Hey everybody! We're back with a jump into another fandom after having this planned for literally years. Please comment and enjoy!
If the Gladers were the prayin' type, they'd be prayin' for some wind.
Or some rain, or maybe just a giant cloud. Something, anything to fend off the shucking sun and its shucking rays of heat. That was Gally's phrase of the day.
It made the air hot and heavy, and not in a good way. More stale, settling uncomfortably in throats and crawling slowly over cotton-covered back muscles. That must've been what possessed the slicers to come up with yet another dumb game to play while they worked.
At least, that was Cleo's theory. Because somewhere between testing who can slice the hardest and the craziest positions a person can wield a machete from, more than a few fingers and arms were cut open.
Which in turn made the med-jack hut the most popular spot in the Glade as the workday drew to a close. Cleo was stationed farthest left inside the hut, perched on a stool while a stocky guy sat on the cot in front of her. Blood was caked under her fingernail stubs and there were grooves on her index finger from wrapping and unwrapping thread.
"You're golden, send the next one in." She smacked his good shoulder as he exited toward the line swirling out of the hut into the late afternoon heat.
A sheepish Winston ducked inside, hand clamped over his forearm. He hadn't made it two steps before Jeff's head snapped up from his work and he barked, "Yo, these are all your shanks makin' a mess in here."
Clint joined in. "Yeah, Winston. Do I have to start amputatin' or something?"
Winston waved them off and thumped down in front of Cleo. "You gonna give me klunk about this, too?"
"Now why ever would you think that?" Her voice was laced with sarcasm as sharp as the alcohol she was dabbing into his open wound. "It's not like we have to keep a runnin' count of how many slicers per week have to be patched up or anything."
A smile tugged at his lips before dragging back downward when the needle first pulled through his skin. Cleo's breathing slowed, her eyesight narrowing for total concentration on the stitching in front of her. There was sweat dampening her forehead and what felt like a fly flitting at the base of her neck, but nothing serious enough to halt the procedure.
A few strong knocks suddenly rattled the door. "I told you, there's a line and you'll just have to wait in it!" Clint called to whatever kid outside was feeling impatient.
It was Alby's head that popped in, however, and he surveyed the scene with a cocked brow. "How are things in here?"
"Peachy." Cleo set down the threaded needle before rolling her shoulders back to work out the kinks. "Frypan may have had a bit more blood to cook out of the meat, but I think everyone will make it."
Alby turned to Jeff and his patient, a pale boy named Arnie. "Even you got in on it, Greenie?"
Arnie nodded, looking down to his four bandaged fingers. "I can't be the only one that's gotten carried away before, right?"
"Look at your company. It's not new. Some of these guys are in here for every incident." Even a stern glance at Winston couldn't hide the teasing smile in Alby's eyes. "And Clint, soon as everybody's done, food's being served."
At the mention of dinner, Cleo's stomach rumbled in tandem with Jeff's excited holler. The few remaining boys had more minor injuries and they were efficiently ushered in and out, clean and bandaged and ready to devour Frypan's layout.
Cleo sat quiet for the breadth of a second once the last slicer was gone, then broke a wide grin at Clint and Jeff. "I'd say we did a bang-up job, boys."
"I'm sure they'll throw us parade one of these days," Jeff replied.
Cleo shook her head and looked down to survey her own damage. The maroon hue of her shirt absorbed bloodstains well, making her seem more sanitary than she actually was. Some fluids were fresher and sat in slick patches along her arms, while others had dried and left the shirt material sticking to her skin as she stretched this way and that to put away medical supplies.
By the time the hut was properly reorganized, Clint and Jeff were tearing out the door to go join the long line of boys for food. Cleo was a few paces behind them, but veered the opposite direction toward the showers at the edge of the forest.
The sky was still cloudless as far as the eye could see over the trees and over those damn walls. Even after ten months in the Glade, there were still moments when Cleo would be jolted by the sight of their trap. She refused to imagine what it was like for those who'd been there for most of the three years that Gladers had been sent up.
As a free breeze was finally brushing against Cleo's stifled skin, the showers came into view and a telltale bra was already hung over one of the makeshift curtains. The sound of running water was a siren's song that drew her into a jog.
"Eliza, how's it feel?" Cleo's voice was raised a couple notches to be heard from yards away.
"Thought I was going to melt out there!" the Glade's other female called. "And what took you so long to get over here? I was startin' to think I'd washed your towel for nothing."
Cleo had barely made it into the adjoining stall before she was yanking her shirt over her head and a whirlwind of the rest of her clothes followed suit. Her fingers meandered up her dark braid, loosening the coarse curls from their daily snare as she answered, "The slicers were restless again today and so Clint, Jeff, and I were patchin' up for a solid couple hours."
"I'm sure Alby had a field day with that one." There was a small smile evident in Eliza's voice.
Standing as one of the taller heads in the Glade, Eliza was the second to come out of the box after Alby and they were inseparable. If anybody were to be deemed the Glader parents, the ones to have paved an easier way for the rest, it was them. And though she denied that role, Eliza was that perfectly motherly image – blonde, sweet, and a hell of a track-hoe.
"Surprisingly, Alby was cool with it. Now it's just gettin' to be funny," Cleo answered and released a contented sigh as the first strong streams of water spilled over her warm amber skin. Her off-duty shower was about as close to a spa day as she could get.
Eliza hummed a note of discontent. "I just wish funny didn't leave scratches."
