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This alley reeks of burning trash and desperate survivors as three ex-Gladers sprint through what's left of the Last City. Cries of panicked children that used to belong to families echo through the air, punctuated by rhythmic stomps of WCKD enforcers still in pursuit. Thomas skids to a halt at a corner, panting, his head snapping left and right. He looks at the street he just ran through, it's too dark to see much. But that's a good thing. That means there isn't a helicopter above his head putting him in the spotlight for Ava to find him.
They're looking for the Cure, after all.
“Where the hell is Newt?” Thomas shouts, barely able to catch his breath.
“What?” Minho glares over his shoulder and shoves Gally forward to keep them all moving. "I thought you had him!"
“Shit!” Gally snarls, swiping sweat off his forehead.
“It’s not my fault he turned into a Crank!” Thomas shoots back defensively, his voice rising.
“Yes, it is!” Minho and Gally yelled in unison.
“FUCK!” Thomas groans, doubling over for a second before jerking himself upright again. Definitely not tripping over a torn garbage bag bleeding out it's disgusting contents. The sound of a CRASH cuts through their argument. The faint sound of a funny accent. Then a fleet of curse words that follow after it.
All three freeze, exchanging a shared look.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Minho muttered, already sprinting toward the commotion.
They round another corner to find what could only be described as Hell incarnate.
Newt stands in the middle of the street, a massive axe slung over one shoulder. He's wearing a stolen red WCKD enforcer uniform. At least, most of it. Despite the jacket being unzipped, undershirt torn, and oddly missing a boot, his stance looks.. victorious? And despite matted red blonde hair stuck up in every direction like he’d rolled through a bush, he's laughing. Waving his other boot in the air, the laces flicking like a dance, before he throws it at one of the enforcer’s heads.
Maniacally.
“What the—” Thomas starts, but Minho cut him off with a shove.
“Later! We get him later!”
Newt, completely oblivious to his friends’ arrival, charges at a bewildered WCKD enforcer, yelling. “Try me, you slimy tosser!” The enforcer, clearly mistaking Newt for one of their own, had no time to react before Newt tackles him to the ground with surprising force. "I already beat death once—" Newt punches him once, "I'd do it again." The man is knocked out.
“Is he—did he just—” Gally stammers, pointing with his eyebrows, hastily reloading his firearm.
“Yeah,” Thomas says flatly, watching as Newt wrestles the enforcer’s taser away, only to toss it aside in favor of brandishing the axe like it was Excalibur. "He does that."
“What are you lot gawking at?!” Newt spins to face them, axe hooked over his shoulder, blue eyes painted with a feral, almost mischievous light. “Got Cranks and WCKED sniffing around this hideout! You want them to find us?”
“Us?” Minho yelled, throwing his hands up. “You’re the one who blew our cover!”
The blonde pauses for a fraction of a second, frowning as though he hadn’t considered that. Then he shrugs. “Guess you’re right.” He mumbles in his cheek, already jogging towards them, lifting one of the backpacks of food off Thomas' shoulders.
Before Thomas could protest, saying he can carry it himself, or before Minho laughs at him to work on his 'biceps', a group of cranks emerge from a nearby alley, drawn by the commotion. For a moment they just sway, limbs cracking, trying to grab at something invisible in front of them. Unlike the Crank next to Thomas, Newt grins wickedly and hefts his axe.
“Leave this to me!” he suddenly declares, charging straight at the pack of Cranks.
Thomas immediately grabs Minho by the arm. “We’ve got to stop him!”
“You stop him! I’m not going near Axe Crank Newt!” Minho snaps back, already pushing Thomas to follow after Newt while he covers for Gally, who still hasn't finished reloading his gun.
“Don’t you dare make me do this alone!” Thomas yelled as he darts after Newt, who is now swinging the axe with reckless abandon.
Minho groans, moving the opposite direction. He quickly grabs Gally's hand, swapping their rifles, and clicks the ammo in the right spot. "How the shuck you survive alone all this time"
Gally just grunts, walking backwards as he holds Minho's gun, looking out for anyone stalking up behind them. “Unlike some of us," he says, shaking his head, "I don't usually talk to cranks.” And reluctantly, he follows after Minho'.
“Put me down!” Newt squawks.
Thomas’s arms are locked around his waist like a human straitjacket, and then—without warning—he just hauls him off the ground.
“Nope. Not happening!” Thomas grunts, staggering back a step as Newt thrashes like a feral cat. “We’re leaving. You can’t fight a whole horde of Cranks with one axe. Where’d you even—”
“I can take them!” Newt snaps, kicking wildly and jabbing the air with his free hand. “They think they’re so tough!”
“Yeah, you’re not convincing me, Newt,” Thomas says flatly, narrowly dodging an awkward knee to the ribs as he drags him away from the oncoming noise.
Ahead, Gally’s arm swings into view, waving frantically. Hurry up.
When Thomas finally reaches them, Gally grabs Newt’s flailing legs without hesitation. “What is his problem?”
“I don’t know. I’m just stopping him from getting eaten alive,” Thomas pants, kicking a rusted garbage can out of their way.
