I would first like to thank everyone who left a review saying what they thought was the mental disorder I had in mind for Eleanor. It was a difficult question because her disorder is kind of buried under crazy. I'll explain why she isn't schizophrenic first because it's simpler; her not knowing what's real and her paranoia, both symptoms of schizophrenia, are the direct result of what WICKED did to her - so that's not a mental disorder, she's insane (a state of mind that prevents normal perception, behavior, or social interaction; seriously mentally ill).
As to her mental disorder: for the reviewers I could respond to I left two hints:1. the things she's done since she was a child - noises being overwhelming, she never played like a normal child, and when she's 'upset' she doesn't really like being touched (except in the way Jorge had been soothing her) 2. her social interactions - she doesn't catch subtext, doesn't understand sarcasm, and often doesn't know how to say the things in her head.
It was a guest reviewer who got it: Eleanor has Asperger's. She misses subtext in conversations, she often doesn't know how to communicate what she wants to say, and sometimes she just doesn't participate in the conversation. She fixates, a lot; she has a one track mind. Doesn't like change, sensitive to noise. What makes it Asperger's and not simply autism is her wanting to make friends; she knows what she's supposed to do, and she tries very hard to do it, she just doesn't fully understand how. Except for the people who are closest to her (mainly Newt), she learns their ways of communicating and tries to adapt to it; and Newt also makes more of an effort to understand her.
Anyways, I could talk about Eleanor all day. But I guess I'll stop and let you read the chapter. Thank you, again, to everyone and I hope you enjoy.
Eleanor's thin arms wrapped around Jorge's neck as she held him, shrinking into herself at the flurry of firing weapons – one distinct clap of thunder ringing the loudest in her ear that triggered the memory of her mother's head snapping back before her body hit the ground. If she wasn't holding onto him as tightly as she was, she would've fallen when he turned at the sound of Brenda's scream to see tendrils of electricity snaking over her body.
Jorge had continued running and nearly threw Eleanor up the hatch before climbing in behind her, tossing aside his weapon and grabbing a different kind of Launcher, one she'd never seen; and somehow Eleanor knew it was worse. He knelt quickly in front of her, obviously wanting to help Brenda, and he grabbed her shoulders – he could've folded her in half from how tightly he squeezed her, knowing pressure helped ground her. "Listen niña," he told her quickly, knowing he had little time to waste.
She stared at his worried, panicked face, and told him softly okay. The fight was muffled in the Berg, it echoed dimly. She wasn't panicked, not even with what was going on outside, she was almost comfortable – the air was warm, his hands were comforting, the sound reverberating in the Berg reminded her of something she'd once heard her mother say: Sometimes she gets a little overwhelmed, especially with noise. If you wrap your arms around her shoulders and squeeze her against your chest she'll calm right down. The pressure and the warmth of your body help too. Her mother had told that to Jorge's wife, before asking again if she was sure she was comfortable watching her – her mother worked, so did Jorge, and his wife watched Diana; she'd smiled kindly before patting Diana's head, who barely even noticed as she continued coloring, before saying it was okay.
That's what Eleanor was thinking about as she listened to Jorge's hasty instructions, which were to listen to what he told her and do exactly what he said in the exact way he said it. And then he ran back out and fired at the guards.
Thomas watched the grenades of Jorge's new weapons exploded into spouts of raging fire, engulfing the guards they hit in flames. "What?" he called seeing Jorge yelling something. It wasn't until he heard a soft whirring that he realized Jorge was yelling to Eleanor how to start the Berg so they could actually escape.
Eleanor flipped the switches she'd been instructed and then waited for the others to get in, hearing the fighting coming closer. At the sudden sound of feet on metal she turned to see Jorge and Minho dragging Brenda up the ramp.
"Sounds real good, Diana," Jorge yelled to her, assuring her she'd done what she was supposed to.
Minho looked at Jorge confused. "Her name's Eleanor."
"You can bloody talk about it later, Tommy's hit," Newt yelled, causing both Minho and Jorge to run back out.
Eleanor stood from the pilot's seat and hesitantly stepped toward where they'd dropped Brenda, seeing her completely pale skin and the blood that pooled out of her nose streaking across her cheek. Eleanor knelt down and began wiping her face, using the hem of the white gown to gently blot at the blood. Jorge ran past her, barely stopping to notice either girls as he made for the Berg's controls to raise the ramp.
"Shuck, she-bean, you could've dragged her to a bed," Minho said after him and Newt threw Thomas up the ramp.
"Slim it Minho," Newt told him looking from where Thomas now lay unconscious. "You now she's not strong enough."
Eleanor stepped back as Minho and Newt grabbed Brenda and carried her to a cot, and then watched as they did the same to Thomas – who was just as pale and unconscious as Brenda.
"Hey," Newt said when he saw her standing unhappily against the side of the Berg. It was almost like they were back in the Glade when she'd first gotten there, her body nearly vibrating with how uncomfortable she was – as though at any given moment she might turn and run away. She looked like she wanted to, to run and never stop. "Why don't you pick a couch," he said reaching a hand to touch her face. It physically hurt him to see her flinch at his touch, even though she quickly calmed and leaned into his hand, that first moment where she hadn't recognized him – he felt it like she'd shot him with a Launcher.
Minho stood back watching them, seeing the pain on Newt's face as she walked away. He'd never had much patience for her, not when she was like this – Newt had always been the only one she responded to, he'd made her his responsibility and fell in love with her in the process. Minho couldn't remember ever loving anyone, but he knew he never wanted to love someone like Newt did Eleanor; to love so much it hurt, to not be able to live without someone else. And he rather suddenly found himself angry at Eleanor for not realizing what she was doing to Newt, and he was angry at Newt for being such a stupid slinthead when it came to her. "Why'd you call her Diana?" Minho asked Jorge, his tone harsh and demanding.
