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“Shuck ya’ doing?” the boy asked. He sat down next to the other on the log under the tree, leaning back and soaking in the lovely breeze and shade from the unrelenting sun. It was hotter today than it was yesterday, and he was tired of drinking water and fanning himself off.
The other boy smiled at him as he sat down. “Hey, Chris. I was just messing around. Making a little language.”
Chris scoffed. “How ya’ making a language with your hands? Don’t ya’ need to speak for it to be a language , Eil?”
Eli frowned. “Right, shuck-face, don’t gotta ruin the mood. My language is spoken with your hands. Look, I’ve already made a few words.” Eli proceeded to maneuver his hands in various different ways. “This means Good that.” Eli formed a fist with his hand, leaving his thumb straight up.
“You’re just making a thumbs-up sign!” Chris said.
“Yeah, I- whatever, I didn’t know what else to do, whatever. This means Slint-head. ” Eli now balled his right hand into a fist and slammed it into his left palm, the palm hitting the top of his hand, his balled up fingers facing the ground.
“This is jacked. ” He brought his right index finger to the side of his forehead and moved it in a small, circular motion.
Chris laughed. Eli stopped. “What?” he asked.
“Nothin’. I just didn’t think ya’ put so much thought into it after the first one, that’s all.” He shrugged and sat up straight. “What else ya’ made?”
Eli smiled at his interest in his language, and kept on showing him the words he’d come up with. Stop was putting your hand forward, palm facing out, and moving it forward slightly. Shut up was simple: putting your index finger on your lips, and holding it there for a few seconds.
“But, I feel like, some of the words could have a different meaning with how big your facial expressions are? Right? Like, if I’m smiling while signing shut up, then it’s playfully, but if not, then it’s more sternly.” Eli suggested.
Chris nodded, now fully into the language and thinking of more words. It was interesting; some of the signs came easily to them whenever they thought of it. They would think of a word to make a sign for, then almost immediately both of them would think of similar signs - like they’ve done this before.
Chris thought Eli’s idea was genius. Being able to communicate without needing to open your mouth. As a close friend to Ben, a Runner, he was thinking about how useful they would find this in The Maze. The Runners would be able to communicate without speaking, but also, Ben, Danny, and Minho all have slight issues with hearing, Ben being the worst one. Not just them, other Gladers too. This would mean that they only needed their eyes to understand what somebody was saying. They kept on making more words, until Newt found them.
“Chris! The hell ya’ doing? Been on break for way too long, mate.” Newt walked up to them. “What’s that?”
Chris and Eli smiled at Newt. Eli pointed at Newt while looking at Chris, then made the sign for Stupid. A peace sign resting on the forehead, palm facing out. Chris laughed at the sign, then a little more at Newt’s confusion.
“What’re ya’ shanks doing? The hell’s that?”
Chris signed Dumb shank . Your index finger tapping the side of your forehead once meant dumb. Both hands in a palm, facing each other horizontally, sliding down in a quick cutting motion meant shank.
“Chris.” Newt said, tightly. Chris looked up and saw Newt staring at him with his fiery gaze. The sun was behind Newt’s face, and it made his golden hair glow like fire. Chris flinched backwards.
“We made a language,” he quickly confessed. “Well, Eli came up with the idea, I helped with some words. It’s spoken with your hands.”
Newt looked at them like they were insane. They stayed silent for a second, looking at each other. Then Newt slightly smiled. “Show me.”
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The news of the new language spread like wildfire. After the two boys taught Newt what they came up with, he showed it to Alby right after, gleaming with joy at Alby’s fascination. Then he showed his friends at dinner. They showed their friends, and the chain kept going.
Everybody was talking about the new language and learning it. They called it sign language, since it was spoken using signs. Chris wanted it to be called Eli’s language, but Eli whole-heartedly refused. He was already embarrassed by the reaction from the Glade, having the language named after him would’ve been the death of him.
The ones that learned it first, apart from Eli, Chris, and Newt, were the ones that have hearing issues. With the Maze doors shifting and changing every night, some of the kids’ ears got messed up, some of them way worse than others. Most of them either would need somebody to be basically yelling while talking to them or repeat what they were saying over and over.
