cooking with frypan was.. well, chaotic, for lack of a better word.

you'd get distracted, make jokes, laugh and giggle, instead of paying attention to the food that you were supposed to be cooking. it was a shock that you hadn't burned down the kitchen. at least not yet, thankfully for poor alby; the guy was probably exhausted of having to deal with the shit all the fifty-ish teenage boys in the glade got themselves into - not that you could blame him, because the shit in question was usually really stupid.

focusing on the food was supposed to be something you'd make sure to do. you really shouldn't be getting as easily distracted as you were. and you tried to tell yourself, just this once, to pay more attention to your guys' cooking.

but nope. you ended up hunched over, hands on your knees as you cackled.

"but you cannot tell winston i told you this - he doesn't know i know," frypan pleaded, "or thomas - i think he's still grieving over beatrice's death."

"you're telling me that the mighty and brave maze runner, thomas, named a chicked 'beatrice'?" you wheezed out.

"he was so emotional about it when winston told him who was in last night's dinner, too..," the cook said, shaking his head in mock disappointment - the grin on his face was a give away. "really shouldn't be letting that shank name the animals in the blood house. poor thing's just gonna get his heart shattered."