THE WICKED DUO decided to sleep after they took turn showering, around three in the morning, and they woke up to Dr. Lebeau's not-so-subtle wake up call four hours later.

"Without further ado," she jerked the curtain open with one hand movement, letting the Scorch's brutal sunlight pierced through their eyelids, "We'll take your blood first, then do the spinal tap. It won't take long."

Frankie rubbed her tired eyes as she sat up, still half-dazed, and tied her hair back into a ponytail.

"Good morning to you, too, doctor," Reggie grunted, "Don't we get the chance to brush our teeth and wash our faces first?"

"No."

Dr. Lebeau exited the room, like her current jobdesk was only to open the curtain. She left the door open as she went, and a minute later, two nurses came into the room, pushing metallic carts bearing an assortment of needles, tubes, and labels. One was the lady who escorted Frankie yesterday morning and the other was a young, Caucasian man.

"Good morning, Frances," the nurse lady greeted as she put on a pair of latex gloves.

The former began massaging the latter's forearm, locating a clear and straight vein.

The venepuncture marks and bruises from her previous blood draws were still visible.

The nurse fastened a blue tourniquet around her arm and took a sealed needle from the pile on her cart. "Alright. You know how this works."

Frankie nodded.

An alcohol swab and a pinch-like sting later, the procedure began.

They were half-way through filling the fourth tube when a loud alarm blared throughout the vicinity, followed by pulsating red lights and frantic announcement.

"Warning. Subjects on the loose. Initiate lockdown. I repeat, subjects on the loose. Initiate lockdown. Approach with extreme caution —they're all armed."

Frankie looked at Reggie. First sign of trouble came way faster than they had imagined.

Reggie took the first action. He elbowed his nurse right at his stomach and kicked his chest, sending him hard against the wall. After an audible groan, he drifted off to dreamland.

Frankie's nurse yelped in fear and jumped a step back. The glass tube in her hands fell onto the floor, breaking into shards and a puddle of blood.

"I won't hurt you," Frankie said, "If you keep quiet and still."

She took the needle and tourniquet off her arm.

"Reg, my leg—"

"Got it!" Reggie snatched her orthosis from the nightstand, handed it to her, and crouched by her bed.

"What—"

"We're faster this way. Come on."

Frankie frowned. She wasn't thrilled with the thought of being a burden.

"You're light, France! Get on!"

Well, it wasn't a time to be thoughtful.

She grabbed a fist full of needles, some safety scissors, and handed half of them to Reggie, "Tuck them in."

Once they were set, Frankie circled her arms around Reggie's neck and they ran.

They didn't know where they were headed. They just ran, hoping with full hearts that they would stumble upon any runaway subjects. That it wasn't another test. That everyone, including Minho, Newt, and Thomas had mustered up their courage and rebelled against WICKED together.

Frankie pointed out the path she and the split-eyebrow nurse lady paved yesterday, until they reached the sky bridge.

"Look," Reggie pointed.

Through the glass wall of the building before them, right there on the first floor, was a glimpse of blonde. Newt, scribbling something on a piece of paper with the window as his table.

"Let's go."

They ran to the nearest fire exit, only a few feet after the sky bridge's end.

It was a series of narrow, white stairways. A huge printed number 7 was pasted messily to the wall on their right.

"Reg, I can—"

"Nope, you can't. You're not heavy," Reggie interjected in the middle of her sentence, "Hold on."

Together, they ran down the stairs.

But Newt wasn't in the room anymore. Instead, there were gagged and tied men, crouching on the cold floor. Behind them were numerous empty racks, shelves, and carton boxes.

"Sticks!" Reggie exclaimed with wide eyes. "Newt did this?"

Frankie's head reeled. There was no way Newt did this all by himself. Even if he was helped with Minho and Thomas, the odd was still very unlikely. Was WICKED attacked?

How many people did this?

Those guys— they could recover any second.

Then it would be a losing fight. Two versus twenty.

"Come on, we have to catch up with Newt."

Reggie took a hesistant step back into the hallway.

"HEY!"

Frankie looked to her left and found a band of three guards pointing at them accusingly.

It was probably a curious sight for them. A teenage boy carrying a teenage girl, who was hugging a weird metallic contraption, on his back, shuffling backward from their headquarter.

"Aim for the biggest one," Reggie whispered.

"Of course."

"Three... Two..."

With minimal movement, Frankie reached into her shoes and pulled out a scissors.

"One."

Reggie ran forward. When they were close enough, Frankie threw the scissors like it was a knife, and it embedded deep enough in one of the guards skin, over his right collarbone.

The target screamed, and his two friends just stood there, feeling torn between tending to his needs or doing their jobs.

"Why aren't you aiming for the neck?!" Reggie exclaimed.

"He can die."

"Now we can die!"

Reggie dropped Frankie on the ground and charged.

The WICKED guards were different from Cranks and Cranks alike. Not only sane, they were obviously well-trained and built. He landed a punch on one's nose and took the milliseconds opportunity to kick Frankie's scissors target, making sure that he wouldn't be able to get up mid-fight to help his comrades.

Frankie dragged herself on the ground, slowly but surely, with her orthosis in hand. The two guards were too focused on Reggie to see her coming. She stood up, supporting herself on the wall. Using all of her body to help with the momentum, she swung her leg support and banged its end against one of the guards' temple.

The impact was strong enough to send her to her butt and him with a bleeding head.

The man hissed, not in pain but in annoyance, and stood up on his feet again.

When he saw the state of his opponent, he smiled. He let his guard down for a second, basking in the fact that all he had to do was apprehend a little crippled girl.

"Why are you out he—"

He forgot that he had something important that a little crippled girl didn't. Something that a little crippled girl could easily aim for from her sitting position.

Balls.

She used her good leg to kick on it, then her orthosis.

Boy, she hoped the man would never have an offspring to carry out WICKED's legacy. And with the amount of determination and strength she put into each hit, he probably wouldn't.

"Frances!"

Reggie rushed over with a slab of bruise on his left cheek. The guard was rolling on the ground, covering his manhood and trying to endure the pain of losing it.

Reggie frowned, "Okay. That's too harsh."

Frankie looked up at him, "You said I should aim for the neck."

"Death is better than that," Reggie crouched, "Come on! If these sticks came from that way, Newt probably turned left."

The defeaning alarm suddenly stopped ringing, and the nauseating red light went out.

It was replaced by echoes of frantic footsteps, closing in on them from their right and left.