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𝟢𝟢𝟥,𝐚 𝐭𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐲

"𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 moly," Minho breathes out. "Holy fuck knuckles— shuck me, man."

That is the first reaction to their old friend stepping out of the ship.

"Newt?" Thomas chokes out, neglecting Minho's... interesting response. For a moment, it feels like all the air gets knocked out of his lungs.

In Gally's case, one lung. He stares at Newt with wide eyes, eyes following every move.

The blonde wanders in front of the line of old friends. The way he walks is a bit strange— not only is his limp still there, but he seems to have trouble standing straight up.

His skin is paler than it used to be. Veins not as black as the last time the Gladers saw him, but they surely have a tint of purple. They're outstanding to say the least. Blueish lips. Dark eyes— almost fully dark. Greasy hair.

"Bloody hell," he states. "I have never been more pleased with a greeting."

They all remain silent, staring at Newt. He stares back down at them, one by one. "Which one of you is the leader again?"

They share a glance. That shouldn't have been too hard to remember.

"Thomas," says one of Newt's men. "The one in the blue shirt."

"Winston?" Gally gulps.

Newt squints his eyes at the boy. "Shut up." And then turns to Thomas, pointing the bat he has been holding all this time at his head. "Hi, Thomas. You might get some blood on that blue shirt soon. Real soon."

Thomas's lips remain pressed together, a fearful yet somewhat brave look in his eyes. "Newt, this isn't—"

"Newt, this isn't you," Newt mimics in a high-pitched tone. He throws his head back. "Ha! That's funny. Who is it, then?"

"What... how the hell are you alive?" Brenda snarls.

Newt turns to her, slowly. "Some serum that I can't pronounce. Alby, you mind?"

"Anthropotasis," answers a deep, familiar voice from the shadows.

Some jaws drop even lower. There's flashlights pointed at them— too many to count, and they're unable to see the ones standing behind them or watching in the darkness. But there's dozens of people. People they know. Winston, Alby... who's next?

"Right. Anthro-something." Newt nods. "Now, don't interrupt me again. I was about to reason with you, on why I think it's fair I make that blue shirt a bit bloody."

Newt looks around in the silence as if he's waiting for someone to speak against him. When no one does, he continues, "You've been stealing my stuff. My food, my clothes, my weapons— my stuff. And over here, I was thinking we're friends."

"You're holding a bat against our faces. Wouldn't call that friendly," Minho says, face and tone blank.

The former Crank gives him a nasty glare. "Did you just call my baby... a bat?" Three seconds later, it's pointed at Minho's head. "And I told you not to interrupt me." A pause. "So, back to the subject. If you take my stuff, I take your life. Not all of them, that would be a bit greedy. Maybe one or two— perhaps three."

"The stuff was standing just there," Minho continues. "Got no name on it. If you're so protective about it, you should've told us immediately."

"You finna get murdered, my boy," Newt tsks in disapproval. "Shut that mouth."

He takes a few more steps in front of the line. Now and then, his face twitches, almost like his expression softens, but then he becomes harsh again. "I will not accept any arguments you have about stealing my stuff. You stole it, so my baby gets to have a meal. You resist, and she'll eat this whole place!"

While some are shaking in fear, others are blankly staring, and a few pull faces at the ridiculousness of his words— even though he is very much serious about them.

"This here..." Newt holds up the bat—which we're not allowed to called a bat—and twists it in his hands, "is Lizzy."

One by one, he holds them in front of everyone's eyes, giving them a good look of the barbed wire wrapped around it.

"And she is lit!"

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