In which there are talks and sparring practice

AN: So, to get the pacing right for the next few chapters, there may have to be a couple of shorter ones. I'll see how I go, but they're not being cooperative with the break points at the minute XD And please bear with me while I respond to some guest reviews - feel free to skip straight to the chapter though :)

So replies:

Emma: Thank you so much! It's wonderful to hear you like it so much (enough that you keep checking back for updates). I know what its like to be on the other end, waiting for a story you love, which is one of the reasons I only started posting when I'd finished writing. Anyway, I'm also thrilled that you like the Eva and Newt dynamic as it evolves (I think it can be a bit of a gamble whether an OC will go down well), so thank you for that, too. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Jazz: First, if you do have an account on here, I'd love you to review from that, because you brought up quite a scenario and it tends to be easier to respond properly through PMs. Anyway, thank you for your reviews! For the first one, I'm glad you're enjoying it and that some of it is able to surprise you. It's also been amazing to hear how well Eva and her relationship with Newt has been received; it definitely is a case of both of them being quite oblivious. As for how things pan out; the entire story is already written and – I mean this in the nicest way – I don't really take on reader suggestions, anyway. My plots and characters are stubborn like that. I guess just stick around and see where it goes? Hope you continue to enjoy it.

And for your second review (assuming I understood right, and if I didn't then I'm sorry), unfortunately that kind of twist just has no basis in this story at all. I very much wanted to focus on harsh realities in the same canon world as the franchise, so as much as possible, it sticks to the official storyline. If you like the idea of a more family focused plot that explores domesticity, you're welcome to have a look for one, or even take a stab at writing your own.

I do want to explain, though. Eva isn't a hugely maternal type (she'd be fairly hopeless with a baby), but more than that, siblings wouldn't even remember they were siblings, because no one keeps their memories. Kids have to be a certain age to be sent because ones too young – such as infants – respond to fear stimuli very differently and the Glade, first and foremost, is a test environment. WCKD wouldn't send in a baby because the chances of it yielding useful results are slim, and the chances of it surviving are even slimmer. Who'd know what it needed and how to help it? Infants are far more fragile to things like infection, sickness, malnutrition, injury, heat exposure and so on. The Glade's full of teenagers with no memories; even mothers who've had nine months to prepare for a child, have a stable life and read tons of books on it panic and mess up and need help at times.

So many changes would have to be made to the basic foundation of the series and my story to make blood siblings in the Glade a possibility, and even more changes would have to happen to the characters themselves to make them at all parental and be able to take care of a baby. So while it's an interesting premise, the nature of it fits firmly into an AU of the series, which this is striving not to be. But as I said, if it's a story you want to read, there's nothing to stop you looking elsewhere or attempting it yourself.

That all said, here we go!

-notes at the end-

By the middle of his second week, Chuck is downright mischievous and pranking half the Glade.

He leaves pine needles in people's hammocks, puts berry juice in their boots, throws their clothes on the roof while they shower and traps them in the bathroom before bedtime.

I haven't had a single prank pulled on me.

Nor has Alby.

He seems to pick at random, though by the end of the week, Newt approaches me as I make my way from the animal pens with the usual jugs of goat's milk. He's shaking out his hooded shirt and wearing an annoyed expression.

Newt's annoyed is everyone else's 'mildly put out', and I can't help but sit the jugs down and laugh as he stops in front of me.

He's already had to bash out his boots and start wearing another pair of shoes thanks to being berried.

"This is getting bloody ridiculous," he says. He whips the shirt and pine needles flutter to the grass. Apparently giving up, he ties it around his hips and rubs his forehead. There are a few scattered scars on his arm; pale lines across the wiry muscle that are only just visible under the sun, usually hidden by the shirt.

"Take it easy," I tell him. I adjust the satchel strap on my shoulder and pick up the jugs again when it looks like he doesn't need any help. "He's finding his place; just like the others. That's what you always say."

Newt gives me a look that is half amused half exasperated. I remember a very similar look on his face the day I saw him talking to Alby while I sat in the tree. I'm glad that I see that amused look more often now than I ever used to.

"None of the others have caused half the Gladers to run from the showers to their hammocks wrapped only in their blankets," Newt points out.

I bite my lip, feeling warmth spread across my cheeks.

The first time I saw that, it was evening, supper was cleared away and Dimitri had gone racing past the empty fire pit, dripping wet, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He had been clutching a dark blanket around his waist, but it was quite clearly all he was wearing.