Those of them that have it worse than others jumped to learn it, and they passed it on to their friends that could hear a little better. Those passed it on and it kept being passed it until, eventually, everybody in the Glade knew at least a few words.
Pretty soon, it became normal to see two people sitting down and having a conversation in just sign language or one person using sign language and the other responding in English.
The Runners, like Chris predicted, had loved it as well. They were able to communicate without talking and conserve energy while running, but they were also able to say stuff without WICKED without them knowing what it was. The Runners, like everybody else, adapted the language to their everyday life.
Talking to somebody outside of your own job could get a little hard in sign language, though. As people started using it more and more, the language adapted to each of the various jobs’ vibe.
The Track-hoes often wouldn’t fully finish words before moving onto the next one, signing sloppily and this annoyed most Med-Jacks, who also signed quickly, but cleanly. Text-book signage from most of them. Builders took up their space, and others struggled with finding how much space meant “got hurt a little” and “blood all over face, broken nose, black eye, bruised cheek” all the time.
The Slicers liked to be annoying, and they came up with letters. The letters passed through the entire Glade, but the Slicers’ habit of letter-signing everything did not. The Runners were busy and liked getting their point across fast, so they signed everything quickly. The Sloppers were bored all the time, and they were jokesters. They all changed up their facial expressions three times on one word, annoying everybody to no end, and, like the Track-hoes, signed loosely, not bothering to fully finish a word before moving onto the next, leading to their sentences to get muddied.
This led to confusion on what the other people were saying all the time. Some small arguments happened between the Builders and the Med-Jacks because people rushed to the hut thinking their friend was about to die, when they only had a badly sprained wrist. Another one between Track-hoes and Slicers since the Track-hoes, according to the Slicers, signed too fast and the Slicers, according to the Track-hoes, signed too slow.
People like Newt and Alby didn’t have such an accent to their signs, though. They were one of the people that talked to everyone in the Glade, no matter the job, so their accents stayed pretty much the same. Newt would frequently call Eli up to make new words with him. Eli, who didn’t ever really talk to Newt, was awkward at first, but as Newt kept on asking for him, he became more comfortable and spewed out ideas.
Everybody in the Glade was thankful to Eli for coming up with the sign language, and he became a small celebrity in the Glade. People knew him, and some would sign thank you - left palm facing down, right hand sitting on the left hand, horizontally, then brought up, like picking up the hand - as he passed them. He thought it was stupid, since he only started it, but most of the words were made by Chris and Newt. Little did he know, Chris told people to sign thank you at Eli. Chris thought Eli was a genius.
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A couple months later, a kid ran up to Newt, who was drinking water by a tree. “The Box ”, he signed, “It’s late.”
Newt looked to where The Box was meant to be, and realized that it was. He shrugged. “It’s fine, it’ll probably come in a few minutes.” Then he signed, “ Greenie must be putting up a fight.”
The sign for Greenie was one of Newt’s favorites. It was the same as the sign for Stupid, but tapping your forehead three times.
He took another sip of the water, and the kid stayed near him, looking around. Shortly after, the alarm for The Box rang out. He looked at the kid and raised his eyebrows with a smile. “ Told ya’.” Index finger pointing to mouth, then pointing to the other person.
They ran over to The Box, Newt pushed past the crowd of kids. He helped Gally open the top, and they stared at the Greenie who was already standing up, his hand shielding the sun. As always, people made remarks on the sight of the boy.
“Man, he looks like klunk.”
“ You look like klunk, shuck-face.”
“Hope you enjoyed the trip, Greenie.”
“Ain’t no ticket back, bro.”
Oh, he’s… Newt thought. He stared at the boy. He was wearing a blue long sleeved shirt, with close cut brown hair. Gally chuckled, and Newt looked up at him to see him signing something to another boy. “Kid really does look like a piece of klunk,” he said.
Alby put down the rope, and pulled it up after he stepped into the loop. When he could, Newt grabbed onto the Greenie's arm, and helped. Others did too, and they got him standing up.
“Nice to meet ya’, shank.” Alby said. “Welcome to the Glade.”
Gally and some other kids were still signing, Newt could see that it was still insults, and they were chuckling. He couldn’t help but smile at some of the things they were saying.
