How I survived in an all boys glade

Chapter Seventy-one

- a Runner? -

"Yeah, we found this," Thomas says, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of urgency as we all gather in the dimly lit Council Hall. The tension in the room is palpable, thick with a mix of curiosity and unease. Thomas, Minho, Fry, Zart, and Winston had just returned from the Maze, their faces marked with exhaustion and dirt, but their eyes were alive with something new—hope, or maybe dread. I glance down at the strange, jagged object in my hands, its metallic surface gleaming dully under the torchlight. It feels cold and alien, completely out of place in this world of wood, stone, and desperation.

"It was inside a Griever," Thomas adds, his words making my stomach churn. My eyes widen slightly as I snap my head up to look at him. "Ugh, ew, that's disgusting," I mutter, wrinkling my nose in revulsion. I quickly hand the thing over to Newt, wiping my hands off on my pants as if I could erase the idea of where it had been. The others are silent, their gazes fixed on the object, as if it might explain itself.

"These are the same letters we get on our supplies," Newt says after a moment, his brow furrowing as he examines it more closely. He tilts the object, his fingers tracing the engraved letters: WCKD, followed by a string of numbers. The strange combination of letters and digits feels ominous, like a message meant to provoke more questions than answers.

"Yeah," Thomas speaks up, his voice gaining confidence. "Whoever put us here obviously made the Grievers." His statement lands heavily, the weight of it sinking into everyone present. I glance at him, my confusion clear as I try to make sense of his words. My mind races—what does that mean? That these creatures, these nightmares that stalk us, are man-made? It's almost too much to wrap my head around.

"And this is the first real clue," Thomas continues, his tone insistent as he looks toward Minho. "The first anything you've found in over three years, right, Minho?" His gaze is searching, his body language urgent, as if he's pleading for someone else to share in the importance of this moment.

"Right," Minho says with a brief nod, his voice measured but serious. It's not like him to hold back his usual sarcasm or bluntness, which only underscores how significant this discovery feels. I glance back at the mechanical thing, its alien design still unsettling, but now it seems almost like a key—though to what, I can't begin to imagine.

"Newt, we gotta go back out there," Thomas presses, his voice cutting through the silence. "Who knows where this might lead us?" His words spark a ripple of unease in the room. It's as though he's thrown a stone into a still pond, disturbing the fragile balance we've clung to.

Gally, standing to the side, raises an eyebrow and looks at Newt with a smirk that's more disdain than amusement. "You see what he's trying to do, right?" Gally says, his voice dripping with skepticism. He folds his arms and shifts his weight, clearly spoiling for an argument.

"Yeah, he's trying to get us out of here," I snap, my voice sharp as I glare at Gally. But he barely spares me a glance, continuing as though I hadn't spoken.

"First he breaks our rules," Gally says, his voice rising as he gestures toward Thomas, "and then he tries to convince us to abandon them totally. Why now are we questioning the rules? The rules are the only thing that have ever held us together." His gaze sweeps across the room, looking for agreement, but I catch the flicker of doubt in some of the others' expressions.

"Well, at least he's trying to find a way out of this shithole," I mutter, loud enough for everyone to hear. Gally's glare locks onto me, but I refuse to back down, crossing my arms in defiance.

"If Alby was here, you know he'd agree with me," Gally says suddenly, and his words cut deeper than intended. My blood boils at the mention of Alby, knowing how much Newt looks up to him and how hard his absence has been. "Okay, that's it, Gally!" I shout, stepping forward, fists clenched, ready to lunge at him. My vision is red-hot, fueled by anger and frustration, but Newt's arm shoots out, stopping me in my tracks.

"Don't," Newt says softly but firmly, shaking his head as he looks down at me. His calm presence feels like a bucket of cold water on a fire. I take a shaky breath, stepping back, though my hands are still trembling with restrained anger.

"I'm just saying, this shank needs to be punished," Gally insists, pointing at Thomas as if he's the source of all our problems. His glare sharpens, but Newt doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he glances at Thomas, then lowers his gaze to the floor, lost in thought for a moment.

Finally, Newt straightens, walking over to stand beside me again. "You're right," he says, his voice carrying the weight of reluctant authority. "Thomas broke the rules." His words feel like a blow, even though his tone is measured. "One night in the Pit and no food."

"Oh, come on, Newt," Gally starts again, his frustration bubbling over. "One night in the Pit? You think that's gonna stop him from going into the Maze?"

"No," Newt replies firmly, cutting Gally off. "And we can't just have non-Runners running into the Maze whenever they feel like it. So let's make this official." He turns his gaze toward Thomas, whose face betrays his confusion. "Starting from tomorrow, you're a Runner."

The room falls into a stunned silence as the weight of Newt's words sinks in.

"Wow," Gally mutters, his voice dripping with disdain as he storms toward the door. "Gally," Fry tries to stop him, reaching out a hand, but Gally pushes past him, brushing him off. Fry hesitates, then follows after him, along with Winston and Zart, leaving the hall quieter but no less tense.

"Thanks, Newt," Thomas says, his voice quiet but sincere, before he, too, leaves the room.

Newt turns toward me, his expression weary but resolute, as if he's carrying the weight of everyone's expectations. I meet his gaze, unsure of what to say, knowing that whatever comes next, it won't be easy.