Jorge barely glanced over his shoulder as he piloted the Berg out of the hangar. "I'm busy, hermano. Why don't you ask her?"
Minho had never liked Jorge, just like Jorge had never liked him; and he didn't like him all the more at the sound of his sharp voice. He turned to see Newt doing his best to bandage Thomas' leg where a bullet had grazed him, and then he looked for Eleanor. She sat with her knees pressed tight against her chest staring unhappily at the ground. "How do you know Jorge?" he asked her. His voice was harsher than it should've been, especially since she didn't respond well to it. If she responded to it all, like she did then – or rather like she didn't then. She just sat there staring ahead of her, as blank as she always was – and that just infuriated him more.
Except she wasn't sitting blank, she knew exactly what he asked and that he was looking for an answer; the problem was she didn't know if it would do more harm telling him how she knew Jorge. She didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.
"Eleanor," Minho said crouching down so he was in her face. "I need you to be normal right now, okay," he told her. He needed her like she was in the Glade – yeah she'd been weird and didn't always make sense, but she at least would respond. "You know Jorge, he called you Diana – that's your real name isn't it? Did WICKED remove your Swipe?" He sat waiting for an answer, brushing aside Newt's concern. He wasn't trying to upset her or to even be mean to her, in all truth he liked the she-bean as jacked as she was, but he just wanted an answer and she had one. All his frustrations were now aimed at her, as unfair as it was. "Eleanor, could you at least look at m-"
Her palm cracked loudly against his cheek and he staggered back in complete shock unable to believe she'd just hit him. Newt grabbed his arm and dragged him away from her, not liking the way she stared at her hand as though it was unfamiliar to her. "Just bloody stay away from her, would ya. We have no buggin' idea what WICKED told her. Let her calm down you bloody klunk-head."
He quickly limped to where she sat on the couch and sat beside her, folding the hand that slapped Minho's cheek in his own. "It's alright," he told her knowing exactly how she was feeling – it was like something had just snapped in her mind and she hadn't been herself, and now she was left scared because she hadn't meant to do it – he'd felt it less than an hour before when he'd punched Minho in his shuck face. "He didn't mean it, he knows you didn't mean it. We'll get some sleep and calm down." It was a good a plan as any, they were exhausted and wired up all at the same time – they just needed to rest.
"I'll talk to Jorge, see where we're going," Minho said wanting to at least know that before he laid down.
Newt barely even looked his way as Eleanor laid on her side leaving him just enough room to lay beside her. He didn't know if he'd ever wanted to know what was going on in her mind as much as he did then; to know what damage WICKED had done so he'd know what to do to make it better. Normally lying beside her made him forget any trouble he had, even if she was the problem; he normally found so much comfort in her small body, that feeling her breaths helped even his own breathing. He hadn't realized it before but he only felt that because she offered it; she wasn't offering him any comfort in that moment. He laid down beside her and was met with so much guilt and utter sadness in her eyes.
"They told me you weren't real."
His heart had never been so broken as he realized she'd believed them; that's why her eyes had been so distant, that's why she still wasn't fully there. She'd given up on him, and now she lay with less than an inch between him with tears in her eyes still scared she was gonna wake up. "Hey," he said cupping her face, feeling that familiar need to make the world okay for her. "I love you." He had to say it, after almost leaving her in the Glade and then having her taken, who knew what would happen next to keep him from saying it – but there it was, those three words out in the open. And he felt like he'd just given her his heart and was now waiting to see if she'd accept it.
That hadn't been what she was expecting; she thought he'd be mad or upset that she'd believed Mr. Janson. But he sat there with an uncertain smile twitching on his mouth. So she said the first thing that came to mind. "I know."
His brows furrowed at her answer, which was nothing more than a simple agreement – as though he'd told her the weather. "You're supposed to say I love you too," he told her with a grin, seeing her blinking away whatever thoughts had been behind her eyes. She was making that face she made right before her mouth formed a smile so beautiful it took his breath away. He knew she was coming back.
"But I said it first," she informed him, watching his brow crease further in confusion. "I love my love with an H."
And there was that smile, it was only half as bright as it'd been in the Glade but it still knocked the breath out of him. "The whole bloody time," he said quietly as he realized she'd been telling him he was the most important person in the world to her for months. He might've kissed her, should have kissed her in such a gentle moment, but he saw her notice the way his own smile fell – saw the questions in her mind. She knew how to read faces, she didn't always understand a look or the way someone said something, but she knew him. So he told her, and this time it was her heart that broke. "I'm a bloody Crank too." He watched the shock settle on her lovely, if not bedraggled, face.
"But you can't die," she whispered. She was faced with the same thoughts as when they'd been fighting the Grievers; she couldn't imagine the world without him.
He shrugged not wanting to think about it; he just wanted to hold her, push all this pain away for just a moment before he crushed under the weight of it. "It's not like life was ever anything without you." Before she could say anything, if she even had anything to say, he pulled her to his chest and tucked her head under his chin; breathing in the smell of her. She smelled like soap. He couldn't even hold onto to that thought, that she smelled clean, that she was warm and there and pressed against him as he'd only been able to dream about. Thoughts of the Cranks he'd seen in the Scorch kept flashing in his head; that's what was happening to him, what was happening to her. Life had never been more unfair than it was then.
And somehow, drowning in his morose thoughts of death with only the feel of her against him to keep him afloat, he found rest.