Half the boys laughed, the other half let out joking cat-calls. I clapped my hand over my mouth and spun my body away. Zart ended up patting me on the back, laughing riotously as I hid my face against his shoulder.

Dimitri called everyone shuck-faced shanks and disappeared into the Runner's hut.

The incident was talked about quite a lot for the next fifteen minutes, before Stan did the exact same thing.

It was at that point that Newt headed off to investigate and found that someone had thrown all the clothes that were usually left outside the shower block onto the roof of the Kitchen.

No one brought it up to Chuck, knowing he was still finding his feet and would probably freak out if he was given a warning.

Since that night it's happened twice more. I can't quite look at any of the boys who get caught out as they race by, but I've stopped blushing and covering my eyes. I try to pretend it's not happening – and Newt knows that.

"Get on with your job," I tease, heading past him. "If he does it again tonight, then talk to him."

I leave Newt on the field and duck into the Kitchen.

Stan is sitting at the main table, seasoning a rabbit. I look away from the scene, heading for the storage crates instead.

Stan chuckles. "I know; now you've seen me without clothes, you just can't face me."

I look up, startled, and he just laughs harder. The memory of him racing to his hammock after his clothes were stolen from the shower is a fuzzy one.

I set down the milk jugs and chuck a spoon at him, "Not exactly."

"Nah," he says, smirking in a way I don't like. "Blondes are more your type."

I frown.

Are they?

Stan glances at me.

I shrug. "Not really sure what my type is," I say. "But that's not it. What's with the rabbit?"

He goes back to his task, expression turning into a relaxed smile, and I know that he was kidding – he knew my aversion was about the rabbit. "Getting a few too many up there," he says. "Winston asked one of the boys to bring down a few. Don't worry – apparently White-Foot is still munching on cabbages."

I give him a withering look.

A little bit of me is relieved anyway.

There's a noise just outside and then Chuck appears in the doorway, carrying clean, folded cloths.

He's settled in with the Sloppers nicely, but it's still a lingering worry in the back of my mind that he's so young. I know it worries some of the others too. As far as Newt and I could tell, I'm here because there was a switch; something done on purpose for a purpose. And I wonder if Chuck is here; such a young boy, for a reason just as significant.

But it's hard to work out what that could be.

"Tim sent these down," he says, voice muffled by the pile of fabric. I let my worries drop. "To replace the old clean up rags. I've got to take the old ones back."

Newt's words from not even an hour ago flash through my mind.

I wave Stan off, crossing over to the younger boy. I gently lift the pile from him.

As soon as he spots me, his eyes go round and his cheeks fill with colour.

"Hey, Chuck," I say. "Thanks. I'm heading towards Homestead, do you mind if I talk to you on the way?"

He shakes his head wordlessly.

I set the fresh cloths down on the table.

Stan passes me a handful of the old rags that the Cooks use to scrub down the tables and I stuff them into my satchel. I turn back to Chuck and steer him out of the Kitchen.

"You're not in trouble," I tell him, when he walks stiffly alongside me, eyes on the floor. "Do you know my name?"

"Eva," he says. "They talk about you."

"Who?"

He shrugs. "All of them. Tim, Zart, Frypan…"

"It's like having twenty brothers," I say, smiling. "I was so scared when I arrived."

Chuck looks at me like I'm mad, but at least he's looking at me. His face has lost its high colour.

"Really?" he asks. "But…you just seem like you're not."

I laugh. I can't help it. Though distant, I remember the choking fear of my own arrival; it's strange that no one else seemed to see it. "Not anymore," I tell him. "But when you first come up in that Box and you don't know anything, that's scary enough – being the only girl on top of that…"

Chuck swallows. "I'm still afraid sometimes," he confesses in a whisper.

"You wouldn't be human if you weren't," I say. "We're all still scared sometimes. Fear can keep you alive."

This time, when he throws me a glance, there's some kind of new appreciation there.

"Someone telling you that you're safe doesn't always help," I say. "And it doesn't always make it true, so I won't try. Just…try to give these guys a chance, okay? There's nowhere to go for now, and you don't need old memories to make new ones."

Chuck is quiet for a moment. We walk slowly towards the gathering of Sloppers outside one of the storage huts. They're pulling laundry down off of the lines strung from the overhanging trees.

Looking at the lines, I'm reminded about the silver birch bow under my hammock, waiting to be tested.

Soon, I think.

"Thanks," Chuck says, eventually. "Do you…did the new memories you made help?"

