Chapter Text
Newt was enjoying some really good food the moment that the only life he'd ever known began to end.
He could recall it clearly in his mind, as if it only were yesterday. He was sat beside Zart and across from Winston and Chuck, at the end of the small picnic table. They were all munching on their own sandwiches, premade by Frypan based on what he knew they liked. He knew everyone well enough to do that, given he didn't have many other things to do all day than get to know the people he lived alongside.
Newt finished up his sandwich and got a start on his own plate of mashed potatoes, zoning out at the big, grey walls that surrounded the clearing in which he inhabited. His eyes drifted to the sun, high in the sky, and then down to the watch on his wrist, something only runners and keepers had the luxury of attaching to their limb. Right on time, the Greenie alarm rang out in the Glade. Just as he expected.
He observed for a moment as everyone flung themselves from their seats and jogged or speed-walked over to the metal doors in the ground, only taking an extra beat to stand from his wooden throne and follow them. Not that he was a follower, he was definitely a leader, he just assumed everyone got much more excited than he did when a new kid showed up in the box. Gave them someone to bully around for a month, he supposed.
A loud clunk rang out under the doors just as Newt pushed his way to the front of the crowd. It wasn't hard, everyone respected him as somewhat co-leader of the Glade, and his limp gave him an excuse to shove through. He and Gally grabbed either door handle and hauled the rusty metal outward, allowing the bright, natural light to reach the sun-starved teen.
The kid instantly let each hand fly in front of his face to block the blinding light stabbing his corneas, and Newt could sense the fear radiating off the boy as the rest of the Gladers began jabbering about.
"Look at that shank," Zart.
"Looks like a klunk in a t-shirt," John.
"You're the klunk, shuck-face," Newt couldn't put a face or name to this voice.
"Dude, it smells like feet down there!" John, again.
"Hope you enjoyed your one-way trip, Greenie," Definitely Gally.
Newt then began to block out the rest of the comments, he only ever cared about his companion's opinions for a minute at the most. Gazing back down at the new boy in the metal box, he watched a range of emotions unfold. Confusion, panic, puzzlement, and then more confusion, and fear. He and Gally met eyes for just a moment, and Newt tilted his head downwards, knowing Gally would understand. Typically, any keeper would help a Greenie out of the box (even though it was normally Newt), but just the small head movement let Gally know it was his turn. That Newt didn't want to irritate his ankle further by leaping into the rusty crate engraved into the ground, or using excessive strength to help pull the kid out.
He watched as Gally tossed a rope down into the box, and he watched as he abducted the sweaty, smelly shank from the rust-covered prison. Dozens of dirty, diversely pigmented hands plucked him away from the rope and out of the box with ease, and then they dusted the boy off, allowing his to stand by himself.
Newt was still just watching the scene unfold when Gally clapped his hands on Greenie's left shoulder, and spoke to his in a booming voice. Trying to assert his dominance and role in this community, Newt thought, reading into the gestures.
"Nice to meet ya, shank," He said. "Welcome to the Glade."