The Greenie saw what they were doing, making random gestures with their hands and fingers yet somehow understanding it all, and looked, understandably, more confused than he did before.
“What the hell is this? What’s going on? What the hell are you doing?” he asked, the last question aimed at Gally and his friends. Scattered laughter sounded from the group of kids.
“Think they’ll ever stop asking that?” Alby asked Newt, quietly.
Newt signed back, with a smile, “Never.”
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“What the hell is that? Why not just speak?” Thomas asked. It was the night of his First Day, and he was sitting next to Newt, leaning on a tree log. The Bonfire raged behind them as Thomas pointed out a group of people that were sitting down and all using sign language to communicate.
“Bloody hell, Thomas, you’re one curious shank.” Newt said, taking a swig of Gally’s alcohol. He’d been asking questions all day. “It’s called sign language and a bloke named Eli made it a couple months ago.”
“Yeah, but why?” Thomas asked again, spinning around to look at all the people that were using the sign language. There was a lot. He noticed that some people were talking to someone using the gestures and the other person was just replying back.
“Well, he made it ‘cause he was bored. But people use it ‘cause it’s convenient. And for the shanks that can’t hear well, it helps them.”
“Shanks that can’t hear well?” Thomas repeated. Newt slightly laughed at the slang coming off of his tongue. It always sounded weird when the Greenies said it for the first time, didn’t roll off like how it’s meant too. “Why can’t they hear well?” He sat down normally again, looking at Newt.
The Bonfire’s light hit the side of Thomas’ face and his jaw-line seemed impossibly sharper. Newt noticed a mole on his neck, then remembered he asked a question.
He pointed to The Maze. “That’s why.” He took another swig before continuing. “The Maze changes every night. Everyday, it’s something different, and it’s loud . Somedays, when it changes more than others, it’s louder. Some of the blokes in here’s ears got messed up, and can’t hear as well anymore, so- the sign language helps them talk without the other person needing to shout or constantly repeat themselves.”
Thomas slowly nodded, understanding. “Can they not hear at all?”
Newt sat up straighter. “No, they can,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Look, ya’ see-” he stopped looking around, then pointed when he found the person he was looking for- “Ben over there? He’s a Runner and his ears are really sensitive to The Maze and all the noise it makes and because of that, he can’t hear too well. So, the bloke can hear, but when you speak to him, you always need to speak louder than you would normally so that he can understand you. That’s why, instead of verbally communicating with him, he prefers when you just sign it - so that all he has to do is look at what you’re saying. That make sense?”
Thomas stared at Ben, then nodded, understanding. “So everybody knows it?”
Newt took another swig, staring at the short brown hair Thomas had. It was fluffy and it looked really soft. “Yeah. Pretty much everybody knows it.”
“Can you teach me?” Thomas said, looking back at Newt. His eyes were wider, his mouth slightly parted in child-like excitement. The fire flickered on Thomas’ brown eyes, lighting them up, and Newt smiled.
“Sure. What do you want to learn?”
Thomas paused. “What’re the basics? Like… Hello. And Thank you . Stuff like that.”
Newt put down the glass and showed it to him. Hello was a basic wave, which wasn’t hard for Thomas to do. But, he kept messing up on Thank you.
“No, you pick your hand up, don’t put it down,” Newt said, smiling.
“But you said as if I’m cutting something!” he argued.
“As if you just finished cutting something.” Newt corrected. “Here.”
Newt grabbed Thomas’ hands, holding his left hand in place, and placing his right hand on top, angling it correctly. “Now lift up this one,” Newt muttered, nudging his right hand. His hands stayed hovering above Thomas’ as he followed instructions.
“ There you go. That’s Thank you. ”
Thomas didn’t say anything. Newt looked at him, his arm now resting on the log behind them. He was staring at his hands, lips parted. He saw Newt’s gaze and smiled.
“ Thank you,” he signed.
Newt laughed, wide and bright. He thought he saw Thomas staring at him when he looked away, trying to find his glass, but when he looked back, Thomas was smiling, looking at the ground. He overlooked the redness on Thomas’ ears. Must be the fire, he thought.