I look down at him. I don't have to even think about the answer, but I want him to know I'm answering seriously.

"I don't know anything about my life before I came here," I say. "But I wouldn't give up the friends I've made here to get those memories back; not for a second.

"You may not feel that way, and that's okay. Everyone finds a way to cope with the Glade on their own." I smile at him. "You'll be fine, Chuck. But one more thing?"

He nods.

"Maybe cut back on the pranking?" I watch his cheeks flush. "Its good to have a laugh but this is all we have; it's our whole world and working all day can be hard on everyone."

"Okay," he says. "Sorry."

I smile at him, pulling out the used rags from my satchel for him. "It's okay. Go ahead; I've got to get back to work."

He nods again, smiling tentatively back, and jogs away to rejoin his group.

I wonder as I head on for the Medi Tent if I've done anything to dispel the crush, or if I've made it worse.

…

The pranks drop in frequency.

While some of the boys seem to like Chuck, and indeed view him as a little – sometimes annoying – brother, they do seem relieved about the reduction in sabotage.

Sadly, a number of the Gladers don't seem too thrilled with him. This young boy who was sent down hasn't got the maturity yet to really see the situation the same way they do. Even scared, he's trying to make the best of it by playing jokes.

The others make the best of it by forming friendships and bonds that carry them through the bad days.

Despite seeming to know he's not actively liked by everyone, Chuck does seem to find his own niche in the group. He doesn't blush so frequently when he spots me, now, and says more than two words to me in one go.

He looks up to Alby with a certain reverence.

I get the feeling that all Chuck really wants is a big brother.

…

The sky is barely light the first time I take the bow from under my hammock the next morning.

I've managed to pinch a handful of the long spikes the Builder's use to help secure panels. I have a suspicion Eric left them aside on purpose, because only he knew about the branch I asked for, and the spikes have been cut longer than normal.

I take the bow, the spikes and my collection of feathers with me when I sneak into the Deadheads.

It took time to collect the feathers from the geese. I've picked them up while clearing out the pen, but it takes some of the hissing matches to shake loose the flight feathers that are strong enough to use on an arrow. The downy, constantly dropped feathers won't do.

So I sit at the base of a tree and cut grooves into the spikes with the knife, then hack the feathers into neat shapes that slot in. I cut under the bark of the tree, using amber sap to glue them in.

I'm struck, as I finally stand up, the sun just cresting over the wall, to discover that I like making things.

It echoes of the inexplicable way I was able to fix the shower piping. It's something that I know to do without knowing how.

Yet another thing I've learned about myself, I suppose.

…

By the time I've finished making the arrows – needing to rely on the sharpened tips of wood alone for the heads – it's clearly morning.

Breakfast isn't far off.

So I pick up one of the arrows, knock it back onto the string and let the thin, cleanly whittled rod of wood settle into the side of the bow.

It creaks in my hands as I cant it straight and pull the string back to my ear.

I hold my breath as I let go.

The arrow goes flying.

It's not the straightest trajectory, and it doesn't have a great range, but it sails cleanly through the wood and stakes into the soft ground some way off.

The bow hasn't snapped.

I see this as something of a success.

I lower the bow. The side of my arm stings a bit from where the loosed string snapped against it. I'll need to do something about that. I can see the goose feathers on the tail end of the arrow, shining in the early light – for some reason I can't fathom, I knew where to place the feathers to help it fly straight – and I can't help a smile.

It's not amazing, and somehow I still feel safer with the tiny knife in my pocket, but I made this, and it works, and it's a weapon.

Shaking myself, I hurry to collect the launched arrow and gather my things before racing back for the hammock. My time is up today.

…

I swing out my fist, missing Ben's face by inches and before I can blink, his hand comes up and pushes my bent elbow across my body.

It pulls on my shoulder and gasp as I try to twist after it.

Ben straightens me and his hand on my elbow lets up a little. "If you miss, you move first," he says. "Duck if you have to. If you stay there, you leave your whole side open."

I nod.

There's an awful lot I'm trying to commit to memory. I started some basic training with Ben around a week ago. Short sessions, just every other night, once he returns from the Maze.

The techniques he teaches aren't refined or any real self-defence style. It's just instinct, but it's all we have. Better than nothing.

"Again," Ben says.

I resume my stance, spreading my weight and try to remember everything.

Keep on the balls of your feet, be ready to move, don't over-reach, follow through with your body weight, keep your thumb outside of your fingers when you punch…

I let out a slow breath.