“Call it a bloody mistake, you gits!” Newt yells, still fighting them like this is a personal insult.
Minho eyes the hastily nailed planks across what used to be a convenience store door and grimaces. “You really want to die out here?”
“Not particularly, no,” Newt says, suddenly calm—too calm—as he reaches up and fusses with the black scarf around Thomas’s neck, tugging it higher, tucking it snug over his ears like he’s got priorities. “But if I had to, taking out a few Cranks along the way doesn’t sound half bad.”
“Shut up, Newt,” Thomas mutters, heat creeping up his neck as he yanks the axe off Newt’s back and shoves it into Minho’s hands. He turns and hacks at the boards blocking the entrance.
The Cranks are close now. Thomas can hear them snarling. Half-dead bodies clambering over fully dead ones. A wave of foul limbs and rotting teeth.
But it’s not WCKD. Not yet. Which means they’ve still got seconds.
“Uh,” Gally says, glancing back while zipping Newt’s jacket all the way up like it’s muscle memory. “Ten seconds. Maybe less.”
“Hurry up, Minho!” Thomas snaps, tightening his grip as Newt mutters a stream of very British, very creative insults about cowards and real fighters.
Then—CRACK!
The boards give way. They bolt through, Newt still half-carried between Thomas and Gally. As the door slams behind them, Newt twists just enough to grin at the Cranks snapping toward the noise.
“I’ll be back, you lot!” he shouts cheerfully. “Next time I’ll have a sword!”
“Why are you taunting them?!” Minho yells, vaulting a collapsed shelf as they sprint through aisles of dust and smashed glass. He goes straight to what’s called the ‘Asian’ aisle and grabs a few boxes of ‘instant ramen’ and something called ‘soy sauce’.
“Because—” Newt giggles when they finally drop him, already rummaging through shelves. “I’m better than them.” He grabs a handful of sparkly purple bars labeled ‘Cadbury’ Sonya and her friends had practically begged him to look out for. His eyes light up once he spots a small tin marked English Breakfast, then adds, sing-song, “Tommy made me so.”
Thomas groans, ducking behind a half-collapsed shelf as the snarls outside grow louder. Gally slams the door shut and jams a rusted pipe through the handles.
“Will you stop trying to get yourself killed?” Thomas demands, breathless.
Newt hops up onto a crate like he didn’t just almost die, adjusting the grenades on his bandolier as if that’ll smooth over Thomas’s fury. “I don’t try to get myself killed,” he says smugly, stuffing canned tomatoes he knows Frypan will thank him for, into Thomas’s pack. “Though I must admit—quite the workout.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t leave you there.” Thomas suddenly grunts, glaring at him, squishing boxes of bandages and a plastic bag full of small boxes labelled 'advil' and 'panadol' hastily into his duffel bag.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Newt whispers, smirking—dangerous—as he casually slips a few suspicious Durex-branded items into the bag.
Thomas freezes.
“You’re unbelievable,” he grumbles, shoving a clear plastic bag of bandages and meds into the duffel. The silver packets are… very visible.
Minho pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Newt, no more solo Crank fights.”
Newt opens his mouth, raises his hand like he’s about to argue but Minho points at his forehead. “No more. I will knock you out and carry you around myself.”
"Fine." Newt huffs, folding his arms. “But I’m keeping the axe.”
“Where’d you even get that?” Gally asks,
Newt lights up, clearly ready for a story, but—
“You are not keeping the axe,” Thomas cuts in.
Minho groans. Listening to them argue like an old married couple is only funny for so long. He’s about to ask if Gally has found anything labelled Gochujang when—
THUD.
The door shudders.
Everyone stills.
“You hear that?” Gally whispers as scraping, groaning sounds pile up outside.
“Oh, come on,” Thomas groans. “I haven’t even gotten to the soap yet—”
Newt grins, hefting the axe Gally had foolishly left on the floor. “Right then. Round two?”
“NO!” Thomas shouts, grabbing Newt by the collar and dragging him toward the back exit.
Newt laughs the entire way.
“Just because you’re half-Crank, half-not-Crank thanks to Tom’s blood doesn’t mean you’re invincible, Newt,” Minho says, slumping against the wall.
They’re safe—for now. One of their usual hideouts, far enough from the worst parts of the City. Thomas pauses long enough to carve a fresh tally mark into the concrete wall before immediately pacing again, radio in hand.
Minho rubs the back of his neck and shoots Newt a look. “I swear, one day I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be missing a limb.”
Gally, leaning against a vending machine that somehow still works, rattles it with his elbow until something drops. He scoops up a glass bottle wrapped in a bright red label and lobs it at Minho. “Drink this. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.”
Minho catches it and squints. “It’s red. That’s never a good sign.”
“Nothing’s killed us yet,” Gally deadpans—and then twists the cap off his own bottle.
It hisses.
All three of them freeze.
Gally blinks at it. “…Did it just growl at me?”
Newt, sprawled on an overturned garbage can with his stolen axe propped beside him like a loyal pet, laughs. “Pretty sure that’s normal, love.”
Gally takes a cautious sip.
His eyes go wide.