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“Newt, stop that!” Minho said. “How are you, one of the original shanks that made the language, going to mess up on the signs?” he asked.
Newt had a joke. One that nobody else but him liked. He loved saying that the sign for Don’t do anything stupid was to make a “V” with your fingers, point them at your eyes then the other person, and flip them upwards, palm facing in. Nobody really knew what the last bit meant - the “V” with the palm facing in - but it felt offensive.
At first, people tried to fight him on it. Minho, Thomas, Eli, Alby, Gally. His Track-hoe friends, Builder friends. But their resistance only made him persevere more.
Pretty soon, people stopped trying to get him to stop. They figured out that he wouldn’t, and started accepting it. Nobody liked it and nobody used it, but they granted him the leeway to do it without protest.
Thomas thought it was cute when Newt would crack a smile at the other Gladers' annoyance when he used it in front of them. His eyes would scrunch up, getting impossibly smaller, and Thomas thought that it was the loveliest thing in the world. He loved making Newt laugh, for the sole purpose of seeing that again.
__________________________
“‘Kay, you shanks listen up, and listen up well.” Minho announced. They were about to do it. They were about to leave the Glade, once and for all.
Nerves were at an all-time high. The Gladers that had never been into the Maze were terrified, and rightfully so. They weren’t told to not go into The Maze because it was sunshine and rainbows. They were told to not go in because they could die. And now, they were all going in, voluntarily.
“We Runners have made signs for certain things over the past couple months- what, almost a year now? Whatever, point is: we have words, important ones. I’m goin’ to show you all some of them- just the shuck important ones, Tim, don’t go klunking your pants now. There’s 5 of ‘em, and they’re not hard to remember. Alright?”
There were scattered agreements and murmurs from the group. Thomas jumped up and down on his heels, terrified and nervous. He wanted to run away from the group and just sprint out his emotions but that wouldn’t look too good.
Callused hands grabbed his own. Newt, he thought. He stopped bouncing, wrapping his fingers around the hand tighter, without looking. He’d know that hand while sleeping, or drunk, or dying. He was scared for him too. The last thing he wanted happening was for Newt to get hurt. The last thing.
They’d talked about it already. Newt would be in the back, making sure no Glader got left behind, while Thomas was running in the front. He hated the idea. A lot. But Newt reminded him that he was once a Runner, and he felt a little reassured. Not much, though.
“Any questions?” Minho asked. Thomas checked back into the conversation. Various Gladers were practicing the signs, some to themselves, others signing it to friends.
“Now remember,” Minho began. “The whole shuck point of me teaching you shanks this, is so that we make as minimal noise as possible. Try not to speak, and if you really really need to, whisper. Got it?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah, we got it, shank.”
“We’re all going to die.”
“Let’s go, come on.”
“Great.” Minho said. He walked back to where Thomas and Newt and the others were, pulling on his backpack and fixing the pole he had. “Shouldn’t someone give a pep talk or something?” he asked.
“Go ahead,” Newt said to Minho. Bad idea, Thomas thought.
Minho nodded once, and turned back to the crowd. “And be careful,” he said, without any emotion in his voice. “Don’t die.” Yeah.
Thomas wanted to laugh. The reasoning behind Minho’s words stopped him.
“Great, we’re all bloody inspired.” Newt said. He began his pep talk, the real one, the motivational one. Thomas clung onto every word, nodding along. Somebody cheered, another yelled out a battle scream, and the crowd of Gladers, all previous terrified, started cheering. Thomas felt the hope on them. He clung to the small sliver he had in himself. One nod to Newt that said a thousand words, and they were off.
For the most bit, the signs worked. They made as little noise as possible, and apart from the occasional grunt or pant, they were moving silently. They hadn’t seen any Grievers, nor heard them. Things were looking good.
Then, all hope went away when they reached the Griever hole.
When Minho peered over the corner and saw the Grievers, when Thomas saw the look on Teresa’s face, when he heard the gait of Newt walking and heard the quiver in his voice when he tried to sound strong. When they got surrounded by Grievers, when Newt grabbed his hand, squeezing it tighter than he ever thought possible, when Alby sacrificed himself, when Thomas had to hold Newt back.
