Reggie stated as-a-matter-of-factly, "So, basically, we're weird people with weird brains. How do you know her, by the way?"

"She's my doctor for the last month."

"Right. This is great. We have so much to talk about. So, so much." Reggie began bouncing around his bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. He ended up sitting cross-legged, hugging his pillow, "Okay, talk to me. What's your birth name?"

Frankie felt embarrassed all of a sudden. She loved her name, but adoring it in her head and stating it out loud were entirely different circumstances.

"Come on!" Reggie urged, "I'll tell you mine."

Frankie smiled sheepishly, "It's— It's Marla."

Reggie returned the smile and playfully offered his hand to shake, "Good to meet you, Marla. My name is William."