“Oh. Oh—” He coughs, then laughs, then takes another, bigger gulp. “It’s like acid, but… good? It bites.”
“I think it's called soda,” Newt supplies easily. “Brenda said it’s meant to do that. Fizz. Carbonated.” He watches Gally with open amusement. “You like it.”
“I love it,” Gally says, already halfway through the bottle.
Minho takes a reluctant sip of his own and immediately grimaces. “Why does it taste sweet?”
“Must have a lot of sugar,” Gally says solemnly.
Newt grins and stretches. “Still can’t believe they see me as one of their own. Honestly, I could probably take a stroll out there if you lot didn’t follow me around like a pack of bloody nannies—”
“You’re never going out there alone,” Thomas snaps, not even looking up as he jabs at the cracked radio. His voice is tight, wired. “Just shut up for two seconds while I try to get Clint on this stupid—fuzzy—piece of shit— I can’t hear a damn thing he’s saying.”
As if on cue, static screams back at him.
Newt hops off the can and wanders over, to the fridge Gally was standing near. He manages to shake out another soda can covered in bright red and white words. He flicks the lid open, sniffs experimentally, then casually lifts one to Thomas’s mouth.
Thomas keeps talking into the radio, barely noticing. “—repeat that, Clint, repeat—”
Newt nudges the lip of the glass bottle against his lips.
Thomas absently opens his mouth and sips and coughs. Loudly. "Oh my God—what is that.”
“I don't even know,” Newt says, pleased. He insists him take another sip. “Keep talking.”
Thomas scowls at the radio, drinking the fizzy drink anyway.
Newt just smiles.
Then there's the sound of plastic crinkling as Minho unwraps a bar Newt had snagged earlier—the one with Cadbury stamped across the wrapper. He bites into it and immediately recoils. “What the hell—”
It melts.
Sweet. Thick. Nothing like the ration bars or stale grain paste they’re used to.
“…Oh,” he says, stunned, and takes another bite. Slower this time.
Gally eyes it suspiciously. “What's that?”
“Chok-lit,” Newt says reverently. “Brenda and Sonya told me. Said if we ever saw Cad-bury, we grab it. Apparently it’s—” he gestures vaguely “—legendary.”
Gally takes a small piece. Chews. Frowns. “I don’t know if I like it.”
Minho clutches it closer. “That’s fine. More for me. It’s the only thing relaxing me right now.”
“Honestly, Tommy,” Newt adds lightly, leaning back, “you’re more stressed than Min, and that’s saying something. You should try the soda. Or the Choklit.”
Minho points at him with his bottle. “I’m stressed because you’re insane, and I think it’s contagious.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Newt says. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“You tackled an Enforcer, stole his axe, and tried to fight a horde of Cranks,” Gally says flatly. “That’s not ‘fine.’”
“Fine isn’t the word I’d use for any of this,” Thomas mutters, shoving the radio into his pocket.
A heavy THUD slams into the barricaded door.
Everyone stills.
Gally slowly sets down his soda. “Uh. Guys.”
“Great,” Thomas says. “Now what.”
Minho stands. “If it’s another Crank, Newt should answer the door.”
Newt lights up, grabbing the axe. “Now that’s the spirit!”
“No, it’s not,” Thomas snaps, already moving. “You’re staying put. Minho, Gally—door. Now.”
Minho physically shoves Newt back onto the garbage can, handing him the rest of the choklit bar.
As they brace the door, Newt calls after them, offended, “Killjoys!”
“We prefer the term ‘alive,’” Gally mutters, yanking the pipe loose as the pressure increases.
Thomas grips the handle. “On three. One—two—”
The door bursts open.
A single male Crank stands in the doorway, confused, head cocked to one side.
In its hand—one of Newt’s boots.
Newt lifts Gally’s red-labeled soda in a lazy salute. “Welcome to the party, mate—”
The gun cracks.
Thomas doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think. The shot is clean and fast, snapping through the Crank’s skull and dropping it where it stands. The body collapses bonelessly, fingers finally loosening.
The boot hits the floor with a dull thud.
Thomas lunges forward, snatches it up, and retreats in one sharp motion, already slamming the door shut behind him.
Silence.
Smoke curls from the barrel.
“Oh,” Newt says mildly, watching Thomas scrub dirt off the boot like it’s the most important thing in the world. He takes a long, unapologetic swig of the too-sweet, fizzy drink the others had tried before him. “Suppose I should’ve said goodbye then.”
Thomas doesn’t answer. He’s already crossing the room, jaw tight, boots heavy against the concrete. He drops to one knee in front of Newt without ceremony—
“Tommy!”
The legendary chocolate bar slips from Newt’s fingers and hits the floor.
“Five-second rule,” Minho mutters instantly, already crouching. Gally scowls and wrestles him back, snatching it up with a hissed, “Absolutely not.”
“What,” Thomas says flatly.
Newt blinks down at him, lips twitching despite himself. “Aren’t you usually supposed to propose with a ring?”
Thomas snorts, shoves the reclaimed boot into Newt’s chest, and mutters, “Put it on before I change my mind.”