Ben attacks.

I have a bruise developing on my side when we walk back towards the fire pit as the sky begins to darken. This one is mild, compared to my track record.

"How did it go?" Zart asks, handing me a jar of Brew. "You look a little…beat up."

"She's doing good," Ben says. "She just gets herself tied up at times from thinking about everything too much." He looks at me, "You've only been doing this a week. And it might be good to get Billy to help – everyone has a different natural style…"

I nod. "Thanks, Ben."

He offers a small smile and jogs away – probably for Runner's Lodge. I sink down next to Zart and swallow some of the Brew. My side pulses.

"Where'd he get you?" Zart asks, eyes darting across me.

"Ribs," I say. "Better than last time. I half-dodged him but he's bigger than me."

Zart laughs. "I can go against you," he says.

I look over at him, smirking. Zart takes his turn in the Ring, but he's not the best wrestler. And he's still bigger than me. "Really?"

What Ben said about working with different people swims in my head.

"Sure." He stands up and offers me a hand. "Come on; before everyone else turns up."

I look around the camp. I can still hear Fry and the others finishing up in the Kitchen, and the fire pit is cold, filled with silvery ashes from yesterday. There's really no one around – just Jack and Rob readying the barrels of Brew.

I grasp Zart's hand and he pulls me up. We stand in the sandy pit, facing each other.

"Whenever you're ready, Evie," Zart says. His smile goes from one ear to the other. "I'm looking forward to actually winning a match."

So I lunge first.

Like me, Zart's technique seems to be primarily avoiding blows than blocking or delivering them. We mostly duck around each other, occasionally landing a lucky strike, but it feels more like a very confined game of tag, rather than a sparring match.

"Are you going light on me?" I ask, a little out of breath as the Slicers make their way towards the fire pit. The sun has fallen behind the wall; the shadows stretch all the way across the Glade.

Zart pulls a guilty expression.

I'm not going to learn anything if he doesn't actually try to take me out.

I barrel into him. It's almost a spear tackle; my shoulder driving into his ribs and I hear his breath rush out at the impact.

He stays standing, but we leave furrows in the sand where I've managed to push him back. He pushes back into me, and where I already ache, I can feel my strength failing.

And then I feel his closed fist bump into the side of my knee.

It's not a punch; it wasn't nearly a hard enough blow, but it's strong enough that the joint buckles.

The next thing I know, I'm lying in the sand. Not in pain, just surprised.

Zart kneels next to me, looking worried.

"Eva? Eva? Shuck, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I say, sitting up. I gently press my fingers into the once-tender spot on my leg.

The bruise I got weeks ago from the falling beam has gone, though it took its time about it. I can run – even sprint – without any problems at all. But I never realised that it might still be a weak point for direct impact.

"Your leg?" Zart asks. "I thought it might make you flinch; I didn't think it'd-"

"It didn't hurt," I hurry to assure him. "I'm fine." I stand up and brush myself off to prove it. "I just didn't know it might still be a weak point. I know now I have to guard it. Thanks."

Zart slowly starts to smile again. "Then you're welcome."

"Again?" I ask.

"I'll take a go!"

We both turn and Dan jogs away from the Slicers towards us. The other guys follow him, all wearing smiles that are a little bit proud.

Zart bows out and Winston claps him on the back as Dan takes his spot.

"Let's see what you've got then, Evie."

Actually practicing like this somehow makes it easier for me to remember what Ben's been saying.

Dan is left handed – I've always known that – and now that I'm the one standing opposite him, I can see that he leaves his right side a little less guarded.

I have something to aim for.

"Bring it on," I say.

Dan smirks, and he moves first.

INFO

1. Chuck's pranking nature is taken a bit more from the book version of him. And I don't know much other than he played pranks, some involving the bathroom, so the rest of it is me using creative licence again. His relationship dynamics with the others are more based on the film, though, and I've built on what you see there. Alby, for instance, where I always thought there was a hint of familial fondness between them. I hope it reads believably.

2. I just want to clarify that Eva saying she wouldn't trade her new memories for her old ones does not mean that she views the world like Gally does, or that she's content with being stuck in the Glade. Kind of like Newt, she throws herself into helping so she doesn't have to think about the lack of news or answers, but she does want out. What she said relates more to the fact that the friends she has mean a lot to her, and she wouldn't want to give them up for a life she can't remember; whether it was better or worse. Though what she says is actually broadening something rather more complex.

Sorry for the lack of a teaser - Can't find a good bit again...