𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐏, 𝐓𝐌𝐑:
Twisted by the Flare, Newt turns against the Gladers, forcing them into a fatal lineup. Believing sacrifice is the only way, he chooses who will fall. As friendships collapse under the weight of betrayal, the group must...
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𝐓𝐇𝐄 ride back to the Safe Haven is quiet. Too quiet. Minho's leaning against the side of the boat, eyes glued to the horizon while the waves splash against the boat. Gally's busy checking the supplies they grabbed, grumbling every five seconds about how they "risk their lives for a couple of cans." Thomas just sits on a crate, staring at his hands like they've got answers or something.
"We got what we came for," Vince says, trying to sound calm, but there's something off about his voice.
"Feels like a trap," Minho mutters, still not looking away from the water. "Like they wanted us to take that stuff."
Gally rolls his eyes. "You're both paranoid. It's free, so we take it. Simple as that."
Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, free... like WCKD's trials. We all know how that went. It's like what you say right before you miss a kidney."
Minho shrugs. "Hey, if it means we live another day, I'd say it's worth a kidney. You got two anyway—bonus round. Except Gally— he's got one last chance."
"It was my lung."
"Right." Minho clears his throat. "I was just kid-ding."
"Ha-ha-ha," Gally replies dryly.
When they arrive back at the Safe Haven, the sun's almost gone, and everything's got this creepy orange glow. They all start unloading the bags. Thomas and Minho haul them up the sand, heading for the storage shed. Gally sticks around, scanning the treeline, acting like he's not suspicious when, let's be real, he's definitely suspicious.
Brenda shows up, carrying a kid on her hip. "How'd it go?"
"Too easy." Minho eyes the kid as if it's not supposed to be there. "Way too easy."
Brenda shrugs. "Or maybe, for once, we got lucky?"
Minho lets out a dramatic sigh. "Yeah, right. I was hoping for a proper reunion with our Crank pals."
"I'll make sure you get a personal welcome party next time," Thomas mumbles, unamused by Minho's complaints.
By the time everything's stored, night's fallen, and everyone's in their usual routine. Frypan's serving up dinner, kids are running around, and the guards are rotating shifts.
Thomas sits by the fire, poking at it with a stick as if he's Minho and the fire is Gally, or as if the fire is a Griever. Minho's next to him, sharpening a knife, and Gally's checking his gun for the hundredth time. Everyone's on edge, but no one wants to say it out loud.
Then a shout echoes through the camp, and everyone's up in a flash. Vince rushes over, Thomas, Minho, and Gally right behind him, weapons ready. They reach the edge of the camp where a guard stands, pointing at the beach.
"Footprints," the guard says, out of breath. "Coming from the water."
"Damn, new species of Cranks? Mer...Cranks? Is that a good name? Mercranks?" Minho looks around, waiting for someone to laugh.
Thomas kneels to inspect them. The prints are fresh, and deep enough to tell him they belong to more than one person. "No. These aren't Cranks," he mutters, glancing up at Minho. "The tracks are too clean."
Minho's eyes scan the tree line, his grip tightening on his knife. "So, what? Someone's been watching us?"
The guard shifts nervously. "No, they're moving inward. Right towards the camp."
Thomas, Minho, and Gally fall in beside Vince, keeping their eyes on the shadows just beyond the safety of their camp.
The closer they get to the water's edge, the quieter the world seems. No sound of waves, no wind—just the crunch of their boots and the rustling of the leaves as they move. Thomas' pulse hammers in his ears. Something isn't right.
They reach the shore where the boat is docked. The water glistens under the moonlight, but the area is empty. No movement, no figures. Just the dark stretch of sand and the silent sea.
"This is wrong," Gally whispers. "Tracks lead here, but there's no one."
"Stay sharp," Vince orders, his eyes scanning every shadow. "They're out there."
Just as he says it, a voice drifts from the darkness. Low, mocking, and calm. "You shouldn't have taken what wasn't yours."
Minho snaps his weapon up, the barrel aimed straight into the void. "Show yourself."
A man steps out from the shadows, just far enough that the moonlight catches his face. His clothes are torn, eyes hollow but focused.
He looks like a Crank. Everything about him... dark veins, dark eyes— yet his movements are smooth and his words coated with calmness. Maybe he's still turning.
"Who are you?" Vince asks, his voice steady, but his hand is ready on his gun.
The man grins, his eyes darting from one of them to the next. "There's a price you need to pay for what you did."
Before anyone can react, more figures appear from the darkness, forming a circle around them. Some hold weapons, crude and sharp, while others just stand there, like they're waiting for the signal.
Thomas glances at Vince, then back at Minho, whose eyes are narrowed, jaw clenched.
"Put down your weapons," says the man.
"You're outnumbered anyway," adds another one.
"Thomas? What's going o— holy shit."
Brenda, Frypan, and a few others come to a quick stop once they see the gigantic group of mostly men.
"Ah. More choices," the man hums. "Now put down your weapons."
They remain still for a few tense seconds. Thomas is the first to slowly lower everything he has on him to the ground. Gally and Vince follow.
"Even your butter knife," they tell Frypan, which causes a few of the men to snort.
Minho keeps holding his barrel. His eyes are cold, breaths a little too steady. He looks ready to shoot them all.
"Now. I'm not asking again."
With a final nasty glare, Minho lets go of the barrel. It hits the ground with a thud, then gets taken away by one of the men.
"Great. Now let's meet the man." A whole bunch of whistles echo through the dark night.