As soon as the fighting started, the effort to stay quiet was long forgotten. The pep talk and the signs, the cheering and the hope. It was just, survive, survive, survive.
__________________________
The heat was relentless. The Gladers, now more confused and lesser in number than ever, didn’t know that such heat was even possible. The Scorch was a fitting name, they’d all thought.
They were on their last ration of water, which they’d been holding onto for a while. Everywhere, everyone was tired and thirsty and hungry and hot.
People were too tired to speak, most people opting to sign everything instead. But signs were messed up, leading to sentences and the whole message to get messed up as well. The language that was originally adopted so that it’d be easier to communicate now made everyone more confused.
One kid started using less words when he signed, instead using his facial expressions to communicate the tone of what he was saying. Which was what they had already been doing, but in the desert, with sand blowing everywhere, the facial expressions were more exaggerated. Cartoonish. If they were to make the same faces anywhere else, people would think they were insane.
It took a while for this to catch on. It was like back in The Glade, having to figure out how much space meant a small injury and how much meant on his death bed with the Builders, but now, with each other and sand blowing in their face.
Once it did, it spread like fire on dry grass. Even the people that preferred speaking over signing would exaggerate their faces while signing. Things were looking slightly up, the constant problem of miscommunication being solved.
Then came the lightning.
That didn’t need any exaggeration. That didn’t need a sign. One person bellowed, “Run!” and everybody followed. Running for their lives, to the very literal meaning.
People were falling left and right. The smell of smoke and ash and things burning took over the air. People stopped stopping when they saw their friends fall to the ground, limply. They ran past them, one final glance, knowing that this was the last time they’d ever see their friend again.
Minho got hit by a strike. Thomas beat the fire off of him, though, and he, very fortunately, lived. Something that many Gladers didn’t get to say.
Thomas fell asleep after they reached the building. Many other Gladers did too, all of them, tired and exhausted. Newt didn’t. Newt couldn’t.
When Thomas finally woke up, his stomach aching with hunger, he found Newt sitting with his back against the wall, lost in his head.
Thomas checked him over. He seemed fine. Well. Nobody here was fine. Not after what they’d been through, but Newt was alive. That’s all that mattered.
Newt shared the same sentiment. “I guess I’m okay.” He said when Thomas asked. “We’re alive - guess that’s all that bloody matters now.” Every word spoken dripped with bitterness stronger than coffee.
Thomas hesitated, but then remembered. They don’t lie to each other. “Sometimes I wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“If being dead would be easier.”
Newt didn’t stop for one second. “Please. You don’t believe that, you know you don’t. You’re going to live one long life. I know you will.”
Thomas tried convincing himself he didn’t believe it. He almost did.
Minho suddenly groaned. “Oh man. I’m shucked. I’m shucked for life.”
Newt asked him how bad it was. He didn’t answer, instead slowly pulling himself up off the ground to sit up.
“Can’t be too bad if you can do all that,” Thomas said, with a sly smile. Minho looked at him, eyes furrowing. “What’d you just say?” he asked.
Thomas repeated himself. Minho stayed silent. “Newt, say something,” he said, not taking his eyes off of Thomas’.
“Minho, you’re one bloody dumb shank,” Newt said. Thomas chortleted, back when he looked back at Minho, he looked horrified.
“I can’t hear you. Did Newt just say something? I can’t hear. Shuck, I can’t- I couldn’t hear.”
Thomas looked at him, to see if he was joking. But the terror on Minho’s face couldn't be recreated if it wasn’t genuine. He looked at Newt, who was already looking at him, mouth parted.
They found out, a while after, that Minho wasn’t fully unable to hear. You just had to be at least 5 feet from him and speak loudly. Thankfully, Minho already had hearing issues in the Glade, and he was one of the Gladers that knew sign language inside and out.
People, even the ones that preferred talking to using sign, started signing all the time. While talking, their hands would be signing along, allowing Minho to understand conversations.
Newt and Thomas were the ones that told the other Gladers to do so. They picked up on the frustration Minho had, not being able to understand everything as he did before. Thomas told Newt his idea, Newt relayed it everywhere else.
