Chapter Text
They'd been through so much.
His bones ached and his skin crawled.
But he was okay.
Finally, after months, years, a lifetime of pain and suffering and losses and anticipating the next blow, here he was.
In a last act of what Newt called kindness in a lack of a better word, WICKED had brought them to the probably last safe haven on earth.
They'd been provided with everything to start a life.
There were many of them.
Young children, teens, women, men, elders. It was easy to spot Subjects in between, though. Because their motions were just a bit more cautious. Their glances a bit more suspicious. Their smiles a bit more worn. Their eyes a bit more tired.
Being occupied with building a home, though, helped keeping everyone together and after a few months, they had something running closer to normality than anything they could remember.
And it felt real.
For probably the first time in his life, Newt felt genuinely safe.
He was helping Gally, Aris and a few others building chairs and tables outside the actual village close to the cliff that lead down to the growling ocean.
Minho, Jorge, Harriet, a tall, intimidating woman named Alice and a short teenage girl with long blond hair called Cora had emerged as their leaders. With surprising calmness and sense they'd worked out jobs for everyone and scheduled patrols and working shifts and hunting trips.
Wooden sheds and almost-houses with glass windows formed their campsite which was cradled by a vividly green forest and a crashing blue sea.
They had a meeting hall, several kitchens and somehow WICKED had even made sure they had electricity and running water, which was a miracle to everyone, since they were pretty sure every other person on the planet was either dead or a crank by then.
But it worked and so no one really questioned it.
Brenda had taken it upon herself to build a hospice having been happy to find some medical supplies and, according to her, helpful herbs in the forest by the river.
Frypan and Group A's cook Janine were managing the kitchens with the help of adult Munies.
There was even a daycare, under the lead of several Gladers, including Thomas and Sonya.
Newt enjoyed the work he was doing. It kept his mind from wandering to places he didn't want it to go. He was sanding a chair leg as he saw Gally approach, his face red from the sun and the physical work, his strawberry blond hair a sweaty mess.
“Enough of that, shank. You've been here since dawn. Time to get something from the kitchens and get some rest.”
Stubbornly, Newt frowned.
It had been hard, at first, accepting Gally's return.
Ever since they'd rejoined it had been awkward and uncomfortable between the former Keeper of the Builders and everyone else. But slowly, he was beginning to be re-accepted and the friendship that had once been between him and Newt had started to blossom again.
“Shuckin'. Newt, come one man, ya need some shut-eye if ya wanna keep watch tonight” said Gally, crossing his arms before his chest, nose scrunched up.
Newt sighed and put away his sanding utensils. His bad leg throbbed as he got up, dusting off his pants from sitting in the sand the whole morning.
“Shuck you, Gally” Newt countered, a smile on his lips. Gally rolled his eyes, seemingly above the mocking.
“Yeah, whatever, just make sure you're at the Crow's Nest at sundown or else Minho's throw ya down that cliff. Shank's incredibly irritable today.”
“Wouldn't you be, leading this bunch of dumb shanks through every single day without major malfunctions?” Newt shrugged, stretching his arms over his head, palms sore from working with wood for hours.
Just outside town they had used a large, incredibly old looking oak and built a tree-house like platform in it, high enough to overlook the whole camp. They hoped there was nothing to actually look out for, but no one could shake off the feeling a crank or Griever or at least mountain lion could attack them, still.
So the Crow's Nest was occupied day and night, Immunes keeping an eye open for everything out of the ordinary.
He hadn't noticed Gally leave but the hot-head was off helping Aris cutting an exceptionally large plank of wood in two and so Newt left as well.
Between the sheds, it was slightly cooler than out in the direct heat of the star that had burned their planet to ashes and still seemed to try it's best doing the same to their little secret spot.
Suddenly feeling tired and hating to admit Gally had been right to send him off, Newt headed straight to his own shed, located in one of the inner rings of the quite circular village.
Inside of the rather spacious wooden building was rarely any furniture. A bed, a nightstand, a desk and a chair. The clothes that WICKED had given them had been carelessly thrown into one corner of the room, books were towering on the desk.
Books. One of the most precious gifts from the horrifying organization. Newt never knew how much he liked to read because in the Glade they had mainly manuals for building or the like.
But here, he had actual stories.
There were biographies of famous people. Nonfiction about the Flare and the Sunflares before and while they happened. But Newt loved the novels the most. There were apparent classics but also pop-culture. There were detective stories, books about magic and adventures.
He looked at his stack of favorites next to his bed on the floor.
He closed the curtains that he'd made out of the shirt he'd arrived at Paradise in. In the dim light that remained, Newt flopped down on his bed, taking off his shoes and watch. It had stopped working long ago, probably in the Scorch or when they'd been running from the cranks in the tunnels below a rotten city.
He still put it on every single day when he woke up at exactly the same time as he would have when he had been a Runner.
Yet, there were no Doors grinding open, no Alby kissing the top of his head. He shut his eyes. He didn't want to think about Alby right now.
Falling back against the surprisingly soft cushion, blanket over himself, he stared into the almost darkness.
Other than in the Glade, where he would lay awake, listening to the sounds of the Maze changing and the low moans of the creatures within, or the Scorch, where the terrifying screams and laughs of the cranks rang through the too hot too dry air, Newt drifted off into a blissfully dreamless sleep soon after.