Cleo lathered down her arms with the rough soap and let the topic drop; worriers will worry, after all. Soon the small talk resumed and kept the women occupied as they washed away the day's heat and filth. Eliza's shower shut off a beat before Cleo's and left them wrapped in the hushed sounds of the Glade welcoming its waning temperatures.
With pants tucked in untied boots and an undershirt hanging loosely on her frame, Cleo followed the blonde the few steps to the clothesline to hang the remaining articles out in the fresher air. She could always count on a breeze to keep her shirt at least smelling like it was kinda clean. Extra wash days weren't exactly on her list of fun anyway.
The scent of food finally drew the pair across the meadow toward dinner and they strolled past rows of boys toward the serving table up front.
"My last two!" Frypan called, twirling the ladle with a bright smile. "Hope you liked that soup from lunch, ladies, 'cause here it is again."
Eliza's head bobbed with appreciation. "It'll be delicious all over again, Frypan. Thanks." She took her bowl and nestled herself appropriately next to Alby at the far right of all the Gladers.
"Heard you got busy with a few slicers today, Cleo," Frypan commented nonchalantly while pouring up her meal, and the slopper behind him snorted with laughter.
"Busy keepin' them alive, shuckface. Maybe I shoulda let 'em bleed a little more, teach 'em a lesson." Her smirk quickly cracked into a smile at Frypan's loud laugh and he waved her off.
Cleo wriggled herself a space between Jeff and the slicer next to him, splashing a few drops of the soup onto their arms when the bowl hit the table. Just before she shoved a spoonful into her mouth, she quipped, "How can I eat with y'all smellin' like a pig sty?"
Jeff raised his eyebrows, unamused. "And you think a shower made you smell like a damn princess?"
She shrugged off his taunt and propped her elbows up on the rough table. Chewing contentedly, she listened in to a few other surrounding conversations until a tug on one of her half-dry curls brought her attention back to Jeff's smug face.
"I totally won today, by the way."
Cleo's back straightened and she barked out a laugh. "No way! Shut your lyin' mouth."
The med-jack hut was no stranger to a little healthy competition. Therefore, on days like the one they were wrapping up, Jeff and Cleo would keep a strict tally of the number of Gladers they each sewed up.
Jeff just snickered at her. "I reeled in a few extras right at the end, not to mention Abe's shoulder took you awhile."
"Clint!" Cleo slapped her arm pleadingly across the table toward the guy charged with keeping the rivalry honest. "C'mon, what really happened?"
Clint barely kept a straight face at her desperation. "I swear, Jeff won squarely. Beat ya by two."
Both boys laughed as Cleo cleared her throat and jutted her chin up. Then a thought pranced its way across her mind and she gave Jeff a haughty side-eye.
"But you still haven't beat my overall record."
"Shuck, Cleo! That was one stroke of random luck that my thread was tangled in three different spots. And it was back when you were still our legit Greenie!" Jeff stood as he grumbled, but still picked up Cleo's empty bowl to bring to the kitchen along with his.
She gulped water from her tin cup and muttered to Clint, "Never letting that one go."
The end of the afternoon lazily crawled into dusk and soon the long shadows disappeared from the treeline. It could only cool off so much after the sweltering daytime, remaining warm enough to invite the entire arsenal of insects that the Glade had to offer. People were constantly pausing from their evening hobbies to swat left and right at the ominous buzzing.
Cleo was pretty sure she inhaled a gnat, as suddenly she found herself sitting up from the edge of the wide meadow and hacking her lungs out onto the wildflowers next to her, making a slew of Gladers protest and lean the other way.
"Gross. Y'alright?" Winston was leaned against the homestead a few feet away, carving at yet another piece of wood under the lantern light. He swore he'd start selling the little figurines one day. Maybe when they got out.
"Tryin' to not have bugs for a late dessert," Cleo rasped when her breathing evened out.
The steady rumble of conversation resumed, accompanied by a few guys sharpening knives in another circle. Frypan thumped rhythmically in the dirt to lend a little background music that Cleo found herself swaying to.
One by one the Gladers dropped off toward the homestead's promise of sweet rest, and even Cleo had stood to brush off her pants by the time Alby approached with another lantern, flanked by Eliza and Newt.
"Alright stragglers," Alby drawled and dipped his head toward the homestead, "let's head on."
The horrid metal-on-metal creaking that was now commonplace background noise sounded from the maze just as Newt filed in line to walk behind Cleo, the warmth of the lantern in his hand spreading across her back.
"Zart's threatening to go streaking tomorrow if it's as bloody hot as it was today."
Cleo snorted, sweeping her dark mane over one shoulder to look behind her. "Not the mental picture I wanted."
Newt's smirk peered through the shadows as the group maneuvered inside the homestead but he remained right next to her. "Always glad to help."
Her muscles elongated bottom upwards as she pulled herself into a stretch and mused, "Better Zart lose his clothes than more shank slicers lose fingers. I'll have Winston's head next time."
"Can't tell me you don't love it," he countered. "You'd rather have 'em lined up outside than no one at all."
Cleo tried to steel her own dark eyes to glare at his, she really did. But prideful as she was, he always knew to call out klunk when he saw it.
"G'night, Newt." Her tired voice couldn't hide the smile behind it.
His own whisper carried before he made headway toward his own room. "Night, Cleo."
The breathable fabric of her hammock could not have been more inviting for Cleo as she toed off her boots and swung into it from the left. It took a few minutes for the roomful of drowsy Gladers to settle and resettle themselves, but she had drifted into the clutches of sleep before the last lantern was out.