Minho, obviously, noticed. He must’ve known that it was Thomas and Newt that advocated for it, but if he did, he didn’t make it known. Other than a few nice and sentimental words he’d shared with them.
__________________________
Thomas was hurt. He tried to not let Newt’s words get to him, tried reasoning that it wasn’t Newt speaking, not his Newt speaking, and that it was the Flare. The disease speaking, not his love. But they cut deep, and they hurt.
Newt laughed when Thomas suggested he come with them. His head twitched a couple of times. “Get out of here, Tommy. Go away.”
He begged. “Please, Newt-” his voice broke- “Newt come with us. Come with me . I’ll tie you up if that’ll make you feel better.”
Newt’s face hardened. Changed. His words, coated even heavier in his accent, shot out like bullets. “I hate you! I’ve always hated you!” He finished his rant.
This hurt.
“Newt…”
Newt started up again, words spilling out of him in his rage. “We should’ve thrown you down the Box hole!”
This hurt.
Spit was flying out of Newt’s mouth and dripping down his face. Newt… Thomas was broken. He didn’t know what to do. He had to know. This was his Newt, his Newt. The man that made life worth living, that made him want to keep going.
Newt kept taking steps forward. “Newt, you need to stop.” Thomas pleaded. “They’re going to shoot you. Listen to me! Give me a chance!” He couldn’t kill him. No way. He’d rather die.
Newt kept stumbling forward. Thomas broke at the sight of the man. His hands moved by themselves.
“ I love you. I love you so much. ”
Thomas couldn’t tell if it registered, Newt had already started rushing forward. He fell to the ground, tackled by him. This hurt. He heard the noise of the arc of the Launcher, but it missed.
They kept screaming at each other. Thomas wasn’t sure what he was saying, he was trying to stall.
“I tried to kill myself in The Maze.” Thomas paused. He listened. His breath shuddered.
Newt grabbed the gun, yanking it to his forehead. “Make amends! Repent for what you did! I trusted you, Tommy. You. Nobody else. Kill me, you shuck coward. Prove that you can do the right thing! Put me out of this misery.”
Thomas couldn’t take it, the words that were leaving Newt’s mouth were hitting him hard. His eyes welled up. “I can’t.”
“Do it!”
“Newt, I can’t.”
“Shut up! Shut up! I trusted you. Do it!”
How was he meant to do this? This was Newt. His love. The love of his life. He can’t… kill him. He couldn’t.
“Before I become one of them. Do it!”
“Newt… I…”
“KILL ME!” Newt screamed, louder than before. His eyes cleared and he took a deep breath, as if he got one last taste of clarity. “Please, Tommy. Please,” he begged.
Thomas looked into those eyes. The eyes that he loved to fall into, the eyes that he’d spent minutes staring at, doing various activities. The eyes that told him he loved him. The eyes that were pleading for him to kill him.
Thomas shuddered. He pulled the trigger.
__________________________
“Thomas, you can’t punch someone for no shuck reason,” Minho said.
“ It wasn’t. Made fun of Newt’s sign.” Thomas signed back, his face hard set. Minho’s mouth opened in shock. He started to make his way out of the tent but Thomas pulled his hand.
“ Broken nose, ”
“Good. ” Minho signed back.
They’d made it to the Safe Haven. Them and 200 others. The Gladers that’d made it were the only ones that knew the sign language, which at first confused them, before they remembered that they’d come up with it. They taught the others, much like how they would during Bonfires at the Glade.
Everybody sitting in a circle, teaching each other words and their meanings. The group of 200 people also had some that were hard of hearing, and, like The Glade, they learnt it first. The tradition of signing Thank you to Eli as he passed still happened. When he found out that Chris told people to do it first, he’d sobbed. Chris was one of the Gladers to have fallen during the lightning strike.
The one sign that the Gladers refused to teach the other Immunes was Newt’s sign. His sign for Don’t do anything stupid had turned into the Gladers sign for his name. It was an easy choice, and an obvious one. Thomas knew that Newt would’ve loved that his silly little joke still lived on.
The road for healing for him was a long one and one that he was scared to begin. But, even after death, Newt was pushing him on.
“ You’re going to live one long life. I know you will.”
Thomas convinced himself that he would. And he did.